Gotham City — Midnight
The city never truly slept. It only pretended.
Fog curled through narrow alleys like smoke from a dying fire.
Jason moved through the shadows, a ghost clad in black and red. His boots made no sound on the wet pavement. His breath was quiet. Every step was a calculation.
He paused at the edge of the docks, eyes scanning the maze of cranes and shipping containers — territory he knew once, but now viewed through the cold lens of a hunter, not a lost boy.
This was his city again.
Safehouse — An Abandoned Warehouse in Narrows
Inside, a select group of assassins moved with silent purpose.
Jason stood before them, helmet off, revealing a face hardened by betrayal and rebirth.
"Gotham is the cancer in the League's vision," he said, voice low, deliberate. "It festers with crime, corruption, and complacency."
He paced the room.
"We will cut out the rot. Starting at the root."
Maps and intel spread out before them: gang territories, corrupt precincts, political puppets.
Every thread led to one man.
The Target
Salvatore "The Viper" Moretti.
A name whispered in back alleys and boardrooms alike.
For a decade, Moretti had ruled Gotham's criminal underworld with iron and venom.
Extortion, drug trafficking, arms deals—he was the unchallenged kingpin.
Batman had tried and failed to touch him. Too many layers of protection. Too many clean hands. Too many shadows.
Jason smiled beneath the mask.
Not anymore.
Gotham Rooftops — Later That Night
Jason watched from a rooftop overlooking Crime Alley, the place where his story began—and nearly ended.
A chill ran down his spine, but not from the cold.
The Bat-Signal flared suddenly, slicing through the night.
For a moment, Jason's breath caught.
Old memories stirred—pain, anger, and something darker.
He clenched his fists.
Batman.
Still watching. Still judging.
Still a reminder of what he was, and what he refused to be again.
In the Alley Below
A gang skirmish broke out near a drug stash house. Two rival crews fighting for territory.
Jason slipped into the chaos, moving like liquid shadow.
He subdued two armed men before vanishing into the mist.
No witnesses.
No questions.
The Next Morning — Safehouse
Jason gathered his team.
"Moretti's network is fractured but resilient," he said. "We take him down, we send a message to every thug and corrupt official in this city."
He tapped a device, projecting a dossier.
"His guards are numerous, but predictable. His routes well mapped. His weaknesses... exposed."
One assassin asked, "What about Batman?"
Jason's eyes flashed beneath the helmet.
"Batman is a relic of a failing era. He hesitates. He clings to rules. We do not."
Preparation
Over the next few days, Jason's team moved with surgical precision—intercepting shipments, dismantling communications, and quietly eliminating Moretti's lieutenants.
Each strike was silent, swift, and absolute.
The city whispered rumors of a new force—something darker, more ruthless than the Bat.
Night Before the Strike
Jason stood on the ledge of a tall building, overlooking Moretti's fortified estate.
The streets below buzzed with oblivious life.
He pulled the Red Hood helmet from his pack and fitted it over his head.
He breathed in the night.
This was no longer the boy who had fallen.
This was the man who would rise.
A Moment of Reflection
The Bat-Signal lit the sky once again.
Jason's eyes met the glowing silhouette through the visor.
Old pain flickered—loss, betrayal, but also clarity.
I am not your weapon anymore, he thought.
I am the reckoning.