[Abandoned Warehouse – Gotham City – 9:45 PM]
A cold, sharp draft snuck through shattered panes above, rattling the rusted chains that dangled from exposed steel beams.
Above, a single naked bulb swayed from a frayed electrical cord. It flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting erratic shadows across the room, strobing the scene in pulsing flashes of light and dark.
Everything about the place felt like a scene pulled straight out of soone's worst nightmare.
The drug dealer sat center-stage, tied to a heavy tal chair that had been bolted into the floor. Duct tape was slapped across his mouth, but the look in his eyes said plenty—pure, animal panic.
Sweat drenched his face and soaked the front of his shirt, clinging to him like a second skin. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. The man stank of fear.
Next to him stood a grim little table. Laid out across it like a surgeon's kit were the tools; rusted pliers, a small blowtorch, thick nails, a bone saw, hamr, at hook, and a power drill still stained from its last use. There was no attempt to hide the purpose of any of it. The setup wasn't ant to scare,, it was ant to break.
The dealer flinched at the distant sound of screeching tires tearing into the silence outside.
Monts later, a sleek black luxury sedan pulled up near the warehouse's wide loading doors. The car was polished obsidian, tinted so dark it looked like the night itself had folded into steel.
When the back door opened with a soft hiss of hydraulics, everything seed to hold its breath.
Roman Sionis—Black Mask—erged from the backseat like a god walking into his temple. He wore a long black trench coat that brushed the ground behind him, his infamous skull-shaped mask catching the flickering light, bone-white and gleaming.
The way he walked—slow, asured, like a predator already bored with the chase, spoke volus. His shoulders were tight, fingers twitching subtly at his sides, his whole body riding the edge between control and pure violence.
Behind him, Ms. Li stepped into view. Her heels clicked crisply on the stained concrete, the only clean, crisp sound in the building. She was immaculate as always—hair pinned neatly back, silver-frad glasses perched perfectly on her nose, a black duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and a sleek tablet in hand. She didn't look at the dealer. She didn't need to.
Roman strode up to the man in the chair and ripped the duct tape from his mouth in one sharp, cruel motion.
"Agh! Please! Please—Roman—" Roman tilted his head, voice low and rough like gravel dragged across steel. Probably due to his dry throat.
"Oh, you rember my na now?" He drove a backhand across the dealer's face, hard. The sound cracked through the warehouse. Blood flew in a red arc from the man's mouth, splattering across the floor like paint.
Roman started pacing in a slow, deliberate circle around him, hands behind his back like he was walking a museum exhibit.
"See, here's what's been bugging ," he began, casually conversational, almost amused. "I fronted you product. I gave you turf. Kept the cops off your back. Kept the freaks at bay. You got to push weight, make stacks, live easy. And all I asked?
Loyalty."
He stopped behind the man, leaned in close, his voice dropping into a whisper that slithered straight into the man's ear.
"But then he shows up…" The air felt like it turned colder. That one pronoun weighed the whole room down like a slab of concrete.
Roman straightened, jaw clenched behind the mask.
"Red. Fucking. Hood."
He drove his fist into the man's ribs—an ugly, aty thud. A crack. The man's scream tore through the air, high and desperate.
"Forty percent?!" Roman barked, grabbing the man by the hair and wrenching his head back. "You gave him forty percent—of my cut—just so he wouldn't torch your stash?! You handed that helt-wearing punk protection money… from my inventory?!"
The man choked, eyes swimming with panic. "He would've killed ! You weren't—"
CRACK.
The hamr slamd into his kneecap. It didn't just break—it popped sideways with a sickening, wet crunch, ligants tearing, bone grinding. The man scread until his voice cracked.
"I don't give a rat's syphilitic ass what he would've done!" Roman thundered, spit flying from under the mask. "You bleed my colors, you die for !"
He was panting now, chest rising and falling under his coat. Blood had splashed across his mask and gloves. The mask grinned back with its eternal rictus, but Roman's voice… that was where the real madness lived.
He turned back to the tray of tools, taking a mont to wipe his brow with the back of his sleeve. His hand hovered over the instrunts like a man picking out a fine cigar.
Then, he grabbed the power drill.
He revved it.
"Let's get real cozy now."
- - -
[Few Minutes Later]
The drill spun with a high-pitched whine and dug into the man's thigh like a corkscrew into soft wood. The sound it made, flesh, muscle, and then bone, was nauseating. The man scread until his voice was shredded, the veins in his neck bulging, his head snapping back and forth.
Roman took his ti. His hands were steady. There was no shaking, no twitch. Just slow, deliberate cruelty. He worked like he was carving a ssage in the man's body.
When the drill finally pulled out with a grotesque squelch, blood trailing in a dark stream, Roman stared at the man, breathing heavily.
"You know what really pisses off about him?" he asked, voice low again, quieter this ti. "It's not the biker gear. Not the stupid helt. Not even his little vigilante complex."
He stepped closer, crouched down, almost gently.
"It's the hope he gives you rats. The stupid belief that maybe, maybe, there's still a way out. A cleaner Gotham. Like any of you deserve that."
He laughed—harsh, jagged, bitter. "You think Gotham gives second chances? You think I built all this by hoping?" He reached for the pliers. Grabbed the man by the jaw.
"Open wide."
The man scread again, blood bubbling in his throat as Roman pried a molar loose with two vicious tugs. The tooth ca out with a spray of crimson and a long, twitching root. The man slumped forward, convulsing from shock.
Roman let the tooth clatter to the floor like a useless token.
"Every ti I hear that na Red Hood, I feel my goddamn arteries tighten. I swear to God, if this keeps up, I'm gonna need a fuckin' doctor. Blood pressure's off the goddamn charts."
He stood up, a little winded now, glancing at the blood painting his gloves.
Roman turned to Ms. Li.
"Make a note—I want a cardiologist on standby."
Ms. Li, who hadn't moved a muscle the entire ti, calmly tapped the command into her tablet. Her eyes were steady. Glassy. Emotionless. Not a twitch. Not a blink. You'd think she was taking lunch orders.
"And clean this up," Roman muttered, tossing the hamr to the floor with a wet clatter. It landed beside the body—what was left of it.
Roman exhaled long and slow, pulling a cigarette from his coat. His fingers, sticky with gore, trembled just slightly.
Behind him, Ms. Li closed the tablet, her heels already echoing toward the exit.
"How about the Fearso Hand of Four?" He asked her as she ca to a sudden halt.
"As arranged, they will ambush him at the designated location. If, he shows up." She replied.
"Good. He better fucking do." With that, she took her leave.
- - -
[A Bar Near Janus Tower–10:30 PM]
The bar was dark wood and red velvet. Ornate mirrors lined the walls, catching the flicker of hanging pendant lamps. A jazz tune played softly from an old gramophone in the corner—lancholy notes wrapped in smoke and old liquor.
Ms. Li sat at the polished mahogany counter, her tablet folded neatly beside a half-full glass of Yamazaki whisky. Her posture was perfect. Unshaken. No visible trace of the carnage from earlier. Just the faintest dot of blood on the cuff of her white blouse.
The bartender, a grizzled man who had worked near cri long enough to know better than to ask questions, placed a second glass beside hers.
"Boss coming?" he asked.
Ms. Li took a sip, her voice smooth as silk over steel.
"He's venting."
She didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.
Outside the window, Janus Tower lood like a crown of thorns over Gotham's skyline.
The glass in front of her was now empty. Her expression hadn't changed since the first sip—serene, like a still lake hiding a trench of corpses underneath.
Ms. Li turned her eyes slowly toward the bar's far end, where a drunk couple giggled in a booth. Cheap perfu. Unpaid bills. One of them would be dead in six months. She could see it like math.
She tapped her tablet again. Files appeared, Red Hood's recent movents, satellite heat maps, intercepted comms chatter. The ghost of a smile flickered on her lips as she studied them. It never touched her eyes.
"You're trying to starve the beast," she whispered to the screen. "But Roman isn't a beast."
She closed the file with a swipe.
"He's a goddamn infection."
And she intended to keep it that way.
[Flashback to a couple months ago]
A few months ago, Roman went full berserker during a deal with a foreign arms broker. The deal collapsed, bodies hit the floor, and Ms. Li had to step in before international consequences landed at their doorstep.
The body was still twitching when Ms. Li stepped over it in her heels.
Two more lay slumped near the bar, one with a shattered jaw, the other bleeding out on the mahogany rug imported from Morocco. The stench of blood and expensive whiskey hung thick in the air.
Roman Sionis stood near the fireplace, suit spattered with gore, holding a pistol like he was still deciding who else needed to die.
"Roman," Ms. Li said calmly, not slowing her stride.
He didn't look at her. Just muttered, "They disrespected ."
"You scread at them in five languages and shot their translator in the face."
"They laughed. Like I was so clown."
"You just cost us a $20 million contract with the Yao cartel," she said, voice neutral, precise. "And you've triggered a potential retaliation that could cripple our eastern route."
Roman finally turned toward her, pointing the gun like a petulant child. "Don't lecture , Li."
"I'm not. I'm repairing you."
She tapped a button on her earpiece.
Seconds later, two teams entered—one cleanup crew in hazmat suits, one tech crew pulling drives and burning data. They moved like clockwork, like they'd done this before. Because they had.
Roman watched as his war room turned into a sterilized mory.
"You're lucky this was private," she said, pulling out her tablet. "But from now on, no personal etings without in the room."
"I run this empire, Li."
"Yes, you do. But you should also listen to the one who cleans up after you and maintains the wreckage you don't seem to care about." Her eyes briefly t his with a look of indifference.
"You enjoy chaos. I prevent collapse."
[anwhile — Present mont at the bar]
"Tony, my man. I'll have the usual. And hey—give the lady here a refill. Whiskey." He ordered, acting like he didn't know she had whiskey.
The voice ca from beside her, but she didn't bother looking up. Figured he was talking to soone else.
Wasn't until the bartender actually refilled her glass that it clicked, he ant her.
She turned slightly, eyeing the guy now sitting to her left. Black hoodie, hood down. Definitely didn't fit the usual crowd.
Most people who stopped by after work were in suits or business casual—white collars winding down with overpriced drinks. This guy? He looked younger, out of place.
"Why whiskey?" she asked, voice flat.
"You look like you've had a long day," he said casually. "Whiskey helps loosen the mind."
She didn't respond at first. Just picked up the glass and swirled the amber liquid gently, eyes fixed on it. Then finally, quietly. "Thank you, then."
The guy turned a bit more toward her, lifting his own glass in a light gesture.
"So... what's got a woman like you drinking alone, looking like the weight of the world's on your shoulders?"
She side-eyed him, unamused. "And why would I share my thoughts with a total stranger?"
He just smiled, laid his glass on the counter, and held out a hand. "Fair enough. Na's Randy."
Of course, it wasn't. Jason couldn't afford to risk her knowing who he really was, or she could trace him back to his ties with the Wayne family.
She stared at the hand but didn't take it. "Li," she said simply, still distant.
He dropped his hand with a shrug. "Well... now we're not total strangers anymore, are we?"
She looked at him, longer this ti. Like she was trying to read him, figure out what he was really after.
Most n who tried to chat her up were pretty easy to figure out. They all wanted the sa thing—drink, flirt, fuck.
But this one? No sleazy looks. No pushy vibe. He just seed... chill. Maybe even genuine. And that, strangely enough, put her more on edge than the usual creeps.
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