Gotham had changed.
The city's pulse no longer raced from chaos—it now throbbed with a cold, unyielding fear.
Crime rates plummeted, headlines trumpeted the "new order," but the cost was written in blood on the streets.
A flickering montage played across every screen:
Police scanners crackled with reports of fewer homicides.
But images followed — twisted bodies of gangsters left in alleys like warnings. Mutilated criminals strung up on fences, faces marked with the unmistakable red hood symbol, their lives snuffed out in brutal messages of control.
On the nightly news, two voices clashed over the story gripping Gotham.
The anchorwoman, poised and sharp-eyed, stared into the camera.
"Gotham is safer—statistics confirm it. But these victories come at a cost. The Red Hood's reign is one of terror and spectacle. Is this the justice our city deserves? Or has fear replaced safety?"
Her co-host nodded thoughtfully.
"Years of crime and corruption crippled Gotham. The Red Hood's methods are harsh, yes, but effective. Sometimes, to clean a wound, you must cut away the rot. Perhaps this is the price of true peace."
Beneath the glare of television lights and public opinion, a darker reality ruled.
The crime families, once bold and ruthless, now whispered fearful prayers.
The grand hall of an abandoned opera house trembled with tension.
A meeting was convened — the remnants of Gotham's crime syndicates, gathered reluctantly under one roof.
The heavy silence was shattered by the sound of measured footsteps.
The Red Hood emerged from the shadows — a figure clad in black and red, helmet gleaming with deadly intent.
No words of introduction.
No room for negotiation.
His voice was calm, ice beneath steel.
"You have all bled Gotham dry."
He paused, gaze sweeping the room.
"Now, you have two choices."
Stepping closer, every word landed like a hammer.
"Work for me. Adhere to my rules: no killing of innocents. No pointless violence. Loyalty."
The crime bosses shifted uneasily.
"Or you die."
A grizzled kingpin sneered, venom dripping from his lips.
"You think you're the city's savior? You're just another thug playing dress-up."
Without warning, the Red Hood's blade flashed.
Silent and swift.
The man crumpled, lifeless on the cold marble floor.
A collective intake of breath.
The message was clear, brutal, and unmistakable.
From that day forward, the underworld fractured and bent to Jason's will.
Street gangs either pledged allegiance or were erased.
His elite assassins—shadows with lethal precision—hunted the dissenters.
But with order came dread.
The streets bore the scars of his justice.
Public displays of punishment became grim urban legends.
Bodies hung as warnings.
Faces carved with the Red Hood's emblem.
Some citizens saw salvation in this brutal order.
In a crowded diner, an old man sipped bitter coffee.
"Finally, someone's making the city safe again," he muttered.
"Maybe this is what Gotham needs."
Yet others recoiled in horror.
A mother clutched her child tightly, eyes wide with fear.
"How is this different from the monsters we fear?" she whispered.
Amidst it all, Batman watched.
His city slipping from his grasp.
Jason was no longer the boy he once knew.
He was a force—relentless, merciless, reshaping Gotham's fate.