The rain fell harder now—thunder rolling like a dirge over the broken bones of Amusement Mile Funland. Flickering neon signs sputtered their last breaths, casting fractured shadows over the shattered remnants of what was once a place of laughter and innocence.
Batman stood alone amidst the wreckage, the rain mingling with the blood that traced thin rivulets down his battered face. His hands trembled, clenched tightly around the cold, smooth surface of the Red Hood's helmet.
Jason was gone.
A sudden hiss split the heavy silence—smoke spilling from the folds of the fallen carnival tents, curling like a living thing, thick and choking.
From within the mist, Jason's voice cut through—clear, distant, like a ghost slipping away.
"You had your chance, Bruce. The next time, I won't miss."
And then—nothing but the storm's mournful howl.
Bruce stood rooted, the helmet heavy in his grip. Every memory crashed into him—the boy he trained, the son he lost, the man who returned with fire in his eyes and a gun in his hand.
The fight, the reveal, the confession—it all twisted inside him, raw and relentless.
The rain began to slow, turning the world into a cold, dripping silence.
Batman turned away from the ruins, his cape trailing like a shadow slipping back into the night.
Back in the Batcave, the cavernous silence was broken only by the steady drip of water echoing off the stone.
Bruce sank into his chair, the helmet resting on the table before him—an unyielding reminder of what had come to pass.
His fingers traced the worn edges of a faded photograph—Jason, smiling before the darkness claimed him.
A memorial plaque stood nearby, a solemn tribute etched with the words: Jason Todd. Son. Brother. Fallen.
But now, that was no longer enough.
Jason Todd was not just a memory.
He was a reckoning.
The Batcave's cold glow flickered across Bruce's face, shadows deepening the lines of grief and guilt.
He whispered to the empty cavern, his voice cracked with sorrow.
"I failed you, Jason."
Elsewhere, far from the rain-soaked ruins and the weight of regret, a different world breathed.
Jason sat alone in the dim light of his lair—walls lined with maps, weapons, and the spoils of his war against Gotham's corruption.
The helmet lay on the table, polished to a mirror sheen, crimson light glinting from its surface.
His hands moved methodically, cleaning and restoring every scratch, every dent.
He was no longer the lost apprentice.
No longer the boy who died.
He was the Red Hood.
A symbol forged from ashes, shaped by pain and purpose.
Jason lifted the helmet, placing it carefully upon his head.
The world outside was a battlefield, and he was its new warden.
His voice was steady, resolute.
"This city will change."
"This city will bleed."
In the shadows of Gotham, a new player had risen.
And he was home.
The war between light and shadow had just found its fiercest new warrior.
And for Bruce Wayne—the man behind the mask—there was only one truth left.
The past was gone.
The future was lost.
But the fight… the fight was far from over.