The next morning, right after breakfast, Alfred summoned both Bruce and Dick to the living room of Wayne Manor. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting warm streaks across the polished wooden floors. 

The manor felt unusually quiet—one of those slow mornings where every sound echoed a little too clearly.

“What is it, Alfred? I was in the middle of a video call with Kori,” Dick said as he jogged down the stairs, still adjusting his shirt. Bruce followed behind him, calm and unreadable as always, while Alfred glided ahead with that practiced posture only he could maintain.

“You could simply call her back later, Master Richard,” Alfred replied, leading them into the living room with his usual gentle elegance. He moved toward the TV, remote already in hand.

“When I was faced with a near-death experience where survival felt like nothing more than a wishful dream, all I wanted was to see her pretty face one last time—even if I couldn’t hold her.” Dick sighed, rubbing his chest as if the memory still clung to him.

“Really?” Bruce’s voice carried from behind, dry and undeniably sarcastic. “That’s all you wished for?”

“Well… and my survival, obviously.” Dick added with an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his head. His embarrassment practically radiated off him.

Alfred cleared his throat, a crisp sound that instantly reset the atmosphere. “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention.” He turned on the television.

The screen snapped to life, displaying a bold headline: Hero turned criminal? The morning news reporter’s voice filled the room almost instantly. Footage began playing, grainy security camera angles capturing a familiar figure at a gas station.

“The masked hero known as Nightwing—leader of the Titans and a known ally of Batman—was seen on surveillance assisting in the theft of a civilian vehicle alongside a masked accomplice,” the reporter announced.

“Oh, shit…” Dick groaned, dragging a hand down his face before smacking his forehead. His shoulders slumped as if the weight of the entire city’s judgment had just landed on him.

Bruce gave him a quick, unimpressed side-eye, but said nothing at first, his gaze fixed on the screen.

Damian was already seated on the couch, leaning forward with that little smirk he always tried—and failed—to hide whenever Dick was publicly humiliated. He looked like he was praying for Alfred not to mute the TV too soon.

The footage rolled on, showing the masked accomplice giving a cheerful thumbs-up to one of the cameras before climbing into the driver’s seat. The car’s owner threw a bottle, shouting, trying—and failing—to chase after the two.

“Jason, you fucking asshole…” Dick muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Alfred finally muted the TV, lowering the remote with a calm grace. That’s when Bruce finally spoke. “You failed to mention stealing a vehicle.”

“I didn’t steal the car,” Dick protested, raising a hand… then hesitated. “Well… technically.” He grimaced.

He continued quickly, pacing a little as he explained. “We got to the gas station, and before I knew it Jason put on the mask, hot-wired the car, and started it up. We needed a ride back to Gotham, and things escalated.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed as he studied the masked accomplice on the screen again. Something clicked—something he had clearly been trying to confirm for a while. He didn’t say anything, but the tilt of his head and the glint in his eyes gave him away.

“Wow. Truly inspirational. What an excellent role model you turned out to be,” Damian said flatly, his sarcasm sharp enough to strike a nerve.

“Shut up, pip-squeak. Shouldn’t you be at school?” Dick shot back, pointing at him.

Damian didn’t answer—he simply folded his arms, looking way too pleased with himself, basking in the downfall of the first Robin.

Bruce folded his arms slightly. “Hmm. I understand the situation now. Where is the vehicle?”

“Parked at Big Belly Burger. I figured it’d be easier for the police to find it,” Dick replied.

“I’ll speak to Gordon. He’ll handle it,” Bruce assured him.

Dick let out a relieved breath. “Thanks.”

Damian slipped out of the room, already thinking on his realization regarding the masked man who has been living in his head rent-free.

Dick turned back to Bruce. “One more thing,” he said, his voice a touch lighter.

Bruce raised a brow. “What is it?”

“Since I’ve been… absent, the Titans postponed their party. They didn’t want to celebrate without their leader. I was hoping you could unground the kid for a while. Let him meet up with them.”

Bruce paused, considering it. “All right,” he agreed. “But keep an eye on him.”

Dick flashed a grateful thumbs-up before heading out, the mood in the manor finally settling back into its usual rhythm as everyone scattered to begin their day.

– – –

[Jason Todd’s POV]

Jason sat hunched at the counter of his usual bar, absently twirling the amber liquid in his glass. The ice cubes clinked softly, bumping against each other as they melted, circling like they were trapped in some tiny orbit.

The bar around him was dim as always—warm yellow lights hanging low, the smell of old wood and spilled beer clinging to the air. Low chatter drifted from the tables behind him, the occasional clack of pool balls echoing from the back room.

But Jason wasn’t listening to any of it.

His mind was elsewhere—dragged back again and again to that stranger. That man whose presence made his skin crawl, whose voice dug under his nerves. The revelation about his missing time. The confirmation that the stranger wasn’t just anyone but their captor from that night. 

Every part of it gnawed at him.

Flashes of the Galante Family job flickered in his head—fragmented images, violent, disjointed. And the question lingered like smoke in his lungs: how many times had he acted as Red Hood without actually being present? How many nights had he blacked out but his body kept going, doing god knows what?

Was it residue from the Lazarus Pit? Was his mind not brought back whole? Or was it something else—something tied to whatever happened on that damn island?

Those questions sat rent-free in his head, feet up, refusing to leave.

“Hey, stranger.”

A familiar voice slid in from behind him, smooth and cool. Jason blinked out of his spiral and turned, meeting the face he’d secretly hoped to see before Damian dragged him into his rebellious escapade the other night.

‘Damn kid,’ he thought, lips twitching faintly. ‘Bruce really has his work cut out for him. For someone raised by the League, that attitude isn’t a phase—it’s basically a lifestyle. It’s going to take patience, time, and probably divine intervention to undo that wiring.’

He didn’t say any of that out loud. Instead, he gave Li a mild, welcoming smile.

He motioned to the bartender for a glass of vodka for her. She didn’t even have to ask.

“Looks like you’ve got a lot in mind,” she said, her tone flat and unreadable as always. She slipped onto the stool next to him with quiet grace.

“More than you can imagine,” he muttered, sipping his drink.

“Try me.” She collected her vodka with a faint nod, her eyes unreadable but sharp.

He stared at his glass for a moment longer, letting the ice bump lazily around before exhaling. Worrying over this mess wouldn’t magically solve it.

“One of those days, huh?” he said, flipping her earlier concern back at her, dodging her question entirely.

“More like weeks,” she replied, face expressionless but her eyes betraying exhaustion.

“You like your job?” he asked carefully, keeping his tone casual—not prying, just showing he cared.

“I don’t hate it.” Her voice stayed neutral, but Jason could see the truth in her eyes—tension, fatigue, maybe frustration simmering under the surface.

“Fair enough.” He swirled his drink again. 

‘Of course you love your job,’ he thought privately. ‘Nobody gets as good as you on pure obligation. Black Mask’s business is standing tall not just because he is a psycho who would do whatever to have his way, but because of how efficient she is at her job.’

He downed the rest in one sharp swallow and set the empty glass down with a soft clink.

“Seems like you’ve had it rough,” she said, her version of concern—blunt, simple, honest.

“You have no idea.” Jason pushed himself up from the stool. “Excuse me for a sec. Need the men’s room. Hopefully the alcohol kicks in and lets me forget half my problems.”

He slid his glass slightly toward Li’s so the bartender would know he wasn’t done, then headed toward the dim hallway leading to the restrooms.

Inside, the bathroom was quiet except for the hum of the flickering fluorescent lights. Jason relieved himself, letting out a slow breath before stepping to the sink. He washed his hands, splashing water onto his face to cool the tension buzzing behind his eyes.

“Get your head in the game, Jase… I mean, Randy.” He corrected himself, reminding himself of the alias he was using with Li.

“There’s a beauty out there. I can’t keep coming back to this gloomy crap,” he told himself, trying to psych himself up.

Then he looked up—and froze.

“Oh. It’s just you.” He exhaled, shoulders relaxing a little when he realized the reflection staring back didn’t have the white streak. “What do you want this time?”

His reflection smirked—not in sync with him.

“Look at you, acting all nonchalant,” it said, voice dripping with that irritating mix of mockery and disdain.

“I was hoping you’d show up soon,” Jason said, even though the reflection cocked a brow like he was the crazy one here.

Jason leaned closer. “What do you know about the off-screen adventures Red Hood’s been taking for months now? The nights I can’t remember.”

His mind flashed—him in the forest back at the League base, the bear tearing into him. The blurry vision of himself standing over his own body before passing out… then waking in the Lazarus Pit.

“Still no revenge on Joker. Haven’t taken down Bruce. And Gotham’s criminals are still running wild, thinking a shattered spine from Batman is worth the risk,” the reflection said, ignoring the question entirely.

“Yet here you are… trying to get into the panties of an enemy.” That last word came with disappointment and that simmering anger Jason always avoided thinking about.

“First of all,” Jason lifted a finger, “I don’t only intend to get into her panties. Who says I can’t get some kitty while on the job?”

Before the reflection could retort, a flush sounded from one of the stalls.

A guy stepped out, eyes wide as he caught Jason mid-conversation with himself.

“I… heard nothing, man. Was too busy trying to take a shit,” the stranger blurted, hands raised defensively as he tried to squeeze past Jason.

“He’s leaving without washing his hands. Yeah, he definitely heard you,” the reflection said. “And he thinks you’re a whacko. Not that he’s entirely wrong.” 

Before the man could reach the door, Jason moved.

A quick step. A sharp blow to the back of the head.

The man dropped like a sack of potatoes. Jason caught him, dragged him into a stall, and propped him up on a toilet.

“Sorry, buddy. Had to be done,” Jason muttered.

He turned back toward the mirror—his reflection normal now, streaked hair gone. The other presence was nowhere to be seen.

Jason inhaled slowly, recalibrating, smoothing his hair back into place.

He pushed open the bathroom door, glancing once at the unconscious guy. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he muttered. “Happens to the best of us.”

He stepped back into the warm noise of the bar.

Instantly, he noticed the shift. The atmosphere around the counter had tightened. Voices had changed tone. Chairs scraped. Something was happening.

“Come on, sexy, we’re having a celebration. Join the party,” a man was saying.

Jason spotted him—a thick-shouldered guy leaning too close to Li. And worse: he was sitting in Jason’s seat, drinking from Jason’s glass.

Li’s face stayed blank but cold. “I said no. I’m not interested in engaging with the likes of you.”

“That’s harsh,” the man said with a grin, leaning closer. “Makes me even more interested. Come on, give me your name.”

The voices around them—two, three, then more—chimed in mockingly.

Jason scanned their outfits—leather jackets, patches, chains.

‘The Devil Men,’ he noted. Great. A biker gang.

Li stayed silent, refusing to give them anything.

“I’m Morgan—” the Biker Boss began.

Tap. Tap.

Jason tapped his shoulder.

Morgan didn’t turn. “Not now, bud. Can’t you see I’m talking?”

“You’re in my seat, buddy.” Jason’s voice was calm, almost too calm.

“So what?” Morgan finally turned, eyes running up and down Jason dismissively. “It’s mine now. Buzz off.”

He immediately turned back to Li.

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Yo, Tim,” Jason called to the bartender, who looked panicked. Morgan was lifting Jason’s glass—his drink—from the counter. 

‘This dude’s drinking my stuff and trying to steal my girl like he’s Swiper from Dora the Explorer.’ He lampooned.

Observing the look in his eyes, Tim subtly motioned for him to let it go, to stay calm. 

Jason acknowledged it… and ignored it.

“Sorry about the mess,” he told Tim quietly. Tim blinked, confused.

Jason tapped Morgan’s shoulder again. Harder.

“Hey, Ugly.”

The Devil Men beside Morgan stood, looming like they expected to intimidate Jason. They waited for their boss’s signal.

“You again?” Morgan growled. “You must really want a beating—”

Smash.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep