The war between the Bertinellis and the Falcones had turned Gotham into a slow-cooking pressure bomb, blood in the streets, chaos at every corner. Two cousin crime families ripping each other apart, and the city? Caught in the middle.

Ambushes, back-alley executions, safehouses torched to ash—rumors flew like bullets. The GCPD and Batman were stretched so thin they might as well have been ghosts. 

One minute they were responding to a warehouse shootout, next they were bagging bodies in alleyways. Whole neighborhoods turned into battlegrounds the moment anyone from either family crossed paths.

And while the city scrambled to clean up the mess, Red Hood made his move. 

Quietly.

Late that night, on Gotham’s east side, an abandoned factory that hadn’t seen industrial work since the eighties became the scene of something… different. 

The place was a graveyard of rust and dust, windows shattered, metal stairs groaning, and old pipes dripping like they were crying from years of rot. The walls were covered in layers of graffiti, old bloodstains, and grime that time forgot.

It was neutral ground. Which meant it was perfect.

A folding table sat dead-center under the flicker of a buzzing industrial light, the kind that hummed like it hated stillness. Cigarette ash, burn marks, and a couple of bullet holes decorated its surface. Around it sat six men and one woman—dealers, traffickers, mid-tier street bosses. All of them hardened by the game. And all of them looking around like someone just pulled a gun without showing it.

“What the—You didn’t set this up?” barked the guy in a pinstripe suit, hair slicked back but voice cracking with tension.

“So whose party is this?”

They glanced around at each other. Shifty eyes. Quick side glances. No one spoke.

The truth? They’d all been invited the same way—notes slipped under doors, into dashboards, onto office desks. No names. No logos. Just a time and place. Gotham style.

“Figured it was you east-side jokers,” someone muttered, lacing sarcasm through his words. “Word is, you already bent over for Black Mask.”

“Bent over?” another snapped, leaning in. You could hear the grief under his anger. “Black Mask hit five of my crew in a month. My best guys. If I didn’t give in to him, there wouldn’t be anyone left to bury.”

“So you set this up?”

“No. I thought it was Raymond.”

“Nah, it wasn’t me.” Raymond grunted, already annoyed. “I am not in the mood for some fucking game.”

Trevor pushed back from his seat. “Screw this. If y’all wanna wait around to be gunned down, that’s on you.”

“Sit down, Trevor.”

A voice came from the dark corners of the metal stairs above them. Calm, steady. Not loud, but loud enough.

Everyone froze.

Heads turned toward the catwalk above them.

Someone whispered, “It’s him.”

“Batman?”

“We didn’t do anything—!”

“Oh, come on,” the voice answered, low and dry. “We all know that’s a lie.”

But this voice… it wasn’t gravel. Wasn’t Batman’s righteous growl. This one was colder. More real. Less justice, more…primal.

Then he stepped out of the shadows.

Combat armor, helmet shining just enough to catch the flicker of the light. That red bat symbol stretched across his chest. An AK slung over his shoulder, barrel aimed low but carried with confidence that said; ‘I don’t have to raise it for it to be a problem.’

“Who the hell are you?” one of them barked, getting halfway to his feet.

Another voice in the back yelled, “Smoke him!”

Jason didn’t wait.

He opened fire.

The room blew apart in chaos—bullets ripping through old concrete, sparks flying from shattered pipes, hot lead turning rust into shrapnel. The air filled with the smell of gunpowder, oil, and panic.

Screams. Scrambling bodies. Men diving behind crates, flipping over the table, pressing flat to filthy floors. One guy yelled. Another cried out. No one fired back.

And then—silence.

The worst kind. The kind that hits right after you realize you’ve lived through something you weren’t supposed to.

Bootsteps echoed. Slow. Heavy.

Jason walked forward, rifle lowered but still ready. That red bat symbol gleamed through the settling smoke.

“I said… sit down.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a request. It was a promise. And they knew it.

Trevor, twitching with sweat and adrenaline, didn’t sit. “You got a death wish? There’s easier ways to go than this. Try jumping in the Narrows.”

Jason’s helmet tilted in his direction. “Yeah… like yelling at the guy holding a fucking AK-47.”

That shut Trevor up.

Jason gave it a second. Let it sink in. Then laid it out plain.

“Listen close, you scumbags. As of tonight, you work for me.”

A few of them shifted. Fidgeted. Sucked their teeth like they were gonna object.

Jason didn’t care.

“You seven are the most successful dealers in Gotham. You’ve got reach, product, protection, and somehow haven’t been killed yet. So here’s the deal. Call it charity.”

He stepped closer, slow and confident.

“You keep doing your thing—run your corners, sell your weight, whatever. But you kick up forty percent to me. That’s better than Black Mask’s deal, and unlike him, I’m giving something back. 

Protection. From him and from Batman.”

Still, they stayed quiet. The only sound was a broken pipe dripping somewhere in the dark.

Jason’s tone shifted slightly.

“But you stay the fuck away from kids. No selling near schools. No dealing to minors. You cross that line once—and I’ll jam a hot rod so far up your ass your lungs’ll catch fire. No warnings.”

One of the guys smirked, trying to play tough. “Real generous offer… but why the hell should we listen to you?”

Jason didn’t argue.

He just tossed a duffel bag onto the table. Heavy thud. Wet thud.

Everyone flinched.

Nobody moved to open it.

Finally, one brave soul reached out with shaking fingers and unzipped the bag.

The smell hit first. Thick, raw, and wrong.

Then came the visual.

Heads. Severed. Hacked. Faces frozen in pure horror. Blood still fresh in the lining.

Recognizable faces. Guys who didn’t show up to work. Trusted lieutenants. Enforcers. Gone.

“Oh… shit.”

One of them collapsed, vomiting on the floor.

Jason didn’t flinch.

“That took me two hours,” he said casually. “You wanna see what I can do with a whole night?”

Still no one spoke.

He took another step forward, boots crunching old debris underfoot.

“This ain’t a meeting. It’s a takeover. I’m not here to bargain.”

He raised the rifle again and popped off a few rounds into the floor. The shots echoed like thunder, sending wood and concrete flying. The table splintered. Everyone dove like it was life or death—which, honestly, it kinda was.

Then—silence.

They looked up.

He was gone.

Vanished like smoke. Like he’d never been there at all.

Except… the bullet holes were real. The heads were real. The silence he left behind? That was real too.

For a few beats, no one said anything. Just breathing and disbelief.

Then Raymond, shaking off the dust, broke the tension.

“Forty percent sounds good to me.”

– – –

[Roman Sionis’ POV]

Roman Sionis—Black Mask.

He didn’t claw his way to the top of Gotham’s underworld by playing nice. He built his empire the old-fashioned way, with broken bones, slashed throats, and enough backstabbing to make Judas blush.

Guns, drugs, bodies—he moved it all, flowing like blood through the arteries of the city’s criminal heart. He didn’t just run a syndicate. He was the syndicate.

The king of Gotham’s rot.

Paranoid by nature, vicious by design, Roman ruled with a fist full of rings and a sharp mind. His pride? Nuclear. His greed? Terminal.

In his head, he wasn’t just another kingpin. He was Gotham. Untouchable. Unchallenged. Inevitable.

He was up in his penthouse office, high above the city, sitting in a room soaked in wealth and ego. Thick red velvet carpet underfoot. Gold-plated statues standing guard in every corner. 

A sleek black desk positioned perfectly in front of a panoramic window that looked out over Gotham’s bruised skyline.

Everything was arranged just so. Even the couch he never sat on. The room screamed money and power. Just like he liked it.

Behind that obsidian skull mask, Roman was fuming.

“WHAT!?” he bellowed, slamming both palms down on the desk. The sharp crack echoed through the room. His leather chair screeched back as he shot to his feet, fury dripping off him like sweat.

Across from him stood his personal secretary—cool, composed, dressed in a black skirt suit that screamed professionalism and danger. Mid-to-late twenties. Dark-skinned. Sharp eyes behind those glasses. The kind of woman who had your eulogy typed up before your appointment started.

She worked for a monster. But she worked well.

Roman’s mask turned to her, voice a slow growl. “Say that again. Slower.”

She adjusted her glasses, not flinching. “Several street-level pushers in our territory are refusing to pay protection.”

Roman tilted his head. “Refusing? Refusing? They’re refusing me?”

“They say they’ve got a better deal now. Someone new’s offering lower cuts, more muscle… and results.”

He stared at her, not blinking.

She kept going, like it was just another report. “They said he dropped a duffel bag on the table during negotiations. Inside were the heads of their own lieutenants.”

Roman let out a harsh breath. “That’s gotta be exaggerated bullshit. Some theater to scare the next round of idiots into line.”

He exhaled through his teeth, pacing now, trying to put a lid on the fire building in his chest. Then he stilled, waved for a drink. She poured it. Smooth, practiced.

“Does this dipshit have a name?”

She filled the glass and handed it over. “They call him Red Hood.”

Roman took a slow sip. The burn did nothing to help.

“That little street rat’s got some real balls. Dipping his filthy hand into my bowl and helping himself to a full fucking meal.” His tone dropped, more snarl than words. “Balls I’ll rip off and FedEx to his goddamn mother.”

He was winding up for more when someone knocked on the door.

Didn’t wait for permission. Just opened and walked in. Four of his security goons—top of the line. Hardened. Loyal. And, right now, looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Roman glared. “Tell me you’ve already dealt with this clown before I lose my shit all over this desk.”

The biggest of them stepped forward. Scar over his eyebrow. Voice like gravel.

“We tried, boss. But he’s… not easy to pin down. Dealers are switching sides. The ones that don’t? They’re either in the ICU or zipped up in body bags.”

Roman sat back down slow, his mask hiding the twitch in his jaw.

“He’s one guy,” he said, voice flat. “I’ve got an army. An army of killers, thugs, assassins, cage fighters. How is one guy tearing holes in my empire?”

Another one spoke, more hesitant. “He’s wearing a red bat symbol, sir. And… the boys say he fights like a demon.”

“Terrific,” Roman muttered. “Halloween came early.”

He sipped again, barely tasting it.

“You think it’s Batman?” he asked. “Some new sidekick? Another psycho in a cape?”

“No, sir,” the guard said quickly. “He doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t do the whole no-kill thing. He puts people down hard.”

Then the last guy at the end of the line piped up—quieter than the rest.

“He beat my crew with a crowbar, sir. After we torched that club in East End. Said the neighborhood was under his protection, and that we were about to learn what that meant.”

Roman turned his mask toward the guy, accompanied by a sharp silence.

“You think I give a shit about your sob story?” he snapped.

The glass was out of his hand before anyone could blink—whipped straight at the guy’s head. He barely ducked. It smashed against a golden statue, raining crystal down across the floor.

“You think I care about what he said to you?” Roman barked. “You think I give a rat’s ass about some thug in a red mask giving speeches before he breaks your legs?!”

He was up again, pacing to the window, looking down at the lights of Gotham, the city breathing like a beast below.

Something felt off. A shift. The air felt different—like blood was already in the wind.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “Feels like trouble already moved in and we left the fucking door open.”

He turned back to the room, voice low but fierce.

“The Maronis and Falcones are at each other’s throats. That war spills into my turf, and I’ve got problems. Now my dealers are giving this Red Hood clown my cut? Calling him more terrifying than the Bat?”

He took a step forward, barking.

“Kill him. Hang him off a bridge. Cut off his head and drop it on my desk if you have to. But handle it. Because if he keeps carving pieces off my empire, I swear to God—I’ll bury every one of you and find someone who can do the job without shitting their pants.”

He let the silence settle like chalk dust.

Then he dropped his voice. Cold. Dangerous.

“Now get the fuck out of my office.”

The four of them didn’t wait to be told twice. They slipped out, calm on the surface, but practically sprinting down the hall once the door shut.

Roman turned back to the window.

Fists clenched. Mind racing.

Who the hell was this Red Hood?

And how the fuck was he getting away with this?

– – –

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep