Now back in the Batcave during the early hours of the morning—while the world above still slept beneath the pale hush of pre-dawn—Batman had shed his cowl and cape, the armor sitting heavy across the chair beside him. 

He sat alone at the console, hunched forward with tired eyes locked onto the screen, which displayed a younger version of Jason Todd, captured in a photo from brighter days. The glow from the monitor softly lit his face, highlighting the wear in his features—the lines drawn deep from grief, regret, and long-unspoken guilt.

Behind him, the sound of soft footsteps broke the silence.

“Master Bruce… is it true?” Alfred asked, his voice low but strained. He didn’t need to clarify what he meant—Bruce had promised an explanation when he returned, and now he owed them one.

“Yes, Alfred,” Bruce replied quietly, never taking his eyes off the screen. He sounded worn out. Not physically, but from something far worse—something that weighed on the soul.

Alfred stood still, his hands clasped behind his back, and let out a quiet breath. He looked down at the stone floor beneath his polished shoes, as if searching for the right words—or maybe trying to keep his emotions from spilling. 

He had prepared himself for the possibility, had entertained the theory with Bruce when it first came up… but hearing it confirmed still knocked the wind out of him.

The boy they had once taken in. The bright, brash, angry kid who had found a place among them. Alive. But not whole.

“I saw so much potential in Jason when I first met him,” Bruce began, finally leaning back, his voice low but steady. 

“He had that fire in him. The kind that could burn him out—or light the way for others. If someone didn’t guide that energy, if no one helped him find a path, he was destined for trouble. Jail. Or worse.”

He glanced down, running a hand across his face. “So I tried. I gave him something to fight for. I thought I could teach him discipline, purpose. I really believed he’d walk that line, even if it was difficult.” A heavy pause hung between them.

“But now…” Bruce exhaled, rubbing his temples with both hands as the weight of it all settled on his shoulders. “It’s way too late for that now. Everything’s gone sideways. He’s not the same boy we buried.”

“You did what you could, Master Bruce,” Alfred said softly, stepping closer. He rested a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, offering what little comfort he could.

For a moment, Bruce didn’t speak.

Then, from the shadows near the cave entrance, Damian finally stepped forward, revealing he’d been there the whole time. Listening. Watching. His arms were folded over his chest, expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity and suspicion.

“I should have known right from the start,” Bruce said, sitting upright now, his tone tinged with self-reproach and frustration. 

“The bat symbol on his chest… the trap at the factory… the way he fought—my tactics, my playbook. He’s elusive, fast, unpredictable… and he knows me. Knows how I move.”

His voice cracked just slightly at the edge, and it was obvious—this wasn’t just about being outmaneuvered. This was grief, twisted with guilt, turning into something else entirely.

Damian tilted his head, his voice cutting through the air. “That punk Jason was really Robin? One of your adopted sons?”

Bruce turned his gaze toward him, blinking once. 

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted back to the photo of Jason on the screen, the younger version—the boy with unruly hair and fire in his eyes.

“You know him from the League?” Bruce finally asked.

“Of course I do,” Damian muttered. “He always knew how to piss me off. Grandfather’s favorite student.” Bruce flinched—just slightly—at those words.Talia’s bruefing hadn’t giving him precise depth as to just how close Jason had become to Ra’s.

“That explains his movements,” Bruce said to inform the rest, already processing the implications. “No wonder he’s this good, but that doesn’t explain his speed.”

“Tell us what you remember about him, Master Damian,” Alfred cut in, ever the one to move things forward.

Damian shrugged and leaned casually against one of the metal support rails that curved around the Batcomputer’s platform. “He was a pain in the ass. But… I’ll admit this much; he was good. Scary good.

Adapted fast, fought harder than most. Even when things got messy, he always knew how to get the upper hand.”

Bruce glanced at him from the corner of his eye, listening carefully now.

“But he was unstable,” Damian continued. “Sometimes after winning a fight, even when his opponent was already down—he wouldn’t stop. He’d just keep going. Rage would take over. They ended up bloody. Broken. One guy didn’t walk again.”

Alfred stiffened slightly, his hand slowly falling from Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce’s expression turned cold and thoughtful, brows drawing together.

“No one—except instructors—wanted to spar with him after that,” Damian added. “Especially when weapons were involved. At times he seemed like he had more than one personality or so.” Bruce folded his arms. “And what did Ra’s do about it?”

Damian shrugged. “He made Jason his personal project. One-on-one training. Jason learned how to keep his temper in check… for the most part. Eventually, the others started respecting him. Even feared him. He became one of the most dangerous fighters in the League. Even Lady Shiva dropped by and gave him a couple lessons.”

Batman paused upon hearing that, pondering on just how good has Jason’s combat skills become. And if himself could engage Red Hood in a 1v1 battle and actually come out on top without putting his own life on the line.

Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. “So Ra’s didn’t tame him. He refined him.”

Bruce stayed silent for a beat, jaw tightening. “He must’ve trained Jason at a different level than the rest. But for what purpose?”

The cave fell into a thoughtful quiet again. The soft trickle of water in the background and the distant flutter of bats overhead echoed faintly through the dark chamber, underscoring Bruce’s deepening suspicion.

The glow from the computer monitors illuminated all three of them in pale blue light, painting their faces in tired shadows.

“How skilled did he become?” Alfred asked, voice gentle but firm.

Damian took a breath and let his pride drop for just a second. “I don’t know the full extent. But as much as it sucks to say this—I never stood a chance. Not in his current state. Not in a real fight. And definitely not in a fight to the death.”

Neither Bruce nor Alfred spoke.

“He’s that far ahead,” Damian added with a scowl, like it personally offended him to admit it.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose. “Talia told me he fought Deathstroke. Word was… it ended in a draw. Both bodies disappeared after the fight.”

Alfred blinked, stunned. “Against Deathstroke?” His voice was barely above a whisper now. “Good heavens…” He looked to Bruce, tone grave. “You need to be careful, sir. Jason may have once been your son… but now, he might just be your most dangerous adversary.”

The Batcomputer screen shifted, flickering slightly before landing on a split image—on one side, the younger Jason Todd, cocky smile and defiance in his eyes. On the other, Red Hood—fully armored, masked, silent, unreadable.

The three of them stood there, facing that screen in silence. And though no one said it out loud, the feeling settled heavily between them;

Jason hadn’t just returned from the grave.

He’d come back as something else entirely.

The silence which followed was thick—almost sacred—as the screen flickered between images of Jason Todd then and now. Red Hood’s mask stared back like a mirror that Bruce had long avoided.

But not anymore.

Bruce stepped away from the chair, his cape trailing slightly behind him as he walked over to the central platform. His hands were already moving—pulling up surveillance footage, recent crime scene data, known weapons caches in Gotham, old safe houses, League intel files. The Batcomputer whirred to life, processing as fast as he was thinking.

He needed a plan.

A pattern.

Something to anticipate Jason’s next move before he pushed things past the point of no return.

“Jason’s not just attacking criminals,” Bruce muttered as if thinking aloud. “He’s making statements. Leaving symbols. The crowbar on the docks, the coordinated hit on Sionis’ men… He’s targeting our enemies—but not like we would. He wants fear. Shock.”

“He wants you to notice,” Alfred added pointedly. “Every act so far has been tailor-made to send a message. Not to the city. To you, Master Bruce.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

“That’s why we have to stay ahead of him,” he replied, voice cool, almost methodical now. “If he’s using League tactics, he’ll have fallback routes. Habits. I need to revisit his old Robin patrol maps and cross-reference them with our current threat activity. He’s likely operating from somewhere familiar—somewhere personal.”

Damian stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice cutting in sharp. “Then I want in.”

Bruce turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. “No.”

Damian frowned. “You just said it yourself—he’s one of the most dangerous threats Gotham’s faced. You’ll need backup.”

“I said no,” Bruce repeated. “This isn’t a game. Red Hood doesn’t hold back. You heard what you just said about him, Damian. You wouldn’t survive that fight.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “So what? I’m just supposed to sit this out while he parades around with your symbol, twisting it into some weapon for his crusade?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

“Don’t forget,” Damian added bitterly, “he’s not the only one trained by the League. I know how he thinks too.”

Bruce stepped forward, tone cold. “He was trained by Ra’s personally. Fought Deathstroke. He’s lived through death. You haven’t. That makes all the difference.”

The tension hung thick in the air.

But then, Alfred stepped forward—his voice gentler but more cutting than either of theirs.

“Forgive me, sirs. But this has gone far enough.”

Both Wayne men paused.

Alfred walked to Bruce’s side, not with judgment—but a heaviness in his posture that silenced them both. His gaze was on Bruce, steady and filled with something deeper than frustration. It was weariness… and heartbreak.

“You’re treating this like a mission. Another file. Another criminal to map out, corner, and clean up. But Jason isn’t Clayface. He isn’t Riddler. He’s not even Slade. He’s your son.”

Bruce didn’t flinch—but he also didn’t argue.

“You’re walking headlong into a fight,” Alfred continued, “but you haven’t taken a moment to acknowledge what’s really happening. That boy you took in—the one who used to sneak cookies from the pantry when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’s not just Red Hood. He’s Jason.”

Bruce’s expression was unreadable, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath.

“I know who he is,” he said at last, voice low. “And that’s the problem.”

“No, sir,” Alfred replied. “The problem is that you’ve already started mourning him again—only this time, while he’s still alive.”

That struck something deep.

Damian, now quiet, looked between the two of them, his earlier anger starting to fade beneath a more complicated emotion—confusion. Maybe even guilt.

Alfred stepped away, moving to the console and slowly sitting in the chair Bruce had just left.

“You built this place to fight crime,” he said softly, gesturing around them, “but sometimes… sometimes what we’re up against isn’t a villain. Sometimes, it’s family. And I fear this is the kind of battle that can’t be won with strategy and brute force.”

Bruce looked up at the screen again.

On the left, Jason’s eyes—young, defiant, alive.

On the right, the blank mask of Red Hood—silent, armored, hiding everything.

He exhaled through his nose and whispered, almost to himself, “Then I’ll have to find another way.”

Alfred rose again. “Find a way that doesn’t break him further—or destroy what’s left of you in the process.”

No one said anything after that.

Damian stepped back into the shadows, his mind already racing with thoughts he couldn’t fully voice. Alfred turned away, heading toward the elevator in silence, hands once again clasped behind his back.

And Bruce stood still, beneath the pale glow of the monitors—haunted, calculating, grieving—and finally, beginning to accept:

The mission had changed.

It was no longer about stopping Red Hood.

It was about saving Jason Todd. His son.

Before Gotham lost him for good.

Before he, lost him for good.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep