The night was thick with fog and the scent of smoke—standard Gotham weather. Streetlights below flickered like they were nervous, and distant sirens echoed through alleyways like some broken citywide lullaby.
Up on a rooftop overlooking the East End, Jim Gordon lit a cigarette with a flick of his Zippo. The flame briefly lit up his weathered face and tired eyes. His trench coat flapped a little in the wind, though the man wearing it didn't flinch. He was used to nights like this. Far too used to them.
"Found anything on Gotham's new pain in the ass?" he asked, blowing out smoke, his voice worn and scratchy.
Batman stood near the edge of the rooftop, cape flowing like it had a mind of its own. He turned slightly, his silhouette sharp against the dark skyline.
"Been busy the last couple weeks. Still nothing solid on him," Batman replied, tone as flat as ever.
Gordon let out a dry exhale, half sigh, half smoke. "Yeah, GCPD's about ready to snap. Between this stupid turf war between the Falcone and Bertinelli crews, and the bodies piling up? We're playing catch-up every damn day. These guys don't care where they fight anymore. Grocery stores, street corners, playgrounds."
He took another drag, shook his head. "Used to be people just claimed the Red Hood name for small-time jobs—robbing banks, boosting trucks. Kids with guns trying to act like legends."
"None of them ever murdered anyone," Batman said, glancing at Gordon's way. "Not like this."
"Right," Gordon muttered. "This guy's different. Real quiet, real vicious. So what's the deal with these families going at each other's throats? We've been trying to keep it off the streets, but innocent people are getting caught in the middle."
"I talked to some of their top guys a few nights back," Batman said. "They clammed up. Didn't say a word about what sparked this. Just stared me down like they thought I was bluffing."
"You tell 'em to cut the crap?" Gordon asked.
"I told them if they didn't get a grip, things would get worse. A lot worse."
Gordon nodded slowly, not saying anything for a second. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and said, "And of course, every time we bring someone in—doesn't matter which family they're with—they're back on the street by the end of the week. Bail money never seems to run dry for these guys."
"Just focus on keeping people alive," Batman said. "I'll take care of the Red Hood situation."
Gordon let out a breath and looked down at the streetlights flickering far below. "All of this started with the Bertinelli case. If we can figure out what really happened that night, we might get a lead on what Red Hood's after. Figure out why he's doing this."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photo, handing it over.
"Take a look at this," he said.
Batman took it, holding it in the dim rooftop light. The photo was grim. A man—mid-thirties, heavyset—was taped to the hood of a car. A crowbar jutted from his chest like a gruesome hood ornament, blood soaked into the windshield and pooling across the hood.
"That's Troy Rusk," Gordon said. "Did time for armed robbery back in the day. Got out, went quiet, then turned up working muscle for Black Mask."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl. He studied the angle of the body, the placement of the crowbar, the way the blood had dried in streaks. It wasn't random.
"This wasn't just a hit," he said. "It was personal. Designed to send a message."
Gordon blinked. "You think it was a statement?"
"Yeah. This guy wasn't the target—he was the warning. A message for whoever he worked for."
Gordon's brow furrowed. "So... for Sionis."
Batman nodded. "Looks like Black Mask just got pulled into this mess."
Gordon gave a dry chuckle. "Well, that's just perfect. Maybe it's time you dropped in on our favorite psycho in a suit."
"I will," Batman said, turning toward the ledge. He paused, just before stepping off.
"How's your daughter?"
The question caught Gordon off guard. He stared at Batman's back for a second before answering, voice quieter than before.
"She's… she's alright. As alright as someone in her situation can be. The therapy's helped. She's laughing again, smiling more. Still got a long road ahead, but she's… her old self, a little."
He hesitated, flicked ash off his cigarette. "Wheelchair's permanent though. That's not changing."
Batman gave a small nod, not turning back. "Be safe out there. She needs you. You're all she's got."
Then, like always, he was gone. One second standing on the ledge, the next—just a flap of cape disappearing into the Gotham night.
Gordon stood there for a few seconds longer, cigarette burning low in his hand, wind pushing the collar of his coat up around his neck. The city below groaned and churned with unrest. He crushed the cigarette underfoot.
"I will," he muttered to no one in particular.
The shadows didn't answer. They never did.
- - -
[Gotham's West Industrial District – Black Mask's Safehouse]
The wind howled through broken windows and rusted scaffolding, rattling loose metal signs and stirring the acrid stink of burnt gunpowder. Gotham's West Industrial was a dead zone.
Abandoned warehouses. Forgotten factories. The kind of place where no one noticed if a shootout broke out or a body got dumped.
Inside one of the larger warehouses, Roman Sionis—better known as Black Mask—stood behind a long steel table, going over blueprints and shipment manifests. Around him were half a dozen armed men, all twitchy and geared up like they were prepping for a war.
Because they were.
"What the hell is this?" Roman snapped, slamming his palm against the papers.
"Someone killed Troy like he was some goddamn billboard!"
He was seething, his black wooden mask hiding most of the fury—but his voice was pure venom. The room smelled of cigars and gun oil, tension thick in the air.
Suddenly, the power cut out. A heavy thunk echoed through the dark.
Then a scream.
And a body hit the floor.
The guards raised their rifles, spinning in circles, shouting over one another.
"Shut up!" Roman barked.
Something moved in the rafters—just a flicker. Then another body dropped, thudding hard onto the concrete.
The third man didn't even get to shout before he vanished into the shadows above, his scream cut short with a crunch.
Roman pulled his pistol, fury boiling into panic. "Show yourself, you coward freak!"
And then he did.
Batman landed silently between Roman and the remaining guards, rising from the crouch like death itself in a cape. The guards fired—reflex, not strategy. Batman moved like smoke and violence. Two guards were down before they hit the trigger a second time.
Roman stumbled back, gun shaking.
"Wait—hold on—this wasn't me!" Roman yelled, sweat soaking his collar.
Batman stalked forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him onto the table, scattering maps and documents.
"Troy Rusk," Batman growled. "He was yours. Now he's a corpse with a message pinned to his chest."
Roman coughed, squirming. "I didn't order that! Hell, I liked Troy! This wasn't one of my hits!"
"Then who?" Batman pressed harder.
Roman wheezed. "I don't know! We've been taking hits on our supply lines too—someone's targeting us all! Your guess is as good as mine!"
Batman leaned in close. "You're on someone's list. Figure out why, or you'll be next. And when that happens…"
He let go and turned, already melting into the darkness.
"…you'll wish it was me who came for you."
He could have easily told Batman it was Red Hood, but he didn't trust Batman even the slightest to do so. Especially after hearing that Red Hood also wears the bat symbol.
- - -
[Across from the Warehouse – Rooftop Perch]
Jason Todd crouched in the shadows of a rooftop billboard, helmet off, the cool wind running through his hair. He watched through the scope of a high-powered rifle—not loaded, just observation mode—as Batman vanished into the shadows of Roman's safehouse.
Jason's lips curled into a smirk.
"Well. He's moving faster than I thought." Behind him, the wind picked up, tugging at his jacket. He stood, holstering the rifle and slinging his helmet back on with a soft hiss.
Red Hood's voice filtered through the helmet's comms; "Roman'll panic. He'll lash out. And then he'll give me what I want."
Jason walked toward the rooftop exit, stepping over a tied-up goon who'd tried to ambush him earlier. The guy was duct-taped to a vent, shivering from the broken nose and fear.
Jason stopped beside him.
"Tell your boss that the storm's just starting. And I haven't even gotten personal yet." He tossed the crowbar down beside the guy.
Just to send a message.
- - -
[Two Night's Later At The Docks]
The docks were quiet—too quiet. Just the sea lapping against the rust-stained piers and the occasional clank of metal shifting in the night.
Containers were stacked high like crooked buildings, casting long shadows in the pale dock lights. It smelled like salt, oil, and rust. The kind of place that didn't ask questions and forgot what it saw.
Then came the truck.
A black transport roared through the loading zone, engine howling like it was being chased by death itself. It fishtailed hard around a turn, tires screeching, rubber burning on concrete.
Inside the truck, three guys were losing their damn minds.
"Go, go, go—get us the fuck outta here!" the guy in the passenger seat yelled, white-knuckling the dash.
"I'm going, man! I'm going!" the driver snapped, jerking the wheel like his life depended on it. "Where the hell are Kanan and Riley?! They were behind us!"
"Screw them! We've gotta move or we're dead too!" said the guy in the back, looking over his shoulder like something was crawling up their spine.
"I don't see him," the passenger muttered, eyes darting to the side mirror. "Think we lost him?"
The driver squinted, almost too scared to believe it. "You sure?"
A beat passed. The backseat guy leaned forward and gave a shaky nod. "Yeah... I think you lost—"
THUD.
Something heavy slammed onto the hood of the truck. Hard.
All three screamed like their souls tried to jump out of their bodies.
A flash of movement—Robin crouched on the hood, cape flaring behind him, sword in hand. Without hesitation, he stabbed it straight through the windshield and into the steering column.
The wheel locked.
"Shit! It's him! It's Robin!" the driver shouted, swerving like crazy but getting no response from the wheel.
The others fumbled for their guns, shooting through the windshield. But Robin was already gone—vanished into the dark like a ghost in red and black.
Then came the batarangs.
Two sharp slices through the air—whip, whip—and the front and rear tires blew out in unison.
The truck swerved hard, spinning sideways before crashing into a stack of crates. Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. Something heavy slammed to the ground in the back, a steel container skidding out the back and hissing like it had just been popped open.
Batman dropped in like a guillotine blade from the shadows.
He landed beside the truck and yanked the dazed driver through the shattered window like a ragdoll, slamming him against the nearest shipping crate.
"Who are you working for?" Batman growled.
"N-No one! It's just us, man, I swear—" Robin landed beside them, flicking the oil off his sword as he walked up.
"Lie again, and I'm turning your kneecaps into gravel," he said calmly, eyes sharp behind the domino mask.
"I'm telling the truth! I swear on—!" The sharp hiss from the metal crate cut him off.
They turned just in time to see something crawl out of the container.
It stood upright—tall, lean, orange-skinned with pointed ears and black skin-tight material clinging to its frame. It looked almost human..but not quite. The way it moved was too clean. Too smooth. Eyes too empty and glowing red.
"What the hell is that?" the driver wheezed.
Batman didn't blink. "Your cargo." Robin stared at the thing, visibly thrown. "Okay, seriously, what is that?"
"Its name is Amazo." Batman replied.