“Keep in mind, he’s a lot more calculating than he lets on,” Jason warned, his voice low but steady through the modulator. 

“Confronting him head-on without absolute certainty that we’ve got him cornered might cost us. That’s assuming he’s even at this location in the first place.”

“Got it,” Damian replied without hesitation. His tone was pruned and focused. They moved out together, blending into the dark like two ghosts trained by the same hand. Their steps were light, coordinated, and silent—every movement was a reflection of years of League training that neither could quite shake off.

“Just like old times,” Red Hood muttered, a hint of amusement curling beneath his tone.

Damian shot him a side glance, unimpressed. He remembered all too well what those “old times” had been—Jason taking every sparring session as an opportunity to beat him senseless just to prove a point.

They reached the side of the building, scaling up the rough concrete until they got to a reinforced glass window near the top right corner. The city’s distant hum felt muffled here, replaced by the quiet hum of industrial fans and the occasional clang of metal from inside. Jason pulled a glass cutter from his belt and worked fast. With a faint click, the circular piece came loose, and the two slipped in effortlessly.

Inside, the air was thick with humidity and the sharp scent of detergent. The low drone of machinery filled the space—industrial washers rumbling, pipes hissing, conveyor belts clanking with damp linens. It was a wash house that serviced hotels and big corporations, one of those forgotten facilities that worked round the clock, manned mostly by tired, underpaid immigrants who just wanted to get through another shift.

Jason scanned the area, crouched on a metal beam overhead. “Doesn’t really scream ‘Scarecrow’s secret lab,’” he muttered, eyes flicking between the factory floor and the far corners of the building.

He didn’t trust the lead, not fully—but knowing Scarecrow, he wouldn’t rule it out either. 

The bastard was unpredictable, always hiding behind layers of organized distraction and fear. Using a noisy, populated factory as cover? That sounded exactly like something he’d do.

Without a word, Jason reached for his belt, pulled out a handful of shurikens, and flicked his wrist. The blades cut through the air with barely a sound, hitting their marks with precision. A series of faint crackles followed as multiple security cameras went dark.

“Let’s check it out,” he said quietly, and Damian nodded.

They dropped down behind a row of industrial dryers and moved through the facility with precise coordination. They weaved between workers unnoticed, keeping to concealment and timing their movements perfectly with the noise of machines. 

They looked less like two vigilantes and more like wraiths gliding through the space.

The deeper they went, the hotter the air became, heavy with steam and the stench of wet cloth. They reached the back rooms—dimly lit areas lined with storage shelves, detergent drums, and piles of folded linens. Jason scanned every inch of the space with his tactical lens while Damian checked for hidden doors or vents that could lead deeper underground.

After several minutes, Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. “He isn’t here,” he admitted. His tone was flat, but Jason could hear the irritation buried beneath it. 

“It was a long shot, I know… but still.”

Jason glanced at him from behind the mask. Damian looked mildly frustrated, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the floor.

For someone who rarely showed emotion, the disappointment was obvious.

“Don’t get too worked up, kid,” Jason said as they made their way back. “We’ve still got one more place to check.” His tone softened slightly, and though his expression was hidden, the faint warmth in his voice gave him away. He preferred Damian snarky and full of attitude; seeing him so deflated felt… wrong.

“Where?” Damian asked, already curious, though he kept his voice steady.

Jason didn’t answer immediately. He led the way down a narrow service corridor and out through another maintenance hatch. The night air greeted them again—cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of oil and rust from the docks. The factory lights flickered behind them as they stepped into the alley.

Then Jason stopped, looked down, and let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth beneath the helmet. He tilted his head toward the circular metal plate at their feet.

“The sewers,” he said simply.

Damian followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Trust me, kid,” Jason said, crouching to lift the manhole cover. The faint stench of decay and chemical runoff wafted up immediately. “If Scarecrow’s really hiding out around here, that’s where he’ll be.”

He looked back at Damian, his voice carrying that dry, teasing tone again. 

“Come on, Robin. You’re not afraid to get your boots dirty, are you?”

The boy gave him a flat look but said nothing, following him down into the darkness as the manhole cover slid back into place with a dull metallic thud. 

“Any idea what exactly we’re looking for down here?” Robin asked, his voice echoing faintly through the narrow tunnel as both of them made their way deeper into the sewer.

The air was heavy with moisture, thick enough that every breath felt like it carried the taste of rust and mildew. Faint ripples trailed behind their boots, disturbing the thin layer of grimy water that ran through the channel. 

The walls were slick and aged, coated with decades of filth and algae that caught the dim yellow glow of Red Hood’s shoulder light. Every few seconds, a droplet of water fell from the ceiling, creating a soft plink that echoed down the passage like a ticking clock.

“We just keep walking in the direction of the ping you got,” Red Hood replied, his voice casual but laced with focus. “Check for anything out of place—Scarecrow’s goons, hidden doors—”

“—or some evil lair he uses as a secret base,” Robin cut in, his tone was half-serious but a bit too dramatic for the setting.

“A lair?” Red Hood repeated, his voice carrying a hint of mockery that came through even under the mask. He tilted his head toward Damian, a low scoff slipping out.

“What?” Robin asked, instantly picking up on the judgment. He turned slightly, his cape brushing the damp tunnel wall as they continued moving at a steady pace.

“You could’ve just called it his base of operation,” Red Hood replied. “Did you really have to call it a lair? Sounds like something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon.” He shook his head, half amused, half incredulous.

Robin frowned under his mask but didn’t slow his pace. “It’s a secret base he hides and operates from,” he said in a tone that suggested he was trying to sound logical rather than defensive. “Home base, hideout, whatever name you give it—it’s still a lair.”

Red Hood let out a short laugh, the sound muffled by the helmet. He’d seen Damian angry, proud, smug—but never slightly embarrassed, and it was oddly refreshing. He doubted the kid ever showed that nerdy side to anyone else. Maybe not even to his mother.

They continued forward, their lights cutting thin beams through the murky darkness. The tunnel stretched endlessly ahead, pipes rattling softly as water dripped from above. A faint breeze flowed through the space, carrying the distant scent of chemicals—something that didn’t belong in a normal sewer. Red Hood’s steps slowed a little as he scanned the surroundings, his instincts on high alert.

“Y’know,” he muttered after a moment, glancing down the dark path ahead, “if Scarecrow really is hiding out down here, ‘lair’ might not be that far off.”

Robin smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he adjusted his domino mask. “Told you so.”

Red Hood exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. “Don’t get cocky, kid. Let’s just hope your lair theory doesn’t involve us stepping into a gas trap.”

– – –

Nightwing and Batman had wrapped up their end of the operation, but there was still no sign of Scarecrow anywhere. The air around them carried the heavy scent of burnt chemicals and fear toxin residue, faint but unmistakable. Police sirens wailed in the distance, flashing blue and red against the cracked walls of the abandoned building.

The few thugs they’d managed to capture were slumped against the floor, bruised, bloodied, and terrified—yet still tight-lipped. Even with Batman’s methods getting more… persuasive, breaking a finger or two didn’t yield the answers he wanted. It wasn’t just loyalty keeping them quiet; they genuinely had no clue where Scarecrow was hiding.

Batman crouched over one of the unconscious men, his gauntlet pressing against the cold concrete as he studied the faint residue of toxin splattered across the thug’s sleeve. His jaw tightened. 

He straightened abruptly, his cape shifting with the motion, and turned toward the Batmobile parked a few meters away. “Alfred,” his voice came through the comm, low and composed, “track Robin.”

He didn’t hesitate when he said it. He already had one suspicion when Damian had gone off the radar. That could only mean one thing: he’d gone after Scarecrow on his own

“Right away, sir,” Alfred’s calm voice responded, though there was a hint of concern beneath it.

Batman climbed into the Batmobile, the reinforced door sealing shut with a heavy thud. Inside, the faint hum of the engine filled the silence as the dashboard came to life in a glow of blue lights. His fingers tapped impatiently against the console.

Robin thought he was being clever, sneaking out unnoticed, but what he didn’t know was that Batman had installed a micro-tracker inside the belt of his costume since before the day he handed it to him. 

Experience had taught him to prepare for moments exactly like this.

“Got it, sir,” Alfred’s voice came again after a moment’s pause.

“Good. Send me the coordinates—and forward them to Nightwing too. Tell him to rendezvous there.” Batman’s tone left no room for question.

He knew his son. Damian’s pride and impulsiveness were a dangerous combination, especially when mixed with the need to prove himself. Going after Scarecrow solo wasn’t just reckless—it was a suicide run.

The engine growled as he gripped the steering wheel, his expression hardening under the cowl. The city lights reflected faintly off the car’s surface as he accelerated through the narrow alleyway, leaving behind a blur of neon and rain-slick asphalt.

He couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. Damian wouldn’t just wander off—he must have discovered something, a lead too important to ignore. And if that was true, then Scarecrow was likely closer to being cornered than they’d thought.

A small beep drew his attention back to the console. Alfred had sent the coordinates. A digital map appeared on the screen, a blinking red dot marking Robin’s location.

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. He had a bad feeling about this one.

He pressed a button on the console, opening a direct comm line. “Nightwing, I believe you’ve received Robin’s coordinates. He’s gone solo on Scarecrow. Get there fast—I’ll be right behind you.”

“Got it,” came Dick’s quick reply.

The Batmobile raved to life as Batman slammed his foot on the accelerator, the tires screeching against wet pavement. The skyline blurred past him. Every second mattered.

He just hoped—for both their sakes—that he wasn’t too late.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep