The sky above Nanda Parbat boiled gray with storm light, as if the mountain itself sensed what was about to happen.
Jason had long since stopped trusting clear skies.
The Invitation
Talia summoned him again — a private dinner in her sanctum, draped in candlelight and cloaked in quiet.
She wore the same faint smile she always did when trying to look gentle. To him now, it looked like a mask stretched too tight.
"Sit," she said, motioning to a single place at the table. Two glasses. One bottle of wine. Fresh bread. Roasted meat.
Jason scanned everything in under a second. Every flicker of light. Every scent. Every breath.
He knew before she even poured the wine.
Poison. Non-lethal. Paralysing. Fast-acting.
A League compound. Same blend used to neutralize targets quietly.
He sat anyway. Let her pour. Let her talk.
"You've grown beyond my expectations," she said softly. "So quickly. Too quickly."
Jason tilted his head. "You're not proud?"
"I'm afraid," she whispered. "Not of your strength. Of what it means for you. For us."
He raised the glass. Met her eyes.
"You mean for your control."
She didn't answer.
He took a slow sip — from the glass he'd already swapped under the table. The real dose sat untouched, still warm from her hand.
She drank too — no hint of guilt in her expression. But when she looked back up—
His eyes were still clear. His breath calm.
He placed the glass down gently.
"You should've used something stronger."
The Betrayal
She moved fast — faster than anyone else in the League could.
But he moved first.
Talia's blade scraped the air where his neck had been. Jason ducked, drove his elbow into her ribs, rolled across the table, and sent plates crashing to the floor.
Three assassins dropped from the ceiling — hidden, waiting.
Jason moved like inevitability.
Tactum initiated.
The first assassin reached for a chain—Jason caught the arm, snapped the elbow backwards, and drove a knee into the side of his head. One down.
The second spun with twin blades — Jason slipped inside, drove a palm under the jaw, turned the man's momentum into a wall slam. Two down.
The third hesitated—Jason didn't.
He grabbed the man by the collar and threw him across the table.
Talia lunged again—graceful, lethal.
Jason caught her blade between his palms, twisted her wrist, disarmed her — and stared into her eyes.
"You taught me to survive," he said. "But never to kneel."
He spun her into the wall, drove a knife into her shoulder to pin her.
She gasped. Her breath shuddered.
"Jason—"
"I told you," he said, voice cold. "No one owns me."
Then he drew his backup blade and slashed across her throat—clean, deep, fatal.
Talia slumped to the floor, bleeding into the stone, the flickering candles casting her shadow like a falling crown.
The Turning Point
The door burst open. Eight assassins. Fully armed.
Jason didn't move.
They stared. First at the body. Then at him. The red in his hand. The calm in his eyes.
One of them stepped forward — an old instructor. Scarred. Dead-eyed.
"You killed her."
"I did."
"You betrayed the League."
Jason wiped the blade clean on his cloak.
"No," he said. "She betrayed me. And if you try to finish what she started, I'll bury all of you with her."
Silence.
Then, one by one — they dropped their weapons.
First the old man. Then the rest.
No one bowed. No one saluted. But they all stepped back.
Jason Todd had won. Not by loyalty. Not by honour. But by fear.
The Mask
That night, he walked through the halls not as a student. Not as an apprentice.
He walked as a spectre.
He reached his chamber. Unlocked the stone alcove. Opened the case.
The helmet stared back — smooth, red, polished.
He slipped it on.
And for the first time, he felt complete.
Final Line:
The League took his life. The Pit gave him rebirth.
Talia tried to own the man who returned.
But in the ashes of all three…
The Red Hood was born.