After robbing a couple of gang members who were too stupid or too confident to think someone would dare cross them, Jason had finally carved out a sliver of space for himself on the south side of Gotham City. 

Not exactly prime real estate, more like a roach motel stacked in concrete and bad decisions—but it was home, or at least the closest thing he’d allow himself to have.

The apartment sat at the very top of a beat-up building that leaned more sideways than upright, like it regretted ever being constructed. But that was part of the appeal. 

Jason had deliberately chosen this location for its anonymity and inaccessibility. No working security cameras. No nosy neighbors who stayed awake past eleven. 

And more importantly, no clear sight lines for anyone trying to tail him. If he needed to go dark, he could—twisting and turning through Gotham’s labyrinthine back alleys, taking detours so winding even Google Maps would throw its hands up. 

If things got too hot, there was always the textile warehouse near the docks. Now, he had options. A tactical luxury.

Lucky for him, the landlord was a bloated, graying man with more interest in rent checks than personal details. He didn’t ask questions, especially not when Jason paid six months in advance. In cash. 

That kind of gesture made the landlord practically fall in love. Jason could probably store a crate of human heads in the hallway, and the old man wouldn’t blink—so long as he kept the money flowing.

The neighbors? Ghosts. At least that’s what they thought of him. He’d never said more than two words to any of them. His schedule ensured that he always returned long past midnight, slipping in through his window like a shadow with nowhere to rest. 

When he left early, often just after dawn, it was usually to restock supplies, tail someone on his hit list, or blend into the city crowd. That’s when he used the front door—because sometimes, it paid to look normal.

Earlier that day, though, there had been an unexpected break in the routine.

He’d run into an old lady struggling to carry two full bags of groceries up the stairs. The elevator was out of service again and halfway into a month of maintenance. 

Jason wasn’t in the habit of doing favors, but something about the old lady’s quiet determination stirred something in him.

So he offered a hand.

She smiled, surprised and grateful. He took the bags, slow-walked up the narrow stairwell, listening to the echo of their footsteps bounce off the walls like ghosts of conversations past. 

The building smelled of mildew, old spaghetti sauce, and faintly of piss—layers of urban rot baked into the walls.

When they reached her door, just two units away from his own, she turned to thank him. 

Jason gave a soft smile in return. Polite. Genuine, even. A rare warmth touched his face, so honest that if she’d glimpsed what lay beneath, what he was planning for the evening, she might’ve screamed and slammed her door shut.

Because that smile? That smile belonged to a man with a kill list.

And tonight, the first name was about to get scratched off.

– – –

As the sun dipped below Gotham’s skyline, the city choked under its usual neon haze, flickering signs and broken street lamps casting jagged shadows along the apartment blocks. 

Inside Jason’s flat, it was nearly pitch black. Most of the space was left untouched by artificial light, except for one corner—a single exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling hummed with a faint electric buzz, casting a pool of amber across the room like a lazy spotlight.

The curtains were pulled tight. Blackout fabric. Not just for sleep—for secrecy. Any wandering eyes would see nothing but the dark shape of drawn blinds.

Jason stood like a statue, back straight, eyes locked on his investigation board. It loomed over the desk like a madman’s mural—newspaper clippings, photos, red thread, maps, and annotated reports. 

Faces of crime bosses, names, and notes in his sharp, angular handwriting. Targets. Traitors. Clues. 

At the center was a printout of the Joker’s face, taunting and grinning, stabbed through with a hunting knife.

After a moment of stillness, he moved. Deliberate. Quiet.

He crossed the apartment and entered the small bathroom. From beneath the sink, he dragged out an old wooden stool and placed it beneath the ceiling vent. 

With one swift motion, he popped the vent open and reached inside. Dust and cobwebs spilled out. His fingers gripped something cold, the metallic edge of a medium-sized trunk.

Lowering it carefully, he took it into the living room. It hit the wooden floor with a soft thud, and he crouched beside it, flipping the latches with practiced ease.

Inside lay the tools of his nocturnal profession, gear that was lethal, tactical, and deeply personal.

He stared at it for a long beat, letting the gravity of the night wash over him.

First, the black tactical pants, reinforced at the thighs, with padded knees designed for both protection and swift, fluid movement. 

He slid into them effortlessly. Next were the boots, steel-toed and combat-ready. They weren’t just for walking, they were for stomping, kicking, and surviving.

He pulled on his torso armor next, kevlar-infused and sculpted to fit under his brown leather jacket, which smelled like gunpowder. 

On the chest of the armor was a bold, crimson bat symbol, purposely faded and scratched, but unmistakable. A ghost of his past as Batman’s protégé. A memory that refused to die.

Then came the gloves. Black with crimson accents, padded and armored across the knuckles, built for brutal efficiency. Every item he wore spoke to a war he never stopped fighting.

With the trunk now nearly empty, he turned toward the couch. On its handle rested his utility belt, lazily draped but meticulously maintained.

It was similar in design to Batman’s, but its contents were another story. This wasn’t a belt meant to save lives, it was built to end them.

On one side: smoke pellets, flashbangs, grenades, and C4 packs. Tools of chaos.

On the other: sleek, silver throwing knives, modified shuriken, and compact tech.

And in the rear compartments were first aid supplies, lockpicks, extra clips of ammunition. Essentials.

He strapped it on, its familiar weight grounding him.

Next stop, the weapons table.

On the far end of the room sat a black duffle bag, heavy and long, with its zipper already halfway open. He approached it like a man greeting an old friend.

Inside, a symphony of firearms—each deadly, each handpicked. He unpacked them slowly.

A submachine gun. A short-barreled assault rifle. The heft of each weapon told him everything he needed to know— balance, recoil, stopping power.

Then, the sniper rifle—sleek, deadly, and silent. He lifted it to his eye and peered through the scope. The crosshairs were crystal clear, ready for precision.

Perfect for the coming war.

But the real smile came when he picked up the twin pistols.

.40 caliber. Custom-machined. Extended mags, fast draw, clean trigger pull. Beautiful, brutal things. He checked the slides, loaded the mags, and strapped them into his side holsters with a smirk that lasted longer than he meant it to.

Back to the gear, a grappling hook, slightly janky compared to Bruce’s elegant tech, but functional enough. Explosive gel and remote detonators. Into the belt they went.

Then, his melee options.

A dagger, forged during his time with the League of Assassins. New and ready to be blood-stained, with the hilt wrapped in custom leather. That went to his thigh.

Next, the sword. Longer, with red-and-black accents on the hilt, sharp enough to split bone. He strapped it to his back. A memento of his time in the League and his training under Ra’s al Ghul.

Finally, the crowbar.

Brutal. Raw. Covered in minor modifications, pikes, weight adjustments but still the same weapon that once nearly killed him.

A relic of the Joker. A reminder of pain. And power.

He positioned it alongside his sword—two scars, two stories.

Then he turned to the mannequin by the wall.

The helmet waited. Glossy red, armored, and sculpted into a smooth, emotionless shape. The lenses—blank white at first, blinked to red as they activated, then to black. Thermal, night vision, tracking overlays.

With the helmet on, he was no longer Jason.

He was Red Hood.

And tonight?

Tonight was the beginning of the most bloody chess game Gotham would ever see.

Time to hunt.

– – –

He stood alone atop a derelict rooftop, the crumbling edge of the building beneath his boots dusted with soot and broken gravel.

Gotham stretched out before him in cold silence, its jagged skyline lit only by the flickering lights of streetlamps and the faint glow of neon signs in the distance.

A low fog crawled across the city’s bones like a living thing, wrapping alleyways and rooftops in its pale embrace. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or the city’s ever-churning rot.

In his gloved hand, he held his helmet, its sleek, crimson shell reflecting the dim city light in faint glimmers.

He stared down at his target below—the Bertinelli compound. Guard posts, tight security, a perimeter laced with men holding rifles they didn’t fully know how to use.

Their confidence was false, born from decades of power and complacency. Jason knew better. He’d been watching them for weeks.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his breath visible in the night air. Then, with practiced ease, he raised the helmet to his head. The shell slid over his face with a soft hiss of seal and steel, locking in place with an almost comforting click.

A strange sensation washed over him.

“What is this… feeling?” he muttered under his breath, voice barely more than a ghost in the wind. The words drifted off into the silence, unheard by anyone but himself—and maybe the city, if it ever cared to listen.

It wasn’t adrenaline. It wasn’t the thrill of the hunt. No. This was something else.

He stood motionless, still as a statue, as the realization crept in.

The moment the helmet clicked into place, something shifted inside him. 

The tension he constantly carried in his shoulders—the tight coil of restraint, of pressure to hold back thirst for blood—loosened. His chest felt lighter, his breath came easier.

The buzzing static of internal chaos faded into something quieter, more focused.

Relief.

Not just mental, but physical, visceral. Like stepping out of a cage he didn’t know he was locked in.

He was free.

Free from the weight of pretending to be fine. Free from the tug-of-war between the monster inside him and the man who still clung to the idea of morality.

With the helmet on, he didn’t have to be conflicted. He could just act. Just move. Just punish.

But that freedom? That scared the shit out of him.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew what it meant to feel peace in the midst of violence. He knew what it meant to crave the clarity that came with embracing the bloodlust, instead of bottling it up.

But fear never made him hesitate. He wasn’t some coward running from the dark corners of his own mind.

No. He was going to see this through.

He straightened up, adjusting his stance as the final pieces of his plan fell into place. His crimson helmet reflected the city back at itself—distorted, warped, dripping with its own sins.

His grip tightened at his sides. The Bertinellis would feel him tonight, not as a whisper in the dark, but as a red storm crashing through their gates.

These weren’t second thoughts. He didn’t hesitate. His conviction had never wavered.

Cold feet weren’t part of the plan. 

Not tonight.

And certainly not ever.

– – –

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