She gazed into his eyes, searching for something, maybe a sliver of his nature, a clue to the kind of man he was. They weren't cold, yet they didn't feel warm either. Just… hollow.
But not in the empty kind of way—more like a well, dark and deep, where you couldn't tell how far down it went. Something about them pulled you in and shut you out all at once.
She couldn't read him—not one bit. And that irritated her just slightly. So, she did the next best thing; she engaged. People had a way of revealing themselves when they talked, even when they thought they weren't saying much.
"That's quite a bold statement," she said finally, tilting her glass before taking a slow sip, letting the burn settle on her tongue. Her eyes flicked up toward the white streak in his otherwise dark hair, shifting the conversation in his direction without bothering to answer his earlier question.
"Wasn't by choice," he replied simply, eyes meeting hers without a trace of flirtation or curiosity. Not once did his gaze drift to the modest peek of cleavage beneath her emerald-pendant necklace. Most men would've looked. Not him.
"Were you forced into dyeing it?" she asked with cool detachment, a touch of playful indifference in her tone.
"Not exactly." He leaned back slightly, elbows resting casually on the bar counter. "Woke up from hell one day and saw it in the mirror while taking a bath. A souvenir… of that experience."
She watched him closely. It wasn't a joke. It was in his posture—relaxed but guarded—in his voice, firm but tired, and especially in his eyes, those quiet storm clouds.
"That's quite the use of metaphors," she murmured, taking another sip and adjusting her glasses, the corner of her mouth twitching at the edges in something that might have been interesting.
Jason didn't respond. He let the silence sit there, weightless but deliberate. The bar had thinned out, and the late-night jazz humming from the old speaker above them gave the place a soft, dreamlike quality.
Light bounced off the rows of half-filled bottles behind the counter, casting reflections that rippled across the wall like ghosts.
She finally broke the silence.
"So tell me, Randy. What kind of man are you?"
"I can't say." He looked thoughtful, his eyes drifting toward the scratched-up countertop as though the answer might be etched into the wood grain. "I'm… me."
"That's a new one," she replied dryly, eyebrow arching as she tilted her glass in his direction. "You sure you're not just some psychopath?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, more curious than offended.
"Never mind," she said quickly, unsure how to explain the comment, or maybe just unwilling to try. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and looked away, suddenly too aware of her own transparency.
A quiet moment passed.
"I'll be taking my leave now. I've got work in the morning," she said, glancing toward the old wall clock hanging above the exit. It was nearing 2:30 a.m.
"I see. Well, it was nice conversing with you," he added.
That caught her off guard. Men rarely said that to her. Most found her boring or difficult to read. She didn't do small talk, didn't fake laughter, and never leaned into the expectations her looks created.
But he didn't seem to care about any of that.
"Have a good night, then," she said, finishing the last of her whiskey with a quiet gulp.
"It's past midnight in Gotham City," she added a moment later, her voice edged with something almost playful. "A gentleman would see me off. At least to the car."
Jason smirked lightly, but didn't move.
"You look like you can handle yourself around these parts."
"Oh?" she said, raising a brow. "And what makes you think that?"
"Because you wouldn't be here, drinking so comfortably, if you couldn't."
He said it as a matter of fact, without a hint of flattery or sarcasm. Just observation.
Most men would've jumped at the chance to offer her a ride, ask for her number, or awkwardly hint at taking things further. But this guy… he was just chill. Unbothered. Present. He made her feel like a person, not a prize. And that—it felt strange. Disarming.
"You're quite interesting," she said, grabbing her suit jacket from the back of her bar stool and slipping into it. "Maybe next time, you could tell me more about that 'hell' metaphor you dropped earlier."
"Cheers to that," Jason said, lifting his glass in a slow, effortless gesture of farewell.
She turned and headed toward the door. Outside, her black car was already waiting, engine idling quietly under the streetlamp. Her driver stood by, opening the door the moment she stepped outside.
Back inside, Tony the bartender finished drying a glass and glanced toward Jason, who was still seated.
"Damn," he muttered. "That's the most I've seen her talk to anyone."
"Really?" Jason said, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "You know who she is?"
Tony shook his head. "Hell if I know. She's not one to talk about herself."
Jason said nothing in return, eyes flicking toward the door she'd just walked out of.
If only Tony knew—Ms. Li was far more than she appeared. Efficient, composed, and fiercely loyal. She wasn't just some pretty face at the bar as most might thing, she was Roman Sionis' personal secretary. The inner circle. Trusted. Dangerous in her own right.
Jason slid a few bills onto the counter to cover his drinks and gave Tony a polite nod.
"I'll be on my way then."
He pushed away from the bar, stepping out into the cool Gotham night. The streets were quiet now, damp with leftover rain and the promise of something always lurking. He mounted his matte black dirt bike, revved the engine with a low growl, and tore off into the city, disappearing into the shadows like he belonged there.
Because maybe he did.
- - -
[Jason Todd's POV]
Li Xinyue.
Who the hell would've thought I'd run into her at that bar. Gotham's got a way of throwing people in your path when you least expect it.
Then again, it made a kind of sense—yeah, that place was just a few blocks from Janus Tower. I've stopped by there more than once after long nights running recon on Black Mask's operations, grabbing a drink and watching the scum of the city wash in and out like dirty tidewater.
Still, seeing her there—alone, sipping whiskey like she owned the place, that was unexpected.
She was damn sexy. No other way to put it. Not in a loud, flashy way, nothing desperate or cheap about her.
It was her posture, her presence, her control of the space around her. Like the real definition of what a secretary should look like—cool, clean lines, killer looks, and eyes that missed nothing.
Wouldn't shock me if Roman was hitting that on the side. I mean, I wouldn't blame him. You've got a woman that capable, that loyal, that tight to your operation? It'd be more surprising if nothing had happened between them.
Loyalty like that… it has a way of turning personal. Lines blur. Proximity becomes temptation. That kind of trust doesn't stay professional forever—not in this city.
But Li's more than eye candy behind a desk.
She's not just an assistant, not just a secretary with a good poker face. She's the damn backbone of Roman's empire. The hidden gear that turns the whole machine.
Every single deal, arms trades, dirty contracts, black market tech shipments, even off-the-books metahuman muscle—goes through her first.
Nothing gets to Roman without crossing her desk. She filters intel, routes resources, diffuses threats before they escalate. And when Roman's temper flares—which is pretty much every other hour, she's the one who steps in, smooths things over, speaks with enough calm and precision to salvage whatever negotiation he's about to blow up.
She's not just his voice—sometimes she is his mind.
And she watches his own people too.
Hell, she probably knows more about Roman's crew than Roman himself does. She runs surveillance on his lieutenants, scrubs data, tracks anomalies in behavior.
If there's a mole in the ranks, she's the one who sniffs them out before the blood hits the floor. Half of those bastards don't even realize they're being monitored. Some probably think they answer to Roman—truth is, they're feeding everything to her.
She manages the blackmail vault too. Psychological profiles, criminal records, hidden leverage. She's got files on every key player in the game—who they love, what they fear, who they'd kill, what they'd die for. Roman has the muscle, but Li? She's the scalpel.
And when the sun comes up?
She's walking the clean side of the street. CEO of Janus Cosmetics, which is used as a cover for his criminal activities, including smuggling and organized crime.
The name 'Janus' is fitting, as it references the two-faced Roman god, symbolizing the company's dual nature-legitimate on the surface but corrupt underneath.
Li shows up in business journals and charity galas, dressed in thousand-dollar power suits, shaking hands with the city's elite. She's the public face of Roman's blood-stained empire—smiling for the cameras while smuggling death through the docks. Makes it look effortless.
She's damn near untouchable.
And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about what she could do for me.
When I take down Roman—and I will—someone needs to take over his piece of Gotham's underworld.
Can't have chaos. Can't have desperate lieutenants scrambling for control and spilling innocent blood in the streets. I've got a vision for this city—order, control, structure.
Someone's gotta keep the territory in check while I reshape the system. She's perfect for that role. Smart, efficient, brutal when she needs to be.
Only problem? She might be loyal enough to go down with him. The kind that burns in the same fire as the man she serves, even when she knows the flames are coming.
Guess I'll have to wait and see.
Either way, I've got bigger things to handle right now. Too much on my plate.
Like Black Mask's latest shipment. It's coming in tomorrow night—fire arms, probably some illegal tech. Big one. And he has already staged a false drop point for probably Batman and his crew.
With any luck, the Bat and his merry band of self-righteous lunatics will waste the night chasing shadows while I intercept the real goods.
Bruce has been sniffing too close to Roman's business lately. Must've figured out something… or maybe he's finally cluing into my unwilling past with that freak Joker. Tch. The less I think about that son of a bitch, the better.
But if Bruce starts putting two and two together…
Whatever. I'll handle it.
It's due time he learns my identity.
I need to get my gear prepped, weapons locked and loaded. Gotham doesn't hand out wins—you've gotta carve them out with blood, grit, and a little bit of madness.
Time to get my head in the game.
- - -
[At The Batcave – An Hour Before the Designated Time]
The Batcave buzzed with low, mechanical hums. Dozens of monitors flickered across the main terminal, casting sharp glows against the stone walls and the polished black armor of the Batman suit.
The rhythmic clicking of keys echoed through the cavernous space, occasionally interrupted by the distant flutter of bats disturbed in the shadows overhead.
Dick Grayson stood beside the Batcomputer, fully geared in his Nightwing suit, the bold blue symbol stretched across his chest. He leaned casually against the console, arms crossed, but his sharp eyes never left the screen. He still carried that natural confidence—relaxed on the surface, but focused beneath.
"You sure he won't take the bait? If Black Mask changed the drop point to try and double-cross him, wouldn't Red Hood catch on?" Dick asked, watching the tracking data scroll across the screen.
Batman remained silent for a moment, eyes locked on the real-time satellite feed of Gotham's bay. His cape draped over one shoulder, the edges gently brushing the metal floor as he shifted forward.
"That was a clever move on Roman's part," he finally replied. "But if Red Hood were that easy to outmaneuver, we'd have brought him in already. No… he's too sharp for that. He'll stick to the original location."
"Then that means we've got him," Dick said, pushing off the console to tighten the straps on his gauntlets. "Tonight might finally be the night this whole Red Hood mystery ends."
Batman didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the screen, brows furrowed. There was a weight behind his silence, something deeper gnawing at him beneath the surface.
Dick picked up on it instantly.
"You're thinking about something else," he said, his tone dropping into something more serious. "What's wrong?"
Bruce's jaw tensed slightly. His fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn't type.
"The drop's scheduled to take place on a freighter. Open waters. If we confront him out there, he'll have an escape plan already in place. Maybe a second boat hidden from view, maybe underwater routes, maybe worse. I'm trying to figure out the most likely contingency he'd plan for."
Dick walked closer, now standing shoulder to shoulder with him. "You think he's going to slip away again?"
"If he does, it won't be because he's careless," Bruce muttered. "He's calculating. He's been a step ahead so far."
Dick shrugged, trying to lighten the tension. "He's good. But no one's perfect. Even he can't prepare for everything."
Bruce remained quiet, but something about the way his hands tightened at the console gave away his unease. His mind wasn't just on the drop.
It was on the man behind the mask.
"He wears a bat symbol," Bruce said at last, voice low and clipped. "He's not just out there killing criminals. He's wearing our symbol. That's not an accident."
"Yeah, I noticed that too," Dick said. "Pretty bold, considering he's breaking your one rule."
"It's not just that," Bruce continued, his eyes narrowing. "He's taunting us. But it's more than that—he knows things. Things only someone close to me would know. At the factory… when I saw him—"
Bruce trailed off, jaw flexing as the memory flickered back. That night at the ACE Chemicals site had shaken something in him. Seeing the symbol. Hearing his voice. That strange, heavy familiarity with the traumatic recall.
"I didn't push him for answers," Bruce admitted. "I was too caught up in everything else—Joker's origins, the symbolism of the place. But now… the more I think about it, the more it doesn't add up."
"He's wearing the bat. That means something," Dick said, arms folded, now fully serious. "He could've picked anything—any identity. But he chose this one. That doesn't scream random vigilante to me."
"No, it doesn't," Bruce agreed. "And that's why I can't shake the feeling that he knows exactly what we're going to do tonight. That he's already anticipated it."
"You thinking he laid a trap?"
"I'm thinking… he's not just some rogue playing dress-up. I'm thinking he might be trying to become more than Batman. To redefine what we stand for… on his own terms."
Dick exhaled slowly, the usual light sarcasm gone from his face now. "And by more, you mean—crossing the line."
Bruce nodded once, slowly. "Killing. He does what we won't. That's how he thinks he's making a difference."
For a few seconds, silence settled over them again. Only the low beeping from the console filled the air.
"Okay," Dick said finally, with that familiar flicker of determination. "Then we find out who he really is. And if he thinks he's worthy of that symbol—he better be ready to prove it."
Bruce turned slightly to face him. "Stay sharp. He's dangerous. And smart. But tonight, we end this."
Dick gave a short nod, rolling his shoulders to loosen up. "I've got your back, always."
Batman looked away from the screens, finally letting his eyes rest on his first protégé—not just as an ally, but as a son. No words needed.
Together, they turned toward the Batwing, the looming jet prepped and ready on the platform.
Tonight, they would face the man who wore their symbol.
And find out exactly why.
- - -
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