[Jason Todd's POV]
After his dramatic exit, Jason found himself hunched over a cracked mirror, shirtless, needle in hand, patching himself up like he'd done a hundred times before. The mirror was propped awkwardly against a stack of crates, its edges stained with fingerprints and dust.
A single bulb overhead hummed and flickered, throwing harsh, uneven light over the room, making his reflection blur and sharpen with each twitch of the filament.
He threaded the curved needle into the split flesh along his torso, his movements steady, almost clinical. The gash pulled tight under the stitch, red skin puckering as he worked it closed. Blood welled at the edges, but Jason ignored it.
His expression didn't change, jaw set, eyes flat with focus. When he finished tying off the last knot, he moved seamlessly to the cut at his right shoulder, pulling the thread through with that same mechanical rhythm.
"Good strategy, Roman," Jason muttered under his breath, the words carrying no real admiration. His lips curled faintly, humorless, the kind of smirk that meant he saw the move for what it was; desperate. He clamped the thread with his teeth, tugged it tight, then sliced it clean with a blade. "Poor execution, though."
The sting of disinfectant burned across the stitched wounds as he dabbed with cotton, but Jason didn't flinch. Pain didn't bother him anymore—not the sharp burn of alcohol, not the slow throb of torn muscle.
The League of Assassins had stripped that weakness from him long ago. Pain was a constant in their training halls, not just tolerated but weaponized.
Every sparring match ended in cuts, bruises, broken bones. Blades sang past his throat, arrows carved across his arms, and if he failed to block, he bled. No medics, neither did they express sympathy. Just the expectation to stand back up and return to formation. Compared to that, Roman's "ambush" was child's play. A scratch.
He rolled gauze tight around his torso, layering it firmly across his stitched flesh, then pulled a black shirt off the chair. He slid it on with ease, letting the fabric settle over the bandages. The ache remained, sharp in flashes when he moved his arm too far, but Jason carried it without pause. Pain was his shadow, but it never slowed him.
At the table, he picked up a burner phone. The cheap thing felt fragile in his hand, it was the kind of device you could snap in half if you squeezed hard enough. He dialed a number without hesitation, leaning back into the chair, posture relaxed. His tone when the line clicked was calm, detached, like he wasn't sitting there bleeding under a dim bulb.
"Who the fuck is this?" came the irritated voice on the other end.
Jason's answer was smooth, dismissive, carrying authority in its casualness. "Being that your dealings with Black Mask as your supplier have officially come to an end, you're going to need a replacement. We can't have you out here dry, now can we—Ray Ray?" He didn't bother with introductions. Power was in skipping steps, in forcing the other man to play catch-up.
There was silence, not of confusion, but recognition. Raymond knew exactly who was calling.
"No. And it's tough getting product with good quality at a decent price here in Gotham," Raymond admitted at last. His voice dropped, carrying frustration and a trace of worry.
"Any ideas for a replacement?" Jason asked, his tone smooth, suggestive, like he already had the answer tucked away.
"No, I don't."
"Okay. I'll set up a meeting and call you soon. Stay ready." Jason cut the line before Raymond could add anything, the abrupt end punctuating his control over the conversation.
The phone clacked onto the table. Another step complete. Another thread pulled from Roman's empire. Jason leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes lingering on the faint reflection in the mirror across the room.
This was the war Black Mask never understood. Roman pictured attacks, assassins, bullets in the dark—quick, loud plays. But Jason was carving him apart in silence, pulling away his network one piece at a time.
Roman was bleeding and didn't even know how deep the cuts ran. Jason could almost see him now, pacing behind the tall windows of his office, mask tilted, paranoia chewing him alive. Always looking over his shoulder, never sure if tonight was the night Red Hood would finally show up to finish the job.
Jason smirked faintly.
He flexed his shoulder, testing the stitches. They pulled tight, a line of fire across the muscle, but he welcomed the reminder. Pain was proof of survival.
To Jason, pain was the memory of endurance. It was the difference between the boy who once died in a warehouse and the man now tearing Black Mask's empire apart.
His gaze hardened on the mirror. The Red Hood stared back. The war wasn't about bullets or blades anymore—it was about pressure, patience, and precision. And Roman was already cracking.
- - -
[Damian Wayne's POV]
If not for the fact that the decoy in the coffin had been crafted to look exactly like Jason, down to the scar patterns and bone structure, I might never have believed it was truly my brother who had returned. My brother who now walked the streets of Gotham as the Red Hood.
Yes, his fighting style carried familiar echoes of Jason—his agility, the stance, the way he moved into a strike that night during the chase. But his speed… that was new. Jason never had that kind of speed before. According to father, not when he was Robin.
And definitely not when he trained with grandfather. This was something else, it unsettled me more than I'd like to admit.
The manor has been gloomy all week, the air thick with silence. Father has been brooding in his study more than usual, his presence heavier, while Pennyworth moves quietly through the halls as if afraid the wrong sound might collapse the fragile walls of grief we've all built.
They're mourning him again—mourning Jason. Or maybe mourning what he's become. Yet still, no hard evidence tied him definitively to the Red Hood. Not until tonight.
Father returned from patrol already, though he insisted I stay inside the manor. Pennyworth enforced that command with irritating diligence. I don't know why Father didn't want me out in Gotham tonight, but I would have to ask him directly. I could disobey, of course. I am my own man, not a child to be caged. But—for reasons I can't entirely explain—I choose to remain on Pennyworth's good side.
When I descended into the Batcave, I could already hear Father and Pennyworth speaking. Their voices were low, hushed, but still carried in the vast chamber. Their words drifted between the echo of dripping water and the distant flutter of bats that stirred in the stalactites.
The glow from the main monitor illuminated the cave in a cold, sterile light. On its massive screen, side by side, were two images: a younger Jason Todd, full of life and arrogance, and the Red Hood, masked, hard-eyed, unrecognizable but for the ghost of familiarity in his posture.
On the console beneath the monitor laid a weapon. A double-edged lance, its blades stained with darkened blood, isolated from the rest of Father's evidence. The screen beside it was running a sequence—DNA matching. Even from a distance I could piece together what this meant. Father had Jason's blood. Proof.
My eyes narrowed. Where had he gotten it? From Red Hood directly? That meant Father had faced him alone. No wonder he kept me locked in the manor. Infuriating.
"I still find it hard to believe that he now walks such a path," Pennyworth said quietly, his voice trembling just enough for me to notice.
"I spoke to him," Father answered, his tone heavy. His hands rested on the console, his reflection fractured in the screen's light. He looked… not entirely himself.
"You did? How was he?" Pennyworth's voice carried equal parts fear and hope.
Father's pause was telling. "I do not know if it is the Lazarus Pit warping his mind, or if this was the result of Ra's shaping him into something I failed to see." His jaw clenched. "But he kills without hesitation. Without even a flicker of restraint."
Pennyworth's eyes widened slightly. Not at the fact Jason killed—that was already known. No, this was about something deeper. That Jason could kill even while standing before Bruce Wayne, the man who once raised him, who once saved him.
"Going to stand there eavesdropping all day, or are you planning on joining the conversation?" A sharp voice came from behind me. Irritatingly familiar. Grayson.
"I am not eavesdropping. They simply happened to be talking as I entered," I shot back coolly. I would not let him associate me with something so base.
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, sarcasm dripping, not even trying to mask it.
I kept walking, refusing to rise to his bait. "I do not have the time to indulge your antics." Still, I could practically feel the smug eye-roll he threw my way.
"Good. You're both here," Father said, drawing our attention as we climbed the short metal stairs toward the console.
Grayson's eyes went instantly to the lance. "Don't tell me he's using that now. A double-edged lance?" He leaned closer, examining it with too much casualness. "What is he, a weapons expert?" His voice carried no tremor, no unease, but I knew it was a mask.
"Not exactly," Father replied. He finally turned, his eyes grave. "But he was trained by the League."
"Yeah," Grayson muttered. "I heard your brother got training from Ra's and Lady Shiva." He glanced at me, waiting for a reaction, but I gave him none. I would not indulge his attempts at provoking me.
"Any insights into his skills?" Grayson pressed Father instead. "Because someone like that… someone forged by the League, he's a lot more dangerous than just another assassin."
Father leaned back in the chair, thoughtful. Troubled. "Jason wasn't only skilled. He was versatile. You remember how unpredictable he was as a child. Now imagine that unpredictability given focus. Refined with intent. Sharpened by years of League training." Grayson let out a low whistle. "Damn." His tone was light, but even he understood the danger in those words.
I didn't need to imagine. I had already fought Jason in sparring matches. I'd felt firsthand the edge he carried, the precision of his strikes, the weight behind every move. Even recalling it now sent goosebumps prickling across my skin. He didn't fight like a man anymore. He fought like a predator.
"That doesn't explain the lance," I cut in. My voice came out sharper than intended, but I didn't care. "Whoever it belonged to, they were skilled enough to wound him." And I needed to know just how strong he had become. Because if it came down to it, I might be the one forced to stop him.
Father couldn't do it. Grayson wouldn't. It might fall to me. And the truth was, part of me agreed with Jason's methods. Killing criminals permanently solved the problem. It was efficient. Logical. Gotham might finally breathe without them.
"This lance belonged to a member of the Fearsome Hand of Four," Father said grimly.
"Never heard of them." I crossed my arms. If no one explained, I'd have to waste my time in research. Better to make them tell me now. Grayson's glance told me he knew the name.
"They're assassins," he explained as he began tapping at the console, pulling up files from Father's archive. "They enhance their weapons and their own movements with tech. They've got a reputation—high success rates, high body counts. If Jason only walked away with a wound, he's lucky."
The monitor flickered with their data: images of four figures, their dossiers filled with kill counts and tactics. They looked dangerous. More than dangerous.
"He didn't get away," Father's voice cut in, sharp. Silence followed, tense, expectant.
"He killed three of them. The fourth only survived because of me."
"What?!" Grayson's reaction was immediate, incredulous. Pennyworth inhaled sharply, steadying himself, his expression restrained but his hands tightening behind his back.
"But you conversed. Did he give you anything? Any insight into why he's doing this? Why he chose to become Red Hood?"
Father's silence hung heavy. He looked away, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke. "At first, he sounded like Jason. But as our conversation went on… he changed. Cold. Detached." Something unspoken lingered in his tone.
"Sheesh, Bruce. You scolded him, didn't you?" Grayson muttered with a whistle, but Father ignored the jab and turned back to the screen.
"Black Mask sent the Hand to kill Red Hood. They failed—"
"And Jason's going to return the favor," Grayson finished.
Father gave a single nod.
For the second time in this whole bloody mess, we had a lead on Jason's next move. Keeping watch on Black Mask would inevitably draw him out.
But Father made it clear; if any of us encountered Red Hood, we were not to engage him alone. Not after what he did to those assassins. The implication was clear—he was beyond us. Beyond even Father, perhaps.
That thought chilled me more than I cared to admit. Jason had been trained by the League, molded by Ra's himself, briefly sharpened by Shiva. He understood Father's tactics, his strategies, the way he thought. That gave him an edge no one else had. He was trained by two worlds—by Batman, and by the League of Assassins.
He had become a phantom in Gotham, a predator among predators. No wonder tracking him was useless. He had been trained to vanish, to kill in silence, to move like shadow and strike like wind. Yet, he chooses to leave behind statements to his kills.
The ball was in his court now. We could only wait for him to make his move against Black Mask.
And when he did, I knew I had to be ready. Because if no one else could stop him… then it would fall to me.