The morning news had a grim story to tell.
It carried footage and headlines of what reporters were already calling the most grotesque and fearsome massacre Gotham City had seen in recent years.
The images were blurred, but the horror bled through—flashing red and blue lights, a tarp-covered street soaked in dark crimson, and shaken bystanders held back by trembling yellow tape.
Panic echoed through the city as the broadcast ran on repeat. For Gotham, a place that had seen monsters, masks, and maniacs, this was saying something.
Commissioner James Gordon, visibly tired and grim-faced, stood in front of flashing cameras but gave little to work with. He kept his answers short and clipped.
"The GCPD is currently investigating," he said, voice level despite the shadows under his eyes. "No suspects at this time. The identities of those responsible remain unknown."
He didn't say much more than that.
The official line blamed gang violence—likely a rival faction taking out a branch of the notorious Bertinelli crime family.
But those who knew Gotham well could feel something different hanging in the air, something colder. Whatever happened that night, it hadn't been business as usual.
Later that evening, long after the sun dipped behind the silhouette of crumbling buildings and flickering neon, the Bat-Signal stretched across the night sky like a silent call to war.
It boldy hung there, sharp-edged—glowing against the fog that rolled over the city rooftops like smoke from a dying fire.
James Gordon stood alone on the GCPD rooftop, shoulders hunched inside his brown trench coat. The night was cool, wind rustling the hem of his coat as he lit a cigarette.
The red glow of its tip pulsed faintly in the dark, a tiny flame struggling against the vast shadows that blanketed Gotham.
He was halfway through his first drag when a voice came from behind him.
"Commissioner."
"Jesus Christ!" Gordon flinched hard, his cigarette falling from between his fingers and bouncing once on the damp rooftop before dying out. His hand went instinctively to his chest, his heart pounding.
"Can't you make your entrance like a normal person?" he muttered, slowly turning to face the darkness behind him.
Two white, pupil-less eyes stared back from the shadows, emotionless and still.
"Been doing this for years, and I'm still not used to you sneaking up on me," Gordon added, trying to catch his breath. "At this rate, a heart attack's damn near inevitable."
Batman stepped forward, the rustle of his cape barely audible as he approached the rooftop edge.
"Stop smoking those," he said with that same gravel-thick voice. "You might live longer than you think."
"These?" Gordon reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another cigarette from a worn pack, sliding it between his lips.
His hands were steadier now, but the lines on his face betrayed the fatigue. With a flick of a lighter from his slacks, he lit it again and exhaled a long, curling stream of smoke that danced upward and vanished into the night.
"They help keep me sane," he said. "Otherwise, this city would've cracked me wide open years ago."
Neither man spoke for a moment. They stood side by side at the rooftop's edge, overlooking Gotham's skyline.
The city stretched beneath them—steel towers and brick tenements, blinking signs and moving headlights, a sprawling machine that never truly slept. From this height, the city almost looked beautiful. Almost.
"So," Batman began, his voice low and steady, "what do we have on the case?"
He didn't mention that he had already accessed police servers or reviewed early reports. There was no need. Gordon didn't ask either.
"Got lucky this morning," Gordon said, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke. "We picked up a witness. The guy was caught on a street-facing ATM camera just outside the area. Covered in blood, terrified out of his mind. Looked like he was running for his life."
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"The camera picked up a decent frame of him sprinting, probably towards his car," Gordon continued. "Ran facial recognition, identified him fast. Picked him up a few hours later stepping out of some sleazy bar on the East End. Still drunk. Looked like he was trying to drown whatever memory was eating him alive."
Batman processed that. Odd—it wasn't in the case files he'd accessed earlier. That meant the data hadn't been digitized yet. A raw lead, unlogged. Probably too fresh to show up on any system he had tapped into. He made a mental note.
"Did you get anything out of him?" Batman asked, the wind pulling at his cape.
"Took some doing. The guy was loyal to the Bertinellis—wasn't exactly eager to talk," Gordon explained. "But after we threatened to charge him as an insider, make him the fall guy for the whole bloodbath, he cracked. Gave us two things."
Batman said nothing, his silence inviting Gordon to continue.
"First—he claims it wasn't a gang. Not a group. Not a crew. Just… one guy."
Batman's brow furrowed. It didn't explain the surgical precision of the attack, but it was still hard to believe.
The crime scene had suggested multiple attackers—gunfire from different angles, blade wounds too swift and precise to be random. But if it truly was one person…
"Are you saying a single individual was responsible?" he asked, his voice even, but skeptical.
"Yeah. Hard to believe, I know," Gordon said. "But hey—it's Gotham. We've seen worse."
Batman didn't argue the point. He'd once fought a man who wore human skin as a mask. Anything was possible.
"And the second thing?" he asked.
Gordon took a final puff from his cigarette, exhaled, and let the ember die between his fingers. He flicked it to the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot before speaking.
"He gave us a name," he said, watching Batman out of the corner of his eye.
Batman turned slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Red Hood."
A long silence followed.
"Never heard of him," Batman finally said.
"Neither have we. No records, no priors, not even an alias we've seen before. Guy's a ghost. Just a red helmet. That's all we have."
Batman's jaw tightened slightly beneath the mask. "Red Hood…"
"Could be a new player," Gordon offered. "Or just another mercenary passing through."
"You really don't know who he is?"
"Not a clue," Batman answered, though the name stirred something vague—an old rumor, maybe, but nothing concrete.
"Then this next part might surprise you."
Batman didn't respond. He doubted anything Gordon said could truly shock him. But he waited.
"The witness described something else. Said this guy—Red Hood—had a red bat symbol across his chest."
Batman turned fully now, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
"What?"
The word came out quietly, more to himself than Gordon. He didn't show any outward emotion, but inside, gears were turning. That wasn't something he could ignore.
"That's why I kept this off-record," Gordon said. "Didn't want it spreading through the precinct. You know how rumors go. Some of the boys were already whispering that maybe… maybe you'd finally had enough. Snapped. Went rogue."
Batman said nothing, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
"But then we got confirmation you were at the eastern docks busting the Triads that same night. That helped. Shut the rumors down before they spread any further."
"I'll look into it," Batman said, voice low.
"Please do," Gordon replied. "And I'll keep you posted on anything else we find."
Another silence passed.
When Gordon turned to his right again, Batman was gone. No rustle, no movement—just the empty rooftop and the sigh of the wind.
Gordon shook his head with a tired smile. "I hate it when he does that," he muttered.
And once again, the night swallowed Gotham whole.
- - -
Back at his apartment, Jason stood in front of a cluttered investigation board, the faint hum of the city outside barely penetrating the thick glass of the window behind him. With a red marker in hand, he leaned in and drew a confident line through a name on the list—The Bertinellis.
It was a clean job. No wounds, no heat, no trace. The message was sent loud and clear, not even the most powerful and well-connected crime families were safe. They bled just like everyone else—and Jason had just proven it.
He stepped back, eyeing the rest of the board as if it were a chessboard. One move down. Now it was time to make the second.
Later that night, Jason positioned himself on top of a crane looming over Gotham's industrial docks. The breeze was cold at this height, laced with the scent of oil, salt, and the faint stink of urban decay.
From his elevated perch, the distant lights of the city blinked like scattered embers in the gloom, casting long shadows that danced along the crates and cargo below.
He crouched low, the steel beam beneath him groaning quietly with each subtle shift of his weight. Eyes sharp, breath calm, he peered through his binoculars and surveyed the scene below like a hawk.
The Maronis.
They were next.
Once, under Sal Maroni, they were real contenders. Sal was brutal, intelligent, and ruthless—a man who could hold his own against the Falcones.
But after his death, the family had slipped. The current boss, Luigi "Big Lou" Maroni, was nothing like Sal. He was all puffed-up swagger and desperation, clawing at relevance in a world that had outgrown him.
Newer factions—meaner, hungrier, and more chaotic, were pushing in from every corner.
Tonight, the Maronis were moving a shipment—drugs, disguised as legitimate cargo. A boat was expected to arrive at the docks, where the goods would be quietly transferred into trucks and driven off to safehouses.
From above, Jason could already see the foot soldiers, armed and dressed like thugs with a bit of class, probably lower level thugs of the Maroni family.
They weredress in leather jackets, turtlenecks, button-downs with rolled sleeves, or polo shirts, paired with slacks or jeans. Most wore their fit over body armor, with gold chains, and enough firepower to start a street war.
They were alert, scattered in loose formations across the docks, each man with his weapon either slung over his shoulder or resting in hand. Their postures said they were ready. Too ready.
They weren't worried about the cops either. Jason could tell. Their confidence reeked of dirty money. Probably had half the GCPD in their pockets. Even with Gordon at the helm, there were still more corrupt badges than honest ones in this city.
Most didn't care about justice—only the steady flow of cash. For some, their greed was a pit that couldn't be filled.
Jason made a mental note. Some of those corrupt cops might need pruning. Then again, maybe not. Tools are still tools if you know how to use them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low hum. There it was, a small boat slipping in through the fog-covered waters. Jason followed it through his binoculars, watching as it bumped gently against the dock and a group of men quickly moved in to begin offloading crates.
They were marked as produce—vegetables, food supplies. Clever misdirection.
One of the men pried open a crate with a small knife, rummaging inside before retrieving a small bag. He dipped a pinky in, rubbed the powder under his nose, and inhaled sharply.
A twitch of pleasure flared across his face. He turned and gave the others a thumbs-up, a thin line of white dust coating his upper lip. He wiped it off with the back of his sleeve, grinning like a fool.
Jason rolled his eyes. Sloppy.
Time to begin.
"That's my cue," he muttered, slipping his binoculars away.
He pulled a black balaclava over his head, sealing his identity in shadow. The cool fabric clung to his jaw, his breath warming the interior.
A combat knife was strapped tight against his thigh. He flexed his fingers once before aiming his grapple gun and firing.
The line zipped, and within seconds, he landed silently atop a metal container.
Then the hunt began.
Moving like a phantom, Jason dropped into the shadows. Every movement was calculated—soft steps, controlled breathing. He weaved between steel beams, ducked behind stacked crates, and skirted the edge of flickering security lights.
He crouched beneath the first truck, pressing a small brick of C4 beneath the chassis. Then another inside a crate. Another just beneath the engine.
He repeated the process with precision, crawling under axles, hiding between tires, lying flat on roofs of trucks to avoid detection. Their eyes were sharp, sure—but they weren't trained for him. Not for this.
Once the charges were set, he stepped out into the open, quiet but deliberate.
"Boys," he called out, voice calm but loud enough to draw attention. "Didn't your mothers ever tell you not to do drugs? Gets you addicted. Worse—it gets you killed."
Weapons were drawn in an instant, the sound of safeties clicking off echoing through the night.
"Whoa, whoa. Easy now," he said, raising his hands, the faint smirk in his tone impossible to ignore. "We're just having a conversation. No need to jump to violence."
One of the men, a twitchy one with a tribal tattoo crawling up his neck, stepped forward. "Take off the mask. Hand over the sword."
Jason tilted his head. "What? So you can recognize me when I pay you a visit in the hospital later?"
"Boss, this guy's stalling," another growled, turning to the boss dressed in a grey suit with polished leather shoes.
"Kill this fucker and feed him to the fishes," the boss barked. A thug slipped behind Jason, pressing the cold muzzle of a pistol against the back of his skull—ready to pull the trigger.
He's been caught and could have his brains blown out in the next second.