[Roman Sionis' POV]
Red Hood has been like a stubborn piece of gum welded under the sole of my shoe—no matter how hard I scrape, burn, or drag it against the pavement, it sticks.
He's that one roach that refuses to be crushed, the kind that vanishes when you try to stomp it but pops back up right in the middle of your dinner table with that smug little twitch of its feelers.
I've considered putting a bounty on the bastard's head—hell, I've wanted to for months—but I already paid top dollar for the Fearsome Hand of fucking Four.
They're supposed to be professional assasins, specialists in delivering very final results. They better earn their fucking pay soon, because I'm already losing what little patience I had left… and I was born with about a midget-sized portion to begin with.
So far, we know he's been running this dirty little racket—offering "protection" to certain bottom-feeding scoundrels who still move my product but also pay him a cut.
My own goddamn merchandise, feeding that pig, lining his pockets. And these weasels? They grin in my face while they hand him my money.
But maybe—just maybe—it's not all bad. If I squint, I can see an opportunity in it. If he's touching my supply, then he's reaching into my territory, which means I can bait him.
Not with the same tricks I've used before—those haven't worked. He's slipperier than a bottom-feeding catfish dipped in motor oil. Every time I think I've got a line on him, he's gone before I can even yank the hook.
So now? I'm switching tactics. A better bait. A proper trap. Something that ends with me standing over his body—or what's left of it.
The Hand of Four better do their part and bring him to me. From the very start, my intention was simple; I wanted his head. And because I've had to endure this prolonged irritation, I'd originally thought it poetic to have him alive first—alive so I could make him feel the price of going against me.
I wanted to peel the arrogance off him layer by layer. Cut his tongue out. Mount his helmeted head on a stake right where everyone could see it. A message carved in blood and carcass: This is what happens to cocky bastards who forget who runs this city.
But now? Now nothing would make me happier than seeing him dead in the street.
"Perhaps I was being delicate before," I say, leaning back in my chair and letting the words drip like oil. "I want this man dead."
"When I say dead," I go on, jabbing a finger at Ms. Li like the tip of a blade, "I mean dead dead. Beaten, broken—brain matter gushing out his head, kind of dead."
Li, standing on the other side of my desk, doesn't flinch. Her expression is cool, unreadable, but there's a flicker in her eyes that tells me she knows I'm not exaggerating.
"Understood. We'll be taking further precautions at every transaction—" she begins.
I wave her words away like cigarette smoke I can't be bothered with. "Forget that. We're done playing defense—now we go on the attack. He wants a game? Fine. We play dirty. Hit his operations hard, make it ugly enough that he's forced to crawl out of his hole to stop us. And when he does…" I let a thin smile creep in. "…we'll have a party ready just for him."
Li's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile. "Understood."
"Good. Those guns you lined up? I want the best, and I want them in place before the week's out. And make sure their delivery is cleaner than the last batch." My voice hardens as I lean forward, eyes locked on hers. "Now… get to it."
She nods once, smooth and sharp, and turns to leave. My office door closes behind her with a soft click, but the air still feels heavy—like the smell of gasoline just before the match drops.
This time, Red Hood won't slip away.
- - -
That evening, the eastern district was alive in the way only a Friday night in Gotham could be. The low hum of conversation, the clink of glassware, the occasional burst of laughter — all blending into the warm haze of neon lights spilling across rain-slick streets. Inside one of the district's bars, men and women unwound over drinks, letting the music and dim amber glow soothe the stress of the day. It was the kind of night that should've stayed peaceful.
It didn't.
Without warning, engines roared in the distance, growing louder, meaner—until a black vehicle plowed through the bar's glass entrance in a screech of tires and a shower of broken shards. Black Mask's men spilled inside in a surge of boots, leather, and cold metal. The music died instantly. Fear replaced laughter as they shot at the place, taking down the security before they could even make a move.
One of the armed men—tall, shoulders squared, a predator's walk—headed straight for the bar. The bartender, frozen mid-polish of a glass, tried to stand his ground despite the tremor in his voice.
"You can't do this," he said, eyes flicking between the barrel of the man's gun and the chaos unfolding behind him.
The thug didn't slow. He grabbed the bartender by the collar, yanking him over the counter and slamming him to the floor with bone-jarring force. Without breaking eye contact, he snatched a bottle from the counter, smashed it across his knee with a sharp crack, and let the jagged edges glint under the flickering overhead light.
"And why not?" His tone was almost amused.
The bartender's wince came with a stifled cry. "Be… cause we're protected by the Red Hood."
The thug's grin widened. "We're counting on that. Now—where's your boss?"
"I have no idea where he might—"
The gun's handle cracked against his cheek, splitting skin, drawing blood. A click followed as the weapon's hammer was cocked.
"I swear," the bartender stammered, blood pooling at his lip, "I don't know. But I think he's in his office upstairs."
"See? That wasn't so hard." Another blow to the head—this one heavy enough to drop him into unconsciousness, and the man gestured for three of his crew to follow.
They took the stairs two at a time, stopping before Raymond's office door. It didn't open. A shove confirmed it jammed or blocked. Two men stepped forward, stomping hard in unison. The door gave halfway, revealing a desk wedged behind it. They forced it further, but the room was empty.
"He ain't here," one called.
The leader crossed to the window. Cloths knotted into a makeshift rope dangled outside. His gaze followed it down, catching sight of a man in a suit sprinting toward a parked car.
"The bastard went out the window— heading for his car!"
Without hesitation, the thug swung a leg over the sill and slid down the rope, leather gloves burning faintly against the fabric. The others followed, boots thudding against the wet pavement.
The leader already had his phone to his ear. "Charle, bring the van around the back. Now."
They gave chase, calling out half-hearted threats. "Stop running or you'll get shot!" No one pulled a trigger—not yet. Too many witnesses beyond the current one at the bar could mean cops, and cops meant trouble.
Raymond, panic etched across his face, reached his car and shoved the key into the ignition. His hands shook but he fired a round through the window toward his pursuers. The pop of gunfire tore through the night, shattering the uneasy restraint of silence.
Return shots whistled past as he ducked low, jamming the gas pedal. But as he rounded the corner, a van slammed into his car's side with a brutal crunch of metal.
The impact threw him forward into the steering wheel. Airbags exploded, the acrid smell of propellant filling the cabin. His vision swam, a warm trickle of blood running from his hairline.
The engine coughed and failed.
A window rolled down. The getaway driver leaned out with a gun trained on him. Footsteps pounded closer as the rest of the crew closed in, weapons ready.
"Drop your weapon," the leader barked, the muzzle of his pistol steady.
"You heard him," another thug added. "Hands in the air."
"And get out of the car. Slowly," a third chimed in.
Raymond blinked at them, deadpan even through the pain. "Which is it? Drop the gun, hands up, or step out? I'm not great at multi-tasking."
One thug sneered, pressing cold steel to Raymond's temple. "Motherfucker, you think you're funny?"
The car door opened. Raymond's gun was snatched from his grip, followed by a vicious blow to the back of his head that made the world blur again. A kick to the back of his knee dropped him to the pavement.
"You have your orders. Put him in the van. Rough him up nice and good," the leader ordered, walking away without so much as a glance back.
They dragged him by the arms, tossing him into the van like a sack. One thug admired his watch. "Nice piece."
"Looks expensive," another said, unclasping Raymond's gold chain and watch.
"That's because it is," Raymond shot back, though his defiance earned him another smack from a gun barrel, splitting his lip wider.
They stripped him down to his underwear, hauling him to a desolate, open lot that smelled faintly of oil and rust. The ground was hard-packed dirt, the silence broken only by the faint drip of water from somewhere unseen.
They shoved him from the van, sending him sprawling. His wrist hit wrong — a sharp jolt of agony made him hiss through clenched teeth.
"You sons of bitches," he spat, rage in his eyes.
The words were mocked back at him before the first kick landed. They pummeled him—fists, boots, laughter sharp in the cold air.
"Do you know who I am?" Raymond managed between blows, voice still carrying a shred of authority.
"Of course we do," one replied, slamming a punch into his gut. "You're Raymond Lemieux, king of the local drug trade." A boot followed, snapping his head to the side.
"I am the drug trade," Raymond growled.
"You're cocky, I'll give you that." One thug fetched a gallon of petrol from a stash nearby.
Raymond's eyes narrowed. "If you know who I am, you know who's got my back."
"Oh, we know. And he pissed off someone with a lot of power." A smile stretched across the man's face. "We want you to pass along a message."
The cap twisted off the gallon. The reek of gasoline hit hard as it splashed over Raymond's skin, soaking him in icy wetness.
"No—stop! I can pay you! Whatever you want!" His words were frantic now, but ignored.
Death by fire was one of the most excruciating ways to go out, and Raymond wasn't a fan of being cooked medium rare or crispy. Probably burnt to his bones.
A lighter clicked open. The flame danced in the dark. "Say your prayers," the thug said, eyes glinting.
Raymond's breath came fast. "Don't. Please."
"Tell Red Hood Black Mask said hi when you see him in hell." The lighter arced lazily into the air.
Two gunshots cracked, sharp and close. The lighter clattered to the ground, unlit. One thug collapsed, a red mist where his skull had been.
The second froze. A heavy thud landed on the van's roof—boots, solid and certain.
"If you prayed, I guess God sent me to save your ass, Ray-Ray," a voice drawled through the modulated filter of the Red Hood's helmet.
Raymond exhaled shakily, relief flooding his expression.
Red Hood looked past him to the remaining thug. "I hear you've got a message for me."
The man didn't answer. Fear etched in his eyes as he took off and ran. A glance at the van's driver—slumped over with a bullet hole in his temple—made his legs churn faster.
Red Hood hopped down, ready to chase him, maybe drag him back for Raymond's revenge. But a voice cut through the night.
"You already know the message. We're here to deliver it."
He turned—and was met with movement. A slim, armored figure, grey plating gleaming, looking like Cyrax from Mortal Kombat without his dreadlock of cables, he slid in like a phantom and kicked him hard enough to launch him onto the van's hood.
Three more dropped in. One carried twin glowing swords, half her face masked, eyes sharp with intent. Another spun a staff with crackling ends. The last was massive, empty-handed, his bulk promising raw mechanical strength.
The Fearsome Hand of Four. All wearing suits of armor which enhanced their strength and movements.
"You'd better get out of here, Ray," Red Hood called.
Raymond didn't hesitate. He ran.
"I guess your boss finally noticed me," Red Hood said, tilting his head in defiance. "If he's sending you four, he really wants me gone."
The smirk was invisible under the helmet — but they could feel it.
Then they charged.