It had been two weeks since Jason’s dissociated personality had taken the wheel and unleashed the full wrath of the Red Hood upon Gotham City. In that ti, the darkness wearing his face had carved through the underworld like a force of nature, leaving behind blood, fear, and chaos in its wake.
Worse still, it had been preparing for sothing bigger. Sothing personal. Revenge against Batman—the hatred festering since that thing first manifested before Jason in the abyssal void beyond death itself. Yet before the damage could spiral even further beyond repair, Jason had sohow clawed his way back to the surface and regained control of himself.
Still sprawled across the floor unconscious, fragnts of everything his alter ego had done while he had been buried sowhere deep inside his own mind suddenly ca crashing back all at once. The mories didn’t return gently. They slamd into him like shattered glass driven into his skull, grotesque flashes of violence and madness bombarding his senses until Jason jolted awake with a violent gasp.
Sweat soaked his skin as though he had just escaped a living nightmare—except in this case, he himself had been the monster haunting it.
He sucked in a deep breath so suddenly it almost hurt, like his lungs were only now rembering how to function. His heart hamred uncontrollably against his ribs while he struggled to steady his breathing, every inhale ca out sharp and uneven as panic clawed its way up his throat. For a mont, all he could do was sit there and pant while those grueso images continued flashing behind his eyes.
“What the fuck have I been up to?” Jason muttered between ragged breaths, his voice low and unsteady as he tried to piece together the horrifying trail of mories flooding his mind. So of it barely even felt real. Other parts felt far too real. He rembered broken bodies, terrified screams, the feeling of satisfaction that part of him had taken from it all—and that terrified him more than anything else.
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Part of it was the simple reality that he had technically been gone for days, maybe longer, trapped sowhere in the depths of his own fractured mind while another version of himself walked around in his skin. But the deeper reason was fear. Genuine fear.
Jason was terrified that the ‘Todd who never was’ might return the mont he let his guard down, seize control of his body again, and shove him back into that suffocating pocket dinsion hidden sowhere inside his own soul.
So instead, he kept himself awake by drowning his system in an almost alarming amount of caffeine. Bitter coffee. Energy drinks. Anything he could get his hands on. The exhaustion gnawed at him harder with every passing hour, but Jason forced himself to stay conscious through sheer paranoia alone, refusing to close his eyes until the first pale rays of morning finally began creeping through the city skyline. Only then did he finally make his move.
Unsure if an incident like that would happen again—or how much ti he even had before it did—Jason knew he needed help. Real help.
A therapist might’ve been able to help him untangle whatever was happening inside his head, but that option ca with risks he couldn’t ignore. One wrong evaluation and he could end up sedated, labeled a danger to himself and everyone around him, then locked away in so psychiatric ward. Worse, in a city like Gotham, there was always the terrifying possibility of ending up as another inmate inside Arkham Asylum.
That reality narrowed his options down to almost nothing, leaving only one person Jason believed might actually understand what he was going through without imdiately trying to cage him. Soone that was aware of the darkness left behind by the Lazarus Pit.
Talia al Ghul.
At first light, Jason packed his bag and prepared to leave Gotham behind. His destination was the mountain stronghold currently being used by the League of Assassins after their previous base had been raided by Deathstroke and his rcenaries years ago.
The problem was that Jason wasn’t entirely sure which location to head toward first. Enough ti had passed that there was a real possibility the League had already abandoned the newer base and relocated back to their original stronghold sowhere within the mountains.
Either way, the Red Hood was leaving Gotham. But not before making sure the city would rember him long after he disappeared from it. Fear still lingered heavily in the streets after the chaos caused by the ‘Todd who never was,’ and this could leave the city uncertain whether the Red Hood’s sudden disappearance ant peace or sothing even worse waiting around the corner.
Back then the darker version of himself had taken the wheel, he had apparently inford Li that he would be leaving town for a while and didn’t know when he would return.
Surprisingly, despite everything else, the Red Hood had still honored the promise they had made. Jason didn’t fully understand why that mattered to him, but it did. Maybe because it proved that sowhere beneath all that rage and madness, so part of him still cared enough not to completely destroy the only romantic connections he had.
While traveling out of the city, Jason eventually made a call to Li. He told her he just wanted to hear her voice for a little while, admitting quietly that he already missed her. To Li, it had only been two weeks since they last spoke, but for Jason, after everything he had experienced trapped within his own fractured mind, it felt like an eternity had passed.
They talked for a while, and with her being the closest thing he had left to an emotional anchor, the conversation grounded him more than he expected. Hearing her laugh, sothing she rarely does, reminded him there was still sothing worth fighting for beyond rage and revenge.
By the ti the call ended, Jason found his resolve hardening in a different way than before. Not toward violence. Not toward vengeance. But toward survival. Toward fixing whatever was broken inside him before it consud him completely.
And sowhere along the lonely journey leading toward the mountains, Jason Todd made a quiet promise to himself that no matter how painful it beca, he would get better and face whatever darkness was living inside his head head-on.
- - -
Night had settled over Gotham City, draping the skyline beneath a cold blanket of darkness broken only by flickering neon lights and distant sirens. Standing atop one of the city’s countless rooftops, Commissioner Jim Gordon overlooked the sprawling streets below with a cigarette resting between his fingers while the wind tugged at the edges of his trench coat. The glowing ember illuminated his tired features every ti he brought it to his lips, the smoke curling upward into the freezing night air.
For a brief mont, Gordon closed his eyes and allowed himself to absorb the rare sense of quiet Gotham had been experiencing lately. Cri rates had crashed dramatically over the past few weeks, the magnitude of criminal activities dropping so sharply it almost didn’t feel real.
Under different circumstances, it would have been sothing worth celebrating. But that peace ca at a cost that sat heavily in the pit of his stomach, because the city’s sudden calm existed thanks to the actions of a wanted killer who had practically declared war on Gotham’s criminal underworld.
The Red Hood had spent weeks carving through gangs, traffickers, and mobsters with terrifying efficiency, purging the streets in his own twisted and blood-soaked way. And sohow, despite the brutality of it all, it was working. That was the part Gordon hated most. Gotham was safer, but the thod used to achieve it felt rotten to its core, forcing everyone—including the GCPD—to wrestle with uncomfortable questions they didn’t want to answer.
Taking another drag from his cigarette, Gordon quietly contemplated what exactly they were supposed to do about the entire situation. Officially, the Red Hood was their primary suspect in several ongoing investigations, most notably the Bartinelli slaughter and the horrific murder of Black Mask.
The problem was that suspicion alone wasn’t enough. They had no concrete proof tying him directly to either cri, and Gordon knew cases built on assumptions rarely held up once scrutinized.
Still, circumstantial evidence painted an ugly picture. A witness and a reflected image had placed Red Hood near the Bartinelli massacre, and with Black Mask, things looked even worse. He had openly hunted the cri boss the night before his death, and multiple reports claid he had abducted him straight from his hotel room before Black Mask later turned up dead in a manner so grueso even veteran officers struggled to stomach the cri scene photos. Whether Gordon liked it or not, the trail pointed directly toward the Red Hood.
As Gordon stood there reflecting on how the people of Gotham must currently view the GCPD—with frustration, disappointnt, maybe even ridicule—he couldn’t entirely bla them. A serial killer had been rampaging across the city for weeks, executing criminals one after another, and despite all their resources, the departnt still hadn’t managed to stop him.
The fact that many of the victims were themselves murderers and gangsters didn’t change the reality of the situation. Gotham’s law enforcent was losing control of the narrative, and Gordon could feel public faith slipping further away with every passing day.
Then, through the faint reflection cast against his glasses, another figure appeared behind him. Dark. Silent. Towering. Gordon didn’t need to turn around to know exactly who had arrived. The figure made way to his front as the unmistakable silhouette of Batman stared back at him past the red hot cigarette light related on his glasses.
“Hello, Jim.”
At the sound of the familiar gravelly voice, Jim Gordon opened his eyes to see Batman standing before him, nearly blending into the darkness surrounding the rooftop. The Dark Knight wore the sa ever-present scowl beneath the cowl, but age and experience had dulled so of the raw ferocity he used to carry back in his earlier years as Gotham’s vigilante.
Back then, Batman had been harsher. Colder. More intimidating in a way that made even hardened cops nervous to stand near him. But over the decades, especially after becoming one of the world’s greatest heroes and a founding mber of the Justice League, sothing about him had changed. The intensity was still there, buried beneath the surface, but it no longer radiated off him like an open threat as it seed more conserved.
Even the way he addressed Gordon had long since shifted into sothing more informal. There was no “Commissioner” anymore between them unless the situation called for it. After decades of working side by side through wars, riots, tragedies, and countless nights like this one, the two n had earned each other’s trust in a way few others ever could.
“Thanks for coming,” Gordon said quietly before bringing the cigarette back to his lips for one final drag. The ember briefly flared brighter in the darkness before he flicked the cigarette onto the rooftop and crushed it beneath the sole of his shoe.
Batman rely responded with a subtle nod, remaining silent as his cape shifted lightly with the wind. His attention followed Gordon as the commissioner stepped toward the illuminated Bat-Signal and reached for the controls, shutting the massive spotlight off until darkness reclaid the rooftop once more.
“A few hours ago, another murder scene was reported to the GCPD,” Gordon finally said, his tone growing heavier as he pulled a small stack of photographs from inside his coat and handed them over.
Batman took the photos without a word and began flipping through them beneath the dim city glow. Gordon watched his expression carefully as image after image revealed blood-soaked cri scenes, shattered furniture, and brutally dismbered bodies.
“Another one of your rogues crossed off the streets of Gotham,” Gordon muttered grimly while Batman continued studying the photographs in silence.
“I see,” Batman replied in a low voice as he reached the image of Two-Face. His eyes lingered on the photo for a mont longer than the others, though his expression barely shifted beneath the cowl.
Gordon folded his arms across his chest before finally asking the question that had been weighing on the departnt for weeks. “Any confirmation that Red Hood is behind all this?”
Batman’s lips parted slightly before he gave a small shake of his head.
“No.”
“What the hell has been going on for the past two weeks?” Jim Gordon asked, his tone hovering sowhere between rhetorical frustration and genuine curiosity. As a detective, Gordon already knew the broad picture of what had been happening across Gotham.
Bodies piling up. Criminal organizations collapsing overnight. Fear spreading through the underworld faster than the GCPD could keep up with. But what he didn’t understand was why. Why now? Why had the Red Hood suddenly escalated into an all-out killing spree brutal enough to shake the entire city?
And the truth was, nobody seed to have an answer.
“Apart from the fact that he was pursuing Black Mask the night he disappeared, and that witnesses confird he abducted him,” Gordon continued as he rubbed a tired hand along his jaw, “all we really know is that he’s connected to this sudden lineup of bodies dropping across Gotham.” His frustration deepened as he glanced briefly toward the photographs in Batman’s hands. “But even then, we still don’t have hard evidence directly tying the murders back to him.”
Batman remained silent for a mont before handing the cri scene photos back to Gordon. “He’s bound to slip up eventually,” he said in his usual calm, asured tone.
“Let’s hope so,” Gordon muttered grimly as he tucked the photos away inside his coat. “Then maybe we can finally put a confird face to the serial killer Gotham’s dealing with.”
Even after saying that, however, Gordon didn’t imdiately move on. There was still one question lingering at the back of his mind. Sothing he had quietly wondered about for months now but had intentionally avoided bringing up until tonight. Maybe because part of him hadn’t wanted the answer. Or maybe because deep down, he already suspected the truth.
“By now, you have to know who’s under that hood,” Gordon finally said as his eyes narrowed slightly toward Batman. “The guy wears your symbol like he earned it, and he knows Gotham’s streets better than half the cops in this city.”
Batman didn’t react outwardly to the observation. His posture remained perfectly still, his expression unchanged beneath the cowl as he held Gordon’s gaze in silence for a brief mont. Then he answered simply.
“Yes.”
The word ca without hesitation, though there was sothing heavier sitting beneath it. Sothing exhausted. Almost reluctant. Batman seed to pause afterward like he was debating how much more to reveal before finally letting out what sounded like the closest thing he could manage to a silent sigh.
“He was the previous Robin.”
Batman didn’t bother lying. Not to Gordon. After all these years, he knew better than to underestimate the commissioner’s instincts. Gordon was many things, but he was not a stupid detective.
“I had my suspicions. But it makes you wonder… what could possibly turn a kid who spent most of his nights saving people into the very thing he once fought against?” Gordon reached into his trench coat and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes along with a lighter as he spoke. His voice carried the weight of a man who had spent too many years watching Gotham ruin people one piece at a ti.
“Not just a criminal,” he continued, tapping the bottom of the cigarette pack until one slid free into his fingers, “but a killer too.”
He brought the cigarette to his lips, shielding the lighter from the wind with one hand while the other flicked it alive. A small orange glow sparked to life beneath his face, briefly illuminating the exhaustion etched into his features before he took a long drag. White smoke curled upward into the cold night air, drifting between the two n standing atop the rooftop.
Batman remained silent for a mont. “It’s… complicated,” he finally replied, the hesitation in his voice subtle but present. He couldn’t begin to explain Jason’s story, nor did he think Gordon truly had the right to know all of it. So scars ran too deep for words, and so truths were better left buried beneath the weight of Gotham’s darkness.
Gordon noticed the hesitation imdiately, but chose not to press the matter. Instead, he exhaled another stream of smoke and moved on. “Can’t you do anything about him?” he asked quietly. The burning tip of the cigarette glowed red between his fingers, its faint light flickering against the commissioner’s tired expression as the wind carried the smoke off the rooftop.
Batman turned away from him, his gaze settling over Gotham’s endless skyline of neon lights and shadowed towers. “I’m working on it,” he answered. Then, without another word, he stepped off the edge of the rooftop.
His cape pulled tight behind him instead of billowing wildly, narrowing along his fra in a way that sharpened both his speed and movent. For a brief mont against the night sky, he looked less like a man falling and more like so massive black-winged creature disappearing into Gotham’s darkness.
- - -
Dressed for the brutal cold and violent winds of the mountain range, Jason forced himself to maintain tunnel vision as he climbed. The mont his concentration slipped, he felt like he might lose his mind long before he ever reached the area where the base was hidden. Every step through the snow felt heavier than the last, his exhausted body screaming at him to stop while his mind fought desperately to stay focused on the climb ahead.
Using his grappling hook was too dangerous, so he never considered the option for long. If the hook embedded itself into a weak section of rock and tore loose, the fractures could spread unpredictably through the mountain face, triggering an avalanche that would bury him alive beneath tons of snow and stone. It was a risk he couldn’t afford to take, which left him with only one choice since he couldn't find the hidden path used by the League. They must have taken extra asures to conceal the hidden passageway.
So Jason climbed the mountain the hard way. Not like he used to during his training under Ra’s al Ghul, when he had been forced to scale cliffs barehanded until his fingers bled and his muscles tore themselves apart from exhaustion.
This ti he at least had tools to aid him, but that did little to make the ascent safer. He was dangerously sleep-deprived, physically drained, and ntally strained far beyond what he wanted to admit to himself. The mountain seed to sense that weakness, punishing him for every slight mistake with freezing winds and unstable footing.
Through the endless climb toward the snow-covered peak, Jason hadn’t gotten a single mont of sleep, and the lack of rest was beginning to claw at his mind. Hallucinations bled into reality more frequently the higher he climbed, making it harder to tell whether the sounds around him were real or imagined.
The wind howled past his ears, but hidden within it ca whispers that didn’t belong to the storm.
“There’s no helping you, son.”
The voice sounded unmistakably like Joker’s. At first it was distant, barely audible beneath the roar of the wind, but then it grew louder, closer, until it sounded as though the clown was walking right beside him through the snow. Jason’s breathing tensed as the voice slithered deeper into his head.
“Stop fighting,” it whispered. “Let go and accept your destiny.”
Jason shook his head sharply as though he could physically throw the hallucination out of his mind, but Joker’s voice only returned louder than before, now carrying an uglier and more sinister undertone.
“With the kind of man you’re becoming, you’ll do a lot more than I ever did.” The clown’s voice slithered through his head like poison. “Sure, the child is supposed to grow up even crazier than the psychopathic parent.”
The words dissolved into Joker’s obnoxious, high-pitched cackling, the sound echoing around him so vividly that for a mont it felt like the madman was sowhere on the mountain beside him, laughing directly into his ear.
Jason clenched his eyes shut and tightened his grip against the freezing rock wall. He forced himself through a series of slow breaths, inhaling deeply through his nose before releasing the air as steadily as he could manage.
The rough stone bit into his gloves while the wind howled around him, but gradually the noise inside his head began to dull. Joker’s haunting laughter faded away, leaving behind a brief mont of silence that made his mind feel clearer than it had in hours.
But the peace didn’t last.
Jason opened his eyes again and resud the climb, doing everything he could to hold onto whatever lucidity he had left. Snow crunched beneath his boots while the freezing wind tore against his jacket, and for a few monts the only thing he heard was the sound of his own strained breathing. Then another voice reached him through the storm.
“It’s a pretty decent height. Why don’t you just let go of your grip and put this whole ss to bed?”
Jason froze.
“Surely suicide is a lot better option than becoming anything like the Joker.”
This ti it was Bruce’s voice. Calm. Deep, and controlled. Yet sohow that made it worse. The disappointnt woven into the words hit him harder than Joker’s haunting ever could, sending a chill down his spine so sharp it nearly made his numb fingers lose their hold. For one terrifying second, his arm weakened enough that his body slipped slightly against the mountain face before he caught himself again.
Jason gritted his teeth hard enough to hurt and shoved the words aside before they could sink deeper into his head. He took another slow breath, drawing icy air into his lungs before exhaling steadily into the storm. As he did, sothing in his expression hardened. The exhaustion and doubt in his eyes dulled beneath a colder, sterner resolve as he tightened his grip on the mountain and continued climbing toward the base.
“I see you've chosen to continue living… truly a failure through and through.”
Bruce’s words reached him one final ti, fading into a hollow, evaporating echo before silence reclaid the mountain. After that, there was nothing left except the relentless howl of the freezing wind and the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots.
Not long after, Jason ca across a narrow path carved along the mountainside and hauled himself onto it. His gloved hand pressed firmly against the rocky wall as he steadied his balance, chest rising heavily from exhaustion and the biting cold. The mont he lifted his head, however, his body locked still.
A figure stood directly in front of him.
“Hey, stranger.”
For a split second, Jason forgot how to breathe. The man looked exactly like him, except for the darkened shades around his eyes that made him appear more Yaoguai than human. It was the ‘Todd who never was.’
And then the apparition moved.
Without warning, it lunged at Jason with savage force, throwing itself forward as though it intended to spear him clean off the ledge and send them both plumting down the mountain.
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