[Jason Todd's POV]
Dressed in his full vigilante gear, Jason stood at the edge of a towering gothic building, its spires and gargoyles clawing at Gotham's smog-choked sky.
From this height, the city stretched endlessly beneath him, distant sirens echoing like a constant background track. The wind tugged at his jacket, carrying the stink of exhaust, rain-soaked stone, and the rot that never quite left Gotham.
He intentionally chose this building as it sat higher than most in the district. From here, he had a clean view of the skyline—and a very specific penthouse several blocks away.
Jason reached into his jacket and pulled out an old satellite phone, scuffed and scratched. A burner. Reliable. Disposable. He thumbed through the contacts until one name lit up the cracked screen.
Mayor.
He dialed.
The line rang once. Twice.
"Hello…?"
The voice on the other end lacked confidence, strained thin and brittle, like a man already bracing for impact.
Jason smirked beneath his helmet.
"Mayor Stuart," he said calmly, his voice filtered and distorted through the modulator. "Been a while."
There was a pause. Jason could almost picture it—Stuart stiffening, shoulders tensing, eyes darting around the room as paranoia kicked in.
"Don't talk to me like we're friends," the mayor snapped, forcing a sharpness he clearly didn't feel. "What do you want from me?"
Jason leaned slightly against the stone railing, looking out over Gotham as if this were just another casual phone call. He could hear the fear beneath Stuart's words, thinly masked by irritation. The man remembered the warning, the supposed blackmail footage of the Halloween party that would end his career—and his life—if it ever saw daylight.
"Oh, Stuart," Jason replied lightly. "Don't be so impatient."
He paused, just long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
"But since you asked… I want you to block off Highway Three. Just before the bridge. Have it closed for the night."
There it was. The sharp intake of breath.
"And why would I do that?" Stuart asked, pushing back, testing the leash. "You do realize I'm the mayor of this city, right? I could have the GCPD launch a full manhunt for you."
Jason almost let out a laugh upon hearing this.
The mayor was scraping together whatever scraps of courage he could find, hoping authority alone might still mean something. Hoping the title carried weight against a man who had already buried his soul.
"And then," Jason said evenly, "the entire city of Gotham watches a very interesting video."
He spoke slow and deliberate. "You. Your political buddies. A group of little boys at a Halloween party. You already know how that ends—not just for you, but for your family."
Silence.
Jason imagined Stuart's face draining of color, the blood rushing from it as reality sank its claws in deeper.
"You're forgetting what age we live in," Stuart shot back, desperation sharpening his tone. "I could deny it. Say it's AI-generated. Claim the boys are accomplices in an extortion attempt."
Jason tilted his head slightly, studying the distant glow of the penthouse window which served as a home office.
"I see the drink in your hand is interfering with your thinking," Jason said casually as Stuart froze that instant.
"I see that the drink you have in your hand is preventing you from thinking straight." Red Hood said to him,
Jason watched as the mayor slowly turned toward the outside of the window.
From miles away, Jason could see the man's silhouette stiffen, fear locking his body in place as the realization hit. Red Hood wasn't bluffing. He was being watched.
"You should understand something," Jason continued, his voice dropping colder and heavier. "I gain nothing from exposing the skeletons in your closet. That's not my business.
"But defiance?...That gets people killed." Sweat trickled down Stuart's temple.
Jason could see him swallow hard.
"And if I wanted to," Jason added with a calm but precise voice, "I could put a bullet through your head before you finish your next breath. I am assuming you have an idea of just how fast a bullet from a sniper riffle travels, so don't test me."
The mayor didn't move. Didn't dare.
Jason knew the feeling—the way fear pinned you in place, making every muscle scream not to twitch.
"I see you understand," Jason said quietly. "Now make the call. Block the highway."
"O-Okay," Stuart stammered. "I will. But I can't just shut down a major highway without a reason."
Jason exhaled slowly, patience thinning.
"You're the mayor of Gotham City," he replied flatly. "Whatever bullshit excuse you come up with will work. Construction. Structural concerns. Gas leak. I don't care."
His tone hardened.
"Make the call."
He ended the line.
Through the binoculars, Jason watched as Stuart fumbled for his phone, fingers shaking badly enough that he nearly dropped it. The mayor paced once, then stopped, pressing the device to his ear as he began issuing orders.
Jason lowered the binoculars and let the city fill his vision again.
For the record, he didn't have a sniper rifle tonight.
He won't be needing it tonight.
- - -
[Arkham Asylum]
At an unholy hour of the night—when even Gotham seemed to hold its breath—three men dressed in face caps, gray janitorial jumpsuits, and worn casual shoes rolled a cleaning cart up to the front entrance of Arkham Asylum.
The building loomed above them, all sharp angles and decaying stone, its gothic architecture casting long, jagged shadows under flickering exterior lights.
The place never truly slept, but at this hour it felt quieter… watchful.
Inside the glassed-in security post, one of the guards sat slouched in his chair, a half-folded magazine resting against his thigh.
He glanced up lazily at the security monitors mounted on the wall, eyes drifting over the familiar camera feeds—until the image of three unfamiliar figures caught his attention.
"Hey, Bob," he muttered, nodding toward the screen without bothering to turn his head. "The janitors are here."
Bob grunted in response, still sipping from a lukewarm coffee. The first guard adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to the monitor, squinting as something nagged at the back of his mind.
"Did we get a change of janitorial staff?" he asked, frowning slightly.
"None that I'm aware of," Bob replied, this time standing up and peering through the reinforced glass instead of the screen.
Both guards studied the men outside as they approached with their rolling cart.
"These aren't the usual guys," Bob said under his breath. The first guard straightened, tension creeping into his posture. He pressed the intercom button.
"Identification," he requested, his voice firm but not alarmed. Outside, two of the men exchanged a brief glance before reaching into their cleaning buckets. The guards stiffened immediately, hands hovering near their weapons—but not fully on edge.
Arkham was insane, but no one sane tried to force entry through the front desk. Not with the GCPD practically on speed dial.
The men slowly withdrew tablets and raised them toward the glass. The color drained from both guards' faces almost instantly.
On one screen, a tied-up woman and a young boy stared back at them, eyes wide with terror. Gags muffled their cries, and gun barrels were pressed firmly against their heads. The boy trembled violently, tears streaking down his cheeks.
The guard's knees nearly buckled as he watched his wife and son.
He felt his chest tighten, breath hitching painfully as his fingers dug into the edge of the desk for support.
On the second tablet, another feed played.
An elderly woman with gray hair sat bound to a chair, her face pale but defiant despite the fear in her eyes. Beside her, a small dog lay restrained, a muzzle strapped tightly over its snout.
Bob let out a strangled gasp. "My mom…" he whispered. "…and Duke."
Outside, the third janitor raised a gloved finger to his lips, a slow, deliberate gesture for silence. His movements were calm and controlled—too controlled.
"Gentlemen," the man said smoothly through the intercom, his voice even and unhurried. "Kindly let us through. And don't even consider doing something stupid."
He tilted his head slightly.
"I don't think I need to explain what happens to your loved ones if you do."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Both guards stood frozen, faces twisted with helpless fury and terror, caught between duty and blood. Between the badge and the people they loved most.
It wasn't a hard decision.
With shaking hands, one of them reached under the desk and pressed the release button. The reinforced doors slid open with a mechanical hiss.
The three "janitors" moved fast. Within seconds, both guards were restrained, gagged, and stripped of their uniforms with ruthless efficiency. They were shoved beneath the counter, hidden from view, their muffled protests swallowed by the hum of Arkham's machinery.
The man who had spoken—the apparent leader—peeled off his janitorial jumpsuit and slipped into one of the security uniforms. The vest fit snugly over a navy-blue long-sleeve shirt, combat pants tucked into polished black boots. Another member of the team took the second uniform and calmly assumed the security post, posture relaxed and eyes forward.
With his face cap pulled low to obscure his features, the leader stepped into the main corridor, blending seamlessly into Arkham's sterile blues and grays.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he moved with purpose, boots barely making a sound against the polished floor.
He reached the control room door.
A silencer was already mounted on his pistol, hidden beneath his vest.
He pushed the door open with a gloved hand.
Inside, multiple guards sat monitoring the asylum's endless feeds—cells, hallways, lockdown points—none of them looking up in time. The man moved like a professional, efficient and precise as he dispatched them without hesitation. The job was clean and quiet, almost routine.
Within moments, the security systems were disabled. Cameras blinked out one by one.
Less than a minute after the front desk had been taken, masked men began flooding into the building. They moved in coordinated bursts, rifles raised, pistols strapped visibly to thigh holsters.
Boots pounded softly as they fanned out, securing corridors, subduing staff, and locking down checkpoints.
While the main force advanced deeper into the asylum.
Their destination was clear.
Joker's cell.
They already knew exactly where it was—information pulled straight from the terrified guards now bound and silenced at the front desk.
Arkham Asylum had been breached.
And it hadn't even realized it yet.
Arriving at Joker's cell, the reinforced door emitted a low mechanical buzz as it unlocked from the control room. The sound echoed down the corridor, sharp and unpleasant, bouncing off the stained white walls. For a brief moment, no one moved.
Even now—especially now—no one was eager to be the first to step inside.
One of the masked men cautiously pulled the door open, letting it glide to the side inch by inch. The lights inside flickered, casting uneven shadows across the padded walls and the familiar figure sitting calmly within.
"Well, hello there," Joker's voice chimed from the darkness, bright and sing-song. He tilted his head to the side, pale face stretching into a grin that grew wider by the second. "You lot aren't my doctors… but I like this already."
He chuckled, a sharp, delighted sound that scraped against the nerves. Whoever these men were, Joker didn't seem remotely concerned with the how or the why. A breakout was a breakout—and that was reason enough to celebrate.
"Wear that," the masked man in front ordered, tossing Joker a pair of cuffs. "And come with us."
Joker caught them easily and looked them over as if they were a gift. Slowly—almost theatrically—he rose to his feet and stepped forward, the cuffs clinking softly as he fastened them around his wrists.
"Looks like it's gonna be a fun night," he remarked cheerfully.
Still smiling from ear to ear, he walked right into their midst, posture relaxed, eyes darting from one masked face to the next with open curiosity. They formed up around him and began escorting him out, weapons trained but hands tight with unease.
As they passed the other cells, Joker waved enthusiastically at the inmates, blowing kisses, dropping snide comments and half-whispered jokes that earned angry shouts and manic laughter in return.
He paused briefly at the exit, inhaling deeply as the cold night air hit his lungs. "Ahhh… the smell of winter," he sighed contentedly. "Too bad it lacks the stench of Gotham's heart."
Outside, a black truck idled under the harsh glow of Arkham's exterior lights. The men gestured for Joker to climb in with no intention of getting in themselves.
"So," Joker began casually, tilting his head as he stepped closer, "who's responsible for this delightful little charade?"
Before the masked man could answer, Joker raised his cuffed hands in mock surrender. "Don't tell me. You'll only ruin the surprise."
The back doors swung open, revealing the interior of the long van.
The moment Joker stepped inside, the vehicle lurched forward.
Inside, two armed bodyguards stood around a secured table. Black Mask sat at its head, his presence heavy and commanding despite the tension in his posture.
Seated beside him was Miss Li, composed but visibly uncomfortable, her hands folded neatly as she adjusted her glasses with nervous precision.
Joker's eyes lit up.
Without waiting for permission, he casually slid into the empty chair across from Black Mask, leaning back as if he owned the place.
"Out of my very short list of suspects," Joker said pleasantly, "I didn't expect you to be the one to break me out of my vacation home."
"Neither did I," Black Mask replied curtly.
Joker cocked a brow, his grin sharpening, sensing something interesting beneath the surface. Miss Li avoided direct eye contact, her discomfort clear despite her attempt at composure. No one liked being in the same enclosed space as Joker—especially not Roman Sionis, who was forcing confidence like a brittle mask.
"I've been experiencing… complications," Black Mask began. "There's a new player in Gotham. Calls himself the Red Hood."
As Roman spoke, Joker's attention wandered, his gaze drifting around the van as if cataloging every inch. Then the name landed.
Red Hood.
Joker froze.
His eyes snapped back to Black Mask, the humor draining from his expression in an instant. The smile remained, but it was hollow now—almost predatory.
Roman noticed.
"Looks like you're familiar with him," Black Mask said carefully.
"Something like that," Joker replied, his tone suddenly flat. "Not a fan."
'That's more like it,' Roman thought.
"As if Batman wasn't enough of a headache," Black Mask continued, leaning forward, "this wannabe vigilante has become a thorn in Gotham's side. And I want it ripped out. Permanently."
Joker's grin slowly returned to its playful shape. "And you want little ol' me to handle it for you? All in exchange for breaking me out of Arkham—just in time for Christmas?"
Black Mask studied him closely. "Can I trust you to take care of this… minor inconvenience?"
Joker hummed, tapping a finger against his cuff as if deep in thought. Then he turned to the guard standing beside Roman.
"Can I get a glass of water?" Joker asked politely. "Breaking out really works up a thirst."
The guard hesitated, glancing at Black Mask. Roman nodded.
The guard crossed the spacious truck, poured a glass of chilled water, and placed it on the table in front of Joker.
In a blink, Joker moved.
He surged forward, looping his cuffed wrist around the guard's neck and yanking him down. There was a sickening crack as Joker snapped his neck effortlessly. Almost simultaneously, Joker tore the guard's pistol from its thigh holster.
Black Mask and Miss Li froze.
The remaining guard barely had time to react before Joker had the stolen gun raised—aimed directly at Black Mask's head.
The van went dead silent.
Miss Li's eyes widened in terror, hoping Joker wouldn't try having his way with her—her breathing became shallow, as she fought the urge to move. Black Mask sat rigid, sweat pouring down his face beneath the mask.
Joker smiled.
- - -
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