Black Mask's consciousness clawed its way back slowly, like something dragged up from deep, suffocating water. His eyelids fluttered open, feeling heavy and uncooperative, and all he was met with at first was a haze of blurred shapes and dull light.
The world around him refused to come into focus, swimming in and out as his mind struggled to catch up with his body. He lay flat on his back, the cold surface beneath him seeping through his skin, while a lingering fog dulled his thoughts—remnants of whatever Red Hood had pumped into his system during the abduction. His tongue felt thick, his throat dry, every breath shallow and uneven as he tried to piece together where he was.
"W-Where… where am I?" he mumbled weakly, the words slurring together as they left his lips. Instinctively, he tried to lift his arm, to rub at his eyes and force the blur away, but the motion never came. His muscles responded with nothing but a faint, useless twitch. Confusion flickered, then whet into alarm.
He tried again, harder this time, attempting to pull his arms inward, to gain any sense of control—but they wouldn't move. Neither would his legs. The realization crept in slowly at first, then all at once.
He was restrained.
The fog in his mind shattered as panic surged in to take its place. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly as he strained against whatever held him down.
Leather straps dug tightly into his wrists and ankles, stretching his limbs outward in an uncomfortable, exposed position. As his vision finally began to clear, the details around him snapped into focus with cruel clarity. He was lying on a cold metallic table, stripped down to nothing but his underwear, his body fully exposed under the harsh, unforgiving light above. The air itself felt stale and thick with the scent of rust, antiseptic, and something that hinted at decay.
"What the fuck…?" The words slipped out under his breath, but the bite behind them faltered as his eyes darted around the room.
It was a basement—no, something worse than that. The space around him looked like a forgotten surgical room dragged straight out of a nightmarish horror movie.
Old medical equipment littered the area, some of it rusted, some coated in a thin layer of dust, others arranged too neatly for comfort as if they had been recently prepared. Cabinets lined the walls, their doors slightly ajar, revealing glints of metal instruments within. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting long, distorted shadows.
Then the certainty of his current predicament hit him.
His heart dropped so violently it felt like it had been ripped straight from his chest and thrown into ice water. The dread that had been stalking him for months—the quiet, creeping fear that lingered in the back of his mind every time he heard the name—had finally caught up to him. He wasn't in just any basement.
He was in Red Hood's hands.
For a brief, fragile moment, his mind fractured between two instincts. One screamed at him to call for help, to shout, to rage like he always did. The other whispered something far quieter… something far more honest. Pray. Beg. Prepare. Because whatever came next, there was no escaping it.
His eyes darted frantically from side to side, searching for anything—an exit, a weakness, something he could use—but even that was taken from him. His neck refused to move, held firmly in place by another strap across his forehead and chin. He was locked in position, forced to stare upward like a specimen pinned down for dissection.
A torture table.
That was the only way his mind could rationalize it. It was a kind of setup you'd expect from a deranged killer, not a man waging a calculated war on Gotham's underworld.
And then he heard it.
The slow, deliberate creak of a door opening somewhere behind him, followed by the soft, unmistakable click of a lock sliding into place. The sound echoed through the basement like a verdict soon to be delivered. His entire body tensed instinctively as the measured thud of approaching footsteps filled the silence. Each step was unhurried, controlled, growing louder as it closed the distance between them.
His heart began to pound violently against his ribs, so hard it almost hurt. It felt like it might burst free at any second, or simply give out under the pressure.
"Oh, good… you're awake."
The modulated voice came through, sounding distorted and inhuman as it sent a chill straight down Black Mask's spine. He swallowed hard, an audible gulp scraping through his dry throat as his eyes strained forward, desperate to catch a glimpse of the figure stepping into view.
"Hope you're feeling comfortable," Red Hood continued, his tone laced with something disturbingly close to satisfaction. "It took quite a bit of effort getting everything ready… just for you."
And then he saw him.
The red helmet.
The sight alone was enough to make something in his gut twist violently, dread pooling so deep it felt almost physical. It was irrational, humiliating even—but for a split second, he swore he might actually lose control right there on the table.
Still, pride clawed its way up through the fear, forcing his voice to hold some semblance of defiance.
"You bastard… where am I?" he snapped, though the usual venom in his tone wavered ever so slightly. It was subtle, but it was there—a crack in the mask he tried so hard to maintain.
"So… you've still got some fire in you." Red Hood mused as he moved casually through the room, reaching up to the top of a nearby cupboard. His movements were relaxed, almost leisurely, as if this entire situation was nothing more than a routine he'd rehearsed a dozen times over. When his hand came back down, a scalpel rested between his fingers, its thin blade gleaming faintly under the harsh light.
He approached the table slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood at Black Mask's side.
"If you don't watch your fucking tone…" Red Hood said, his voice dropping lower and sounding colder, "…I'll cut your tongue out and shove it down your throat."
The blade came up without warning, pressing lightly against Black Mask's mouth before sliding across the surface of his skull-like mask, tracing the curve of his cheek with unsettling veracity. The cold metal sent a sharp, involuntary shiver through him, his jaw snapping shut immediately as his breath hitched.
And just like that, the illusion of control he'd been wanting to cling unto—
was gone.
"To answer your question… we're in the basement of an old, abandoned hospital. Deep in the Narrows." Red Hood's voice carried that same unsettling ease, casual and unbothered, as though he were making idle conversation rather than explaining the setting of a man's impending nightmare.
He moved away from the table with slow, deliberate steps, boots thudding softly against the cracked concrete floor. "So don't bother making noise," he added, almost as an afterthought. "No one's coming to save you tonight."
The words settled heavily into the room, sinking into the already suffocating atmosphere. Dust clung to every surface, disturbed only by Red Hood's movement. The overhead light flickered once, briefly, before stabilizing again, casting harsh illumination over the restrained crime lord and the figure calmly preparing beside him.
Red Hood stopped by a rusted IV pole, its wheels creaking faintly as he nudged it aside. Draped over it was a neatly folded surgical apron, stark and out of place amidst the decay.
He picked it up and shook it loose with a single motion, the fabric rustling softly before he slipped it over his armored frame. "You don't have to worry," he continued, almost conversationally, as he adjusted the straps behind his back. "No one's going to interrupt our… alone time."
Black Mask's eyes locked onto him, widening as the implication of those words sank in. The horror there wasn't subtle but was raw, growing with every small, methodical step Red Hood took. He peeled off his leather gloves, each finger sliding free with a faint snap, before discarding them onto a nearby tray. In their place, he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, stretching the latex tight over his hands until they fit like a second skin.
"Gotta look the part," he interjected smoothly, cutting off any attempt Black Mask might have made to speak. The offhand remark only made it worse, feeding the spiraling thoughts clawing through the crime lord's mind. Every movement, every adjustment—it all felt rehearsed, intentional, like he was a veteran at this kind if stuff.
And that was the most terrifying part.
Black Mask swallowed hard, his throat dry, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found. He could how completely powerless he was. The influence, the wealth, the men who would normally die at a word from him… all of it meant nothing here. None of his usual tactics applied. He's usual threats were definitely ineffective here.
So he shifted.
If intimidation wouldn't work… maybe something else would.
"What did I do to you…?" he asked, his voice unsteady despite his attempt to control it. The words came slower and more measured, as he tried to steady himself. "What did I do to deserve this? The last few months… this torment…" He let the question hang there, carefully placed—not just for answers, but as the first step toward a plea, a negotiation. Anything that might keep him alive.
Red Hood didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he moved to a nearby surgical workbench, its surface scratched and worn with age but recently cleaned—another unsettling detail. A brown leather knife roll sat neatly on top of it, tied securely. Red Hood reached down and undid the straps, the leather creaking softly as it loosened.
"It's not about what you did to me," he said finally, his tone quieter now and more focused as he unrolled the kit. The leather spread open to reveal an array of blades—different lengths, different shapes, each one catching the light with a cold, sterile gleam. "It's about what you've been doing to this city." His helmet tilted slightly, gaze flicking toward Black Mask. "To its people."
He paused, as if considering his next words.
"It's about you being… you."
There was something in the way he said it—sounding final and absolute—that sent a deeper chill crawling through Black Mask's chest.
Red Hood's gloved hand hovered over the selection of knives, moving slowly from one to another as though browsing options on a menu. "So many choices…" he murmured, almost to himself, the distortion of his voice turning the words into something far more sinister than they should have been. "Where do I even begin?"
Black Mask's breathing hitched, his eyes darting frantically over the spread of blades now sitting just within his line of sight. Each one felt like a promise—of pain, of suffering, of something far worse than death. The panic he'd been trying to suppress finally broke through completely.
"Please—just let me go," he blurted out, the desperation in his voice was raw and unfiltered now. Pride be damned. Survival came first. "I'll do anything. Whatever you want—it's yours. Money, territory, information—anything!" His voice cracked as he pushed forward, words tumbling over each other in his haste. "Just… just end this. Please."
Red Hood's hand stilled.
For a moment, the room went quiet except for the faint hum of the overhead light and Black Mask's uneven breathing.
Then—
"That's exactly what I'm doing."
The response came calm and almost gentle, but it landed like a hammer. Red Hood's fingers finally settled on one of the blades, lifting it from the roll with deliberate care. The metal glinted as he turned it slightly, inspecting its edge with a critical eye.
"I'm putting an end to this."
Black Mask felt the words more than he heard them, a cold wave washing through his body as dread sank deeper into his bones. His pulse spiked, heart hammering wildly as his mind raced for something—anything—that could stop what was coming.
"W-Why…?" he stammered, the question barely holding together as it left him. "Why are you doing this?"
Red Hood turned then, the blade still in hand, its edge catching the light as he brought it up slightly. For a brief moment, he examined it in silence, almost thoughtfully, before shifting his gaze back to the man strapped helplessly to the table.
And when that red helmet faced him fully again, there was no mistaking it. There was no mercy behind it.
Red Hood tilted his head slightly to the side, the movement seeming slow and almost curious, as though he were studying something far more intricate than the man strapped beneath him.
The red helmet angled just enough to give the unsettling impression that he was trying to peer straight through flesh and bone—into something deeper and unseen, maybe his very soul. That single motion sent a cold, crawling sensation down Black Mask's spine, an instinctive dread that had nothing to do with the blades and everything to do with the presence looming over him.
"I don't owe you an explanation," Red Hood said with a low and even voice, stripped of any trace of warmth. "This isn't some question-and-answer session between a victim and his kidnapper."
Black Mask swallowed, his throat dry, his mind racing despite the suffocating weight of fear pressing down on him. He knew how this looked—knew exactly what position he was in. There were no illusions left, no false hopes to cling to. He was trapped, completely at the mercy of the man standing over him, and every instinct screamed that he wasn't walking out of this alive.
"I doubt I'll live to see dawn…" he admitted, his voice quieter now, rougher around the edges. There was still pride there, buried beneath the fear, but it was cracking. "You might as well answer me before you kill me. Have some decency… at least respect the last wish of a man you've ensnared."
The word lingered in the air for barely a second before Red Hood let out a short, sharp laugh—one he didn't even bother to suppress. It echoed faintly off the concrete walls, sounding hollow and mocking.
"Decency?" he repeated, the amusement in his tone cutting deeper than anger ever could. "That's rich… coming from you."
He straightened slightly, one hand still holding the scalpel as the other lifted just enough for him to make exaggerated air quotes around the word. "How many of your victims did you show this 'decency' you're suddenly so concerned about?" His voice carried a biting edge now, the sarcasm unmistakable.
Before Black Mask could respond, the tone shifted again—dropping, hardening, the distortion of the modulator turning it into something colder… and sounding final.
"Well, guess what?"
Red Hood leaned in closer, the faint scent of antiseptic and metal clinging to him as his helmet hovered just beside Black Mask's ear. The proximity alone was near suffocating.
"Tonight," he whispered, each word sounding deliberate, "you're my victim."
A pause followed, just long enough for the weight of that statement to settle. "And we're going to have… so much excruciatingly painful fun."
The contradiction in his words made it worse. There was no humor in it, no exaggeration—just a calm certainty that sent a violent shiver through Black Mask's entire body. His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat as panic surged all over again.
"Just—just let me go," he blurted out, desperation bleeding into every syllable now. "I'll do anything. Anything you want."
Red Hood straightened again, the scalpel glinting faintly as he turned it between his fingers. "Will you hand over your empire?" he asked flatly. "Walk away from everything… and live with the shame?"
Black Mask froze.
For a split second, his mind stalled completely, caught between instinct and identity. The hesitation was small, almost imperceptible—but it was there.
And Red Hood saw it.
"I thought so," he said quietly.
The blade lowered, its cold edge brushing lightly against the side of Black Mask's neck. The contact alone was enough to make his breath hitch sharply, his pulse spiking as the steel traced a slow, deliberate path downward. It slid over his chest, gliding across his skin with terrifying precision until it came to rest near his side.
"They say a person can live without their spleen," Red Hood remarked casually, as if he were reciting a trivial fact. The tip of the scalpel pressed lightly against the spot, just enough for Black Mask to feel it—just enough for his mind to fill in the rest.
"Please…" The word came out broken now, stripped of any pretense. "You don't have to do this. I'll step down—I swear it. I'll give it all up if that's what it takes. Just… spare me. Let me go."
His eyes were locked onto the blade, unblinking, terrified. He knew how little force it would take. Just a fraction of pressure… and it would sink in.
"Look at you," Red Hood murmured, almost thoughtfully. "Groveling. Begging for your life." The tip of the scalpel began to move again, dragging slowly across Black Mask's skin. A thin line of red followed in its wake, the blade splitting flesh just enough to draw blood as it traveled downward toward his navel.
"It's… unsightly," he continued. "Seeing a man like you like this."
The blade stopped just above his abdomen, the tip resting there, poised—threatening.
"How many people begged you like this?" Red Hood asked, his voice dropping again, heavier now. "How many of them asked you to spare them?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Did you?" he pressed. "Did you spare them?"
The tip of the scalpel pressed just a little more, not enough to pierce deep—but enough to remind him how close it was asa droplet of blood spilled put.
"So why should you get anything different?"
Black Mask's composure shattered completely. "Please…" he whispered, the word trembling as it left him. "I'm begging you…"
"You're wasting your breath," Red Hood said, his tone sounding flat and unmoved, as though the desperation spilling out in front of him meant absolutely nothing. "If you think begging is going to make me have a change of heart…" He let the words trail just long enough to settle before adding, almost mockingly, "Karma's a bitch, isn't she?"
The scalpel rose in his hand, the motion smooth and thoughtful, catching the harsh overhead light as it lifted above Black Mask's line of sight. For a split second, everything seemed to slow—the faint hum of the flickering bulb, the distant creak of old pipes somewhere in the walls, the shallow, panicked breaths tearing through Black Mask's chest. Then, without warning, Red Hood brought the blade down in a sharp, decisive stabbing motion.
"No—!"
The cry instinctively tore out of Black Mask before he could stop it. His entire body tensed violently against the restraints, muscles straining as far as they could go before the leather straps dug in and held him fast. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight it ached as he braced himself—waiting for the searing pain, the tearing of flesh, the inevitable end he'd been dreading since he woke up on that table.
But it never came.
There was no impact. No pain. No rush of agony.
Only silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then—
Red Hood's laughter.
It came out distorted through the modulator, low at first before rising into something darker, something that echoed off the cold, concrete walls of the basement. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be. The sound alone carried enough weight to make Black Mask's stomach drop all over again.
Slowly, hesitantly, he cracked one eye open… then the other.
The blade hadn't pierced him. It hovered just above his skin, close enough for him to see his own reflection warped along its edge. Close enough to remind him how easily it could have gone differently.
Relief hit him—but it was twisted, fleeting, immediately drowned by the realization that this was worse. This wasn't mercy, and Red Hood had utter control of whatever was going to happen to him.
His chest heaved as he sucked in shaky breaths, his pulse still racing, adrenaline flooding his system with nowhere to go. His body trembled against the restraints, the aftershock of that moment refusing to fade.
"P-Please…" His voice cracked, completely stripped of the authority it once carried. Tears welled up in his eyes now, blurring his vision as they clung to his lashes before spilling over. "I've learned my lesson—I swear. I'll change. I'll be better. I'll be whatever… whoever you want me to be."
The words came out in a rush, sounding messy and desperate, each one tripping over the next as he grasped for anything that might keep him alive. Pride, power, identity—none of it mattered anymore. Not here. Not like this.
All that mattered—
was surviving the man standing over him.
"Oh, please… quit your whimpering." Red Hood's voice came out low and edged with irritation, the modulator flattening any trace of humanity into something colder.
He didn't even look rushed. If anything, he moved with the calm veracity of someone performing a routine task. His gloved hand drifted to the kit beside him, fingers brushing past neatly arranged tools before pulling out a strip of pre-cut duct tape.
Without ceremony, he pressed it firmly over Black Mask's mouth, silencing the muffled, desperate pleas that had been spilling out moments ago. The crime lord's breath hitched sharply through his nose, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as panic clawed its way up his spine.
"Ah… much better." Red Hood exhaled, almost satisfied, as if the silence itself was a form of control he could mold.
The room around them felt suffocating—dimly lit by a single overhead lamp that cast harsh, surgical light over the restrained figure.
Red Hood turned back to his kit with unhurried movements. He pulled out a syringe, the needle catching the light with a sterile glint, followed by a small vial no bigger than his pinky finger. The liquid inside was completely colorless, almost innocent in appearance. He held it up briefly, inspecting it, before inserting the needle through the rubber seal.
"You wanted to know what I'm going to do to you, right?" His tone carried a faint trace of amusement now, like he was indulging a curiosity rather than preparing something horrific. As he pulled back the plunger, the syringe slowly filled with the colorless fluid. "I'll give you a hint… just enough to let your imagination do the rest."
Across from him, Black Mask's eyes were wide—too wide—veins spiderwebbing through the whites as sheer terror took hold. His body strained weakly against the restraints, leather straps biting into his wrists and torso, but there was no strength behind it. Only desperation. His muffled screams pressed uselessly against the duct tape, reduced to pitiful vibrations that never reached the air.
Red Hood stepped closer, the heavy tread of his boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. He reached forward and adjusted the restraints, tightening the straps at Black Mask's forehead and chin to keep his head perfectly still. There was something deeply unsettling about the gentleness of it—the way he ensured his "patient" wouldn't move.
Then, without hesitation, he drove the needle into the side of Black Mask's neck.
The reaction was immediate. A sharp, involuntary twitch, followed by a gradual, horrifying stillness as the liquid entered his bloodstream.
"A few years ago…" Red Hood began, almost conversational now, as he withdrew the syringe and set it aside. His voice carried a strange note, sounding distant and reflective. "I spent some time in the mountains. Forests too. With my teacher then."
He paused, tilting his helmet slightly as if replaying the memory behind the visor.
"He taught me a lot of things. How to track. How to survive." His gaze dropped back to Black Mask, locking onto those panicked, darting eyes. "How to skin animals… wolves, bears…" There was a beat of heavy and deliberate silence. "Rabbits."
Black Mask's pupils shrank, horror crashing into realization before his body even fully registered what was happening. His breathing quickened, but the rest of him—his arms, his legs—began to betray him. Muscles slackened, resistance fading into nothing.
"I'm guessing…" Red Hood continued, his tone flattening again into something eerily neutral, "it should work the same way on a human."
A strangled, broken sound tried to force its way out from behind the tape, but it died in his throat. His body had already begun to fail him, limbs turning heavy and unresponsive. Panic surged harder, faster—his mind screaming while his body refused to follow.
At this rate, his heart might give out before anything else.
Red Hood watched him closely, head tilting ever so slightly as if studying the progression. "Can't move, can you?"
There was no answer. There couldn't be.
"That's the paralytic," he explained calmly, almost like a teacher walking through a lesson. "Shuts down your muscles one by one. Soon your throat will go too… and you won't even be able to make a sound."
He reached for another tool—a surgical marker—and clicked it open. The faint, sharp scent of ink pierced through the air as he leaned in, beginning to draw lines along Black Mask's arms. Each stroke was careful and measured, mapping out something only he fully understood. The tip glided over skin like a blueprint being etched into flesh.
Black Mask could only watch.
His eyes were the only part of him still alive, still fighting—darting wildly, pleading, begging, screaming without sound. His body, once powerful and commanding, now lay limp and useless beneath the straps, like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Even though you're paralyzed…" Red Hood added, finishing another line before stepping back to inspect his work, "you'll still feel everything."
The words settled upon Black Mask like a death sentence. And in that moment, Black Mask understood.
Not just what was about to happen—
—but that he would be fully awake to experience every second of it.