Across the city, Jason Todd felt it before he even heard it. You didn't need ears on the ground to know when the tide shifted in Gotham—you felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the way the air seemed to grow heavier, in how every shadow pressed closer like it had teeth. The city had moods, and tonight Gotham's mood was different. Paranoid. Predatory, and waiting to pounce.
Jason sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots hooked over the ledge, the glow of the city stretching out beneath him like a restless ocean of light and smoke. His helmet rested at his side, set down carelessly, while a cigarette smoldered between his fingers.
The smoke curled thin and gray into the night, dancing against the neon haze bleeding up from the streets. From up here, you could see Gotham trying to pretend it was alive—clubs pulsing with bass, cars cruising under the sick glow of streetlamps, sirens threading through the air like background music. But Jason knew better. Gotham wasn't alive. Gotham was always hungry.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. Then again. Then again. He didn't even need to check it. By the third vibration, he already knew. The city's underworld had been lit up, a hundred whisper chains all passing around one name. His name. Red Hood.
Jason crushed the cigarette against the ledge, leaving behind a faint scorch on the old stone, and pulled the helmet over his head with a sharp click of the seal. He didn't need to read the full notice; the number was enough. Ten million. A price on his head, sure—but more than that, a declaration. Roman Sionis wasn't just pissed. He was desperate. And desperation in Gotham was a dangerous thing.
Jason leaned forward slightly, gaze tracking the streets below. His eyes were trained for it—for spotting the little tells that most people overlooked. Men loitering with just a bit too much purpose. Cars parked in places that didn't belong to them.
Windows with the glint of scopes catching the light for just a fraction of a second. The amateurs always moved fast, too eager to get paid, too sloppy to live long. The professionals though—they would sit back, study him, breathe with him. They'd try to learn his rhythms. Jason knew, because that's exactly what he would do. That's what he was.
In his mind, the roster began to build itself. The Heat Brothers—thick-headed military dropouts with discipline in short bursts, dangerous if they caught you cornered.
The Bravado Crew; loud and messy, but irritating in numbers, like roaches with guns. Zsasz—just a knife freak with a tally fetish, not much of a threat if you kept your distance. Deadshot—now he was the real problem. Precise shooter, patient, impossible to underestimate.
Jason's thoughts darkened. Slade. If Deathstroke was truly still alive and took the bounty, then Jason would welcome the chance. In fact, he'd savor it. The thought of finally putting a bullet between Slade Wilson's eyes was almost sweet.
But hoping Slade was dead—that was a dangerous assumption. One Jason couldn't afford to make. If Deathstroke was still breathing, Jason would have to treat every step through this city like he was walking across tripwires.
His jaw clenched beneath the mask, the synthetic voice modulator humming faintly as he breathed out through his teeth. The city wasn't just watching him anymore. It wasn't just wary of him, giving him space like it usually did. Tonight, the city itself felt like it was hunting him.
The urge to end this early tugged at him. If it wasn't for the fact he needed Black Mask alive, if Roman wasn't still a tool to be used, what would stop Jason from putting a bullet through the bastard's skull right now and wiping the board clean? It would be easy. Tempting. Too tempting. But no—Roman was more useful breathing, at least for now.
His patience, though, was wearing thin. Jason could feel it in the way his hands tightened on the edge of the ledge, in the restless twitch of his shoulders. This cat-and-mouse game with Roman had been dragging too long, and every part of him wanted to cut the chase short. But then—Ra's.
The voice, the teachings, the endless lectures that had been drilled into his skull during his time with the League of Assassins. The old man had taught him patience, had hammered in the art of warfare. That discipline was the only reason Jason hadn't pulled the trigger already. The satisfaction wasn't in the kill. It was in the control. In making Roman dance to his tune, in pressing him into a corner until the only way out was the one Jason had carved.
But still… a gauntlet across Gotham? No thanks. That would draw too much light, too much exposure. Gotham's hunters weren't the only ones watching—he knew the Bat was out there too, keeping tabs, waiting for him to slip. Jason couldn't afford to get careless.
Even so, if someone was dumb enough or bold enough to step up to him, he'd deal with them. And he wouldn't hesitate. Jason had patrolled these streets for most of his life—first under the Bat, now on his own.
He knew every alley, every rooftop, every choke point and blind corner. He didn't expect many of them would even get close enough to make him sweat. But if they did, he'd welcome them with open arms and usher them into the cold embrace of death.
He straightened, shoulders rolling as if shaking off the city's weight, and glanced once more down at the restless sprawl of Gotham.
"Alright, Roman," he muttered, voice distorted by the mask, low and sharp. "If this is how you want to play it, let's see who's still standing at the end of it all."
- - -
For the next couple of days, it was as if Gotham's hunt for the Red Hood had burned out before it ever really began. The storm of excitement and violence that usually followed a price that big on someone's head fizzled into nothing.
It wasn't that the city had forgotten—far from it. It was just that the city had nothing to feed on. No sightings. No close calls. No whispers of blood in the alleys by him. Red Hood had vanished into the sprawl as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving bounty hunters, mercenaries, and assassins alike gnashing their teeth in frustration.
A few of them stuck around, prowling the rooftops and alleys like desperate scavengers. But most gave up and slipped back into their usual gigs. They started calling it a fool's errand, chasing a ghost that didn't want to be found.
In the bars and hideouts, rumors spread with bitter laughter. Some claimed the Red Hood had tucked tail and fled the city altogether. Others called him a coward, saying he didn't have the guts to face the heat.
While the streets buzzed with hollow speculation, Raymond was busy celebrating. His nightclub was alive again, lights strobing across smoke-thick air, bass hammering through the floors as if the walls themselves were pulsing with blood.
The reopening had drawn a full crowd—dealers, hustlers, thugs with too much money, and rich junkies eager to waste themselves on sex, coke, and champagne.
Raymond raised a glass in the center of the main floor earlier in the night, making a toast to survival, to business, to his own damn resilience. The applause was half-sincere, half-slurred, but he didn't care. A toast was just a show. The real business of the evening was happening in the booths upstairs.
By the time he slipped into his VIP section, the party was already deep into excess. The air smelled of perfume, sweat, and the sharp sting of cocaine. The booth was drenched in neon light, the leather seats slick with spilled liquor.
Around him, his guests were tangled up in their own little distractions—strippers with their breasts pressed against champagne glasses, coke lines carved across bare skin, pills dissolving in cocktails like sugar. The scene was decadent and ugly, exactly what these people paid for.
"Hey, Ray," one of the men slurred from across the table. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than it should, a champagne flute clutched in one hand. His pupils were wide, his grin crooked, the mix of alcohol and coke stripping him of whatever composure he had left.
Raymond leaned back in his seat, adjusting his cufflinks with the kind of subtle annoyance only men in his position had the luxury of showing. "What is it?"
The man smirked, leaning forward, voice dragging with drunken weight. "Heard about the bounty tagged on that new guy?"
Another voice chimed in before Raymond could answer. "You mean, the Red Hood," said a second man, stirring his drink lazily with a finger. He watched the pills swirl and melt into the golden fizz, then slid the glass toward the stripper curled at his side. She laughed, brushing her hair out of her face, and drank without hesitation as her hand drifted down his chest.
Raymond kept his disgust buried beneath a smooth mask, his jaw tight as he watched the girl swallow. It was vile, pathetic—but this was the crowd he entertained. And he was smart enough to know not to judge out loud.
"What about him?" Raymond finally said, his tone clipped, careful.
"No one's seen him since the bounty dropped," the first man answered, his words spilling out between heavy sniffs of coke off the round curve of a dancer's ass.
He slammed the powder up his nostrils and then threw his head back with a manic grin. "They're saying maybe the city's too small for him. Maybe he bolted. Or maybe he's just some coward hiding under a bed somewhere. A real poltroon, you know?"
Raymond's lips curled at the word, but he didn't rise to it. He knew better. He could say with certainty the Red Hood wasn't gone, wasn't hiding, wasn't anything close to what these idiots thought. He'd seen him with his own eyes not even an hour ago, in the shadows behind the club. Their brief meeting still buzzed in his mind as clear as the music vibrating through the walls now.
"I doubt any of that's true," Raymond said flatly, pouring the last of his drink into his glass. He swirled it once and knocked it back in one swallow. "And why are you asking me?" His gaze drifted across the booth, sharp, testing their faces for cracks.
The third man barely looked up from the lap dance he was drowning in, his hand wandering over the dancer's thighs as if she were furniture. "Because you're the head of the Eastern District drug trade. Nothing happens here without you knowing. Not shit."
Raymond let the silence stretch before answering, his expression unreadable. Finally, he set his glass down on the table and rose from his seat. "Well, I don't. I've got far more important things to handle than chasing a ghost in a helmet." He smoothed his jacket and straightened his tie, offering the group a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Enjoy the party, fellas."
With a lazy gesture of dismissal, he turned and walked away, leaving the booth to its haze of sweat, coke, and laughter. His steps carried him toward the other VIPs, the real players who had shown up tonight.
The ones worth his time. Behind him, the rich junkies sank back into their vices, too wasted to care about the kind of information they shared in the presence of the strippers.