Red Hood's Hideout
The concrete groaned under the weight of silence. The hideout reeked of rust, mold, and burnt oil. Morning sunlight barely pierced the ceiling's cracks, casting jagged beams over stacked crates and exposed wires. The air was damp, thick. Hard to breathe for long.
Red Hood strode through the corroded metal corridor. In his hands, a bucket of water. On his back, a gun. In his inner pocket, the syringe.
He stopped at the rusted door.
Turned the handle firmly. Entered.
Arthur lay sprawled on the makeshift cot. His body limp, face still smeared with paint. One eye bruised. Mouth half-open. Breathing heavy.
Red Hood approached. Said nothing.
He took the syringe. Removed the cap. The dark blue liquid inside seemed alive.
He injected it into Arthur's neck with precision. A clean, swift motion.
He pocketed the empty syringe. Grabbed the bucket. Threw.
Cold water hit Arthur's face hard. His body jolted. He choked. Coughed. His eyes snapped open in a dry panic.
Arthur tried to sit up. His hand slipped on the cot. His eyes darted, unfocused.
"Where…?"
Laughter came before the answer. Short. Sharp. Uncontrollable.
Arthur fell sideways, laughing with chattering teeth. His hands trembled. His body sweated. But he laughed. Cried. Then laughed again.
"She was on the floor… and I… and then…"
Red Hood just watched.
Arthur rolled until he hit the wall. His breathing ragged. His shirt clung to his body.
"She loved me. I know she did. But him… that damn millionaire…"
Red Hood spoke for the first time.
"Bruce Wayne."
Arthur froze. His dilated pupils fixed on nothing.
"Bruce… he…"
"He slept with her. Then vanished. Then she died."
Arthur shook.
"It was him… he killed her."
"Of course it was. Bruce takes everything from those who have nothing. Always has."
Arthur clutched his hair.
"I saw her eyes. I saw. She looked at me. But then… then it was him. Just him."
Red Hood crouched before him. His voice firm. Precise.
"You know what to do, Arthur. You don't need orders. You need justice."
Arthur began rocking back and forth. The laughter returned, but weaker.
"I'm not crazy."
"No."
"I was robbed."
"Yes."
Arthur lifted his eyes, now red, teary.
"He has everything. And I… I only had her."
"Then take something from him."
Arthur laughed again. Louder. Then spat on the floor.
"That's it. That's it!"
He stood with effort. His legs wobbled. His shirt soaked at the chest. His gaze lost yet full.
"I'll make him laugh. Like she laughed. When she called me a failure."
Red Hood stood. Walked to the door.
"Tonight. You go to the manor. Inside… pick someone. Do it your way."
Arthur spread his arms wide, laughing like a broken puppet.
"There'll be flowers. Laughter. Fireworks…"
He slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor. Knees bent, body trembling.
"She'll see. From the other side. She'll see I matter."
Red Hood opened the door. Before leaving, he spoke without turning.
"Wear something nice. Gotham's watching."
Arthur cried and laughed. His fingers scratched the floor. His stare fixed on nothing.
Alone, he pressed his forehead to the cold concrete.
"Bruce… I'll make you feel everything I felt."
The laughter resumed. Low. But growing.
And Gotham… woke slowly. Unaware of what was coming.
---
Wayne Manor
The grandfather clock's second hand ticked with rigid precision. Each tick echoed in the study like a reminder of failure. Tall windows let in pale light. Outside, the sky was clear, but the manor remained steeped in unmoving cold.
Bruce stood before the bookshelf. Hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. Eyes fixed on a random book, unread. The stubble and deep circles under his eyes revealed more than he allowed himself to say.
Alfred entered silently, carrying a tray with tea and a bowl of ice.
"I left the bandages on the table. You haven't used them."
"Don't need them."
"Your shoulder disagrees."
Bruce clenched his jaw. Didn't turn.
"He took me down in under two minutes."
"He was trained. You're still learning."
"I've trained my whole life."
"Not for this."
Bruce moved. Picked up a book and put it back without reading the title.
"He killed his own men. Then vanished. No cameras. No trace. Nothing."
Alfred set the tray on the table. The clink of porcelain met the silence but didn't break it.
"Then you need time. To recover physically. To organize mentally."
"I don't have time."
"You'll have to make it."
Bruce turned.
"Gotham won't stop. Neither will he. Every day I stay here, someone out there pays the price."
"Better that than you paying with your life."
"It's not about me."
"But you're the one bleeding."
Bruce stopped by the armchair. His fingers brushed the armrest. The newly closed scar still burned beneath his shirt.
"He didn't kill for pleasure. He killed for a message."
Alfred approached slowly.
"And you think the message was for you?"
"For me. For Gotham. For everyone who thinks they know what justice is."
The clock struck noon with a deep chime.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut.
"He's not just a killer. He has focus. He wants something. And I need to figure out what before it's too late."
Alfred watched for a second.
"You don't have to run alone."
"But I have to run."
Bruce moved to the unlit fireplace. Stared at the cold ash within.
"He beat me. But he won't do it again."
"You don't win by rushing."
Bruce took the teacup. Didn't drink.
"Alfred… I'll get better. Faster. Deeper. Stronger."
Alfred nodded. His voice low.
"Then just tell me what to do."
"Help me not break."
The old butler took a deep breath.
"I'm already doing that."
The fireplace stayed unlit.
But the resolve was ignited.
Bruce glanced at the wall concealing the Batcave's entrance.
"Tonight. New training begins."
Alfred picked up the ice bowl, not pressing further.
"And lunch?"
"Later. Or never."
The clock resumed ticking seconds.
Bruce descended.
---
Paris
Paris's icy wind slipped through the half-open window's gaps. A partial view of the Eiffel Tower glimmered in the distance, masked by reflections on the glass. The scent of lavender lingered in the dark room, warmed only by a radiator barely fending off the cold.
Jason stood by the window. His fingers drummed the sill. Shirt collar open, eyes fixed on the street below.
"I'm going to Smallville tomorrow."
Genevieve crossed her legs. Her hands rested on the armchair's arms. Face calm, but eyes sharp.
"No."
Jason turned his head.
"It's not your choice."
"While you carry the Teague name, everything is my choice."
He walked slowly to the room's center. His steps measured, unhurried.
"I'm not twenty anymore."
"But you still act like you're seventeen."
Genevieve picked up the wine glass from the side table. Swirled the liquid without drinking.
"You'd abandon all this for some ordinary girl from a forgotten town?"
"It's not about her. It's about me."
She raised an eyebrow.
"You're willing to throw away years of planning, privileges, studies… for a feeling?"
"Maybe it's the first real thing I've done in my life."
Genevieve smiled, brief and humorless.
"You refuse to understand what's at stake."
"Then explain."
She stood.
"The Teague lineage isn't just wealth. It's legacy. The crystals, Jason. They're the key. And Smallville… is where it all began."
"I know about the crystals. But that's not why I'm going back."
"You're really pretending this is just about love? That you don't feel the call too?"
Jason narrowed his eyes.
"What do you want the crystals for?"
"To restore what's ours. What was denied us for generations."
"You sound like the queen of some lost dynasty."
Genevieve stepped forward.
"And you sound like a boy blinded by the first woman who looked at you like you were human."
"She loves me for who I am. Not what I have."
"Then go."
She set the glass down.
"But go with what's in your pockets. Because the moment you walk out that door… you get nothing more from this family."
Jason took a deep breath. His hands clenched in his pockets. His gaze steady.
"Fair."
"You'll crawl back in less than six months."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'll find out I don't need you to be someone."
Genevieve approached slowly. Stopped a few steps away. Their height difference didn't lessen her presence.
"You have no idea what you're giving up."
"I do. But this time, I'm the one deciding."
Jason grabbed the suitcase by the sofa. The handle scraped the rug.
Genevieve didn't move.
"She's not worth it."
"She's worth more than this entire room."
He paused at the door.
"And you know what? So am I."
He left.
The door closed with a dry click.
Genevieve stood still. Her hand gripped the ring with the family crest. Her gaze lost in the wine glass.
"So be it."
The wind slipped through the window. The curtain swayed. And the Teague name lost an heir.
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