The apartment is quiet now.
Stephanie's asleep on the couch, an ice pack still resting against her cheek. Her chest rises and falls softly, peaceful despite the faint bruise darkening under her eye.
Casey stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes heavy with guilt and exhaustion. His pulse finally slows, but the rage beneath his skin doesn't fade. It lingers.
He takes a step back when he hears it.
A cough coming from down the hall.
He moves toward it, quiet as he can.
The door to his mother's room is slightly open. The glow of her bedside lamp spills into the hall.
He peers inside.
Marianne lies curled under thin blankets, her breathing uneven but steady now. The small oxygen machine hums beside her. On the nightstand, a few pill bottles sit half-empty, and a photo of the three of them rests facedown beside her.
Casey steps closer, brushing a hand over her forehead. She doesn't stir.
Casey mutter softly "Sleep, Ma. Please."
He adjusts the blanket around her shoulders, then looks down at her for a moment longer. The weight of it all presses against his chest.
The bills, the double shifts, the endless fight to keep everything from collapsing.
Then, finally, he exhales and turns toward his room.
The walls are bare except for a few old hockey posters and a cracked mirror. His work boots sit by the bed, caked in dust and mud. He sinks down onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
The city hums outside with muffled sirens, a distant gunshot, the faint rumble of the trains under Gotham.
His eyes drift to the corner of the room.
An old duffel bag sits half-open there, untouched for years. Inside, beneath worn gloves and yellowed newspaper clippings, lies a hockey mask but it was faded white with a crack running down the cheek and a smear of old paint that looks almost like blood.
His father's mask.
The one he used to wear when he coached.
The one he kept even after everything fell apart.
Casey picks it up, turning it over in his hands. The edges are chipped, but the weight feels solid but familiar.
He stares into the hollow eyeholes.
Casey mutters quietly "You'd hate this, wouldn't you, Dad?"
He traces the crack with his thumb. "You always said hockey teaches discipline. Control. Guess I missed that part."
A dry laugh escapes him, but it dies quick. The silence that follows is heavier.
He looks toward the door toward Stephanie and his sleeping mother and his jaw tightens.
He sets the mask on the table beside him. It stares back, almost daring him.
For a long time, he just sits there. Thinking.
Then he pulls out his old flip phone. The one he swore he'd stopped using for "that kind of thing."
He scrolls through the numbers. Stops on one labeled
"Lance - Garage."
He hesitates for only a second before pressing call.
The phone rings twice. A groggy voice answers.
"Casey? You know what time it is?"
Casey's voice is low, calm, but there's something new in it but it was something cold.
"I need a favor."
A pause. "What kind of favor?"
"The kind that needs a bat, a mask, and something to hit."
Silence. Then a sigh on the other end. "You sure about this?"
Casey looks at the mask again and the way it gleams faintly under the streetlight through his window.
He feels the ache in his knuckles, the sting of Stephanie's bruised face still fresh in his mind.
"Yeah," he says finally. "I'm sure."
He ends the call and sits back.
The mask watches him in the dark.
Timeskip
Rain pours over the cracked streets of the Narrows. The city feels alive in its own broken way with neon lights flicker against puddles and the distant wail of sirens bleeds into the low hum of the factories that never sleep.
Casey walks alone, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. His boots splash through the gutter water. Every step feels heavier than the last.
He keeps seeing it Steph on the ground, that man's hand raised and the look in her eyes before he got there.
His fists clench at the memory.
He stops in front of a rusted roller door with a flickering sign that reads:
LANCE'S AUTO & BODY.
He knocks twice hard.
A few seconds later, the door rattles and rolls up halfway. Warm light spills out, along with the smell of oil and metal.
Behind a cluttered workbench stands Lance, mid-30s with grease on his hands, wearing a sleeveless work shirt that shows a faded Marine tattoo.
He squints at Casey.
"Didn't think you were serious."
Casey ducks under the door and steps inside. "I was."
Lance eyes him for a long moment before turning back to his workbench. He wipes his hands with a rag and gestures toward a nearby stool.
"You look like hell."
"Feel worse."
"Steph okay?"
"She's sleeping. Just have a black eye."
Casey pauses, voice hardening. "That's not the point."
Lance exhales through his nose because he's seen that look before. "You know this city, Casey. You start something, it doesn't stop easy."
Casey doesn't answer. He walks over to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and unzips it. The hockey mask catches the light, its cracked surface gleaming faintly.
Lance whistles low. "Didn't think I'd ever see that thing again."
Casey runs a thumb along the edge. "Neither did I."
Lance folds his arms. "So what's the plan? You gonna scare some punks with your dad's old gear?"
Casey looks up at him, eyes cold. "No. I'm gonna make sure they don't touch my family or anyone else's again."
A silence hangs heavy between them. Outside, thunder growls.
Lance sighs and shakes his head. "You always were too much like your old man." He turns and walks toward a metal locker in the corner. "Alright, Jones. If you're really doing this, you'll need more than a hockey stick."
He opens the locker and reveals a small arsenal of tools like bats, pipes, gloves, pads and some were old and some custom.
Lance tosses Casey a pair of reinforced gloves. "Kevlar lining. Better grip."
Casey catches them, turning them over in his hands.
"You sure you're ready to cross that line?" Lance asks, voice low.
Casey looks back at the mask, still sitting on the bench. He picks it up, sliding it over his face for the first time in years.
When he speaks, his voice sounds different.
"I crossed it the second they touched my sister."
He suits up and looks in the mirror.
Timeskip
The wind whips against Casey's jacket as he stands on the ledge, the city stretching out beneath him like a wounded beast.
Neon lights flicker through the fog. Sirens wail somewhere distant basically Gotham's usual song.
He's been here for a while just watching.
Watching the streets.
Watching the people who walk over the broken pieces of his life like nothing ever happened.
Then he hears it.
Laughter.
At first, it's faint but something about it sticks like a splinter in his chest.
He steps closer to the edge, scanning the alleys below.
Then he sees them.
Three men standing under a flickering streetlight was the same faces that have been in his mind. One of them holds a cigarette; another's wearing a jacket he remembers, torn near the shoulder and at their feet, half-buried in garbage and rainwater lies Stephanie's purse.
The world narrows to a tunnel.
Everything goes red.
Casey doesn't think. He moved.
Casey dropped down from the rooftop, boots hitting the wet pavement with a low thud. The three thugs turned at the sound, their laughter cutting off mid-breath.
"Hey, hockey prick," one sneered, flicking his cigarette to the side. "Find someone else to bother."
Casey didn't answer. His eyes stayed cold, fixed on them like a predator sizing up prey. The silence stretched until the closest thug swaggered forward, blowing a cloud of smoke into Casey's face.
That was it.
Casey's hand snapped to the bat slung across his back. The first swing cracked through the night like thunder. The thug's head snapped sideways, blood spraying against the alley wall as he dropped. Casey's jaw tightened, his breath sharp and heavy. Then he hit him again. And again. Each strike was loud but more savage as he keeps going until the bat gleamed crimson in the dim light.
The other two froze. One's hands trembled as he reached for his gun, but Casey was already moving. He closed the distance in a blur, drove his elbow into the man's nose with a crunch, then slammed his head into the brick wall hard enough to leave a smear of blood behind. The man slid down bonelessly, eyes glassy, as Casey stood over him, chest heaving.
Only one was left.
"H-hey, m-man," the last thug stammered, stumbling backward. "T-take whatever you want."
Casey's boots echoed as he approached, slow and deliberate. The thug tripped, falling to the ground, raising his hands in desperation.
"Please!" he screamed.
Casey lifted the bat. For a moment, the world went silent with just the sound of his breath. Then the bat came down with a sickening crack.
Blood spread beneath the man's head, dark and glistening.
Casey stood still, breathing hard, the rage slowly ebbing away. He looked down at what he'd done and spit on the body. Then, wordless, he grabbed Stephanie's bag from the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed back up the side of the building.
By the time the police sirens began to wail in the distance, Casey was already gone swallowed by the night.