The rain hasn't stopped.
It slaps against Casey's jacket in cold sheets as he walks, the city's glow blurring into streaks of red and blue through the downpour. His boots drag with each step, splashing through puddles that shimmer with oil and streetlight.
The bat hangs at his side.
Heavy.
Wet.
Red.
By the time he reaches Lance's Auto & Body, the rain's washed most of it away but not enough.
He knocks once. The metal door rattles, then slides open a few inches. Lance stands there, half-awake, wearing the same grease-stained shirt, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes land on the bat first.
Then on Casey.
Neither speaks for a long moment.
"Jesus," Lance mutters, flicking the cigarette to the ground. "Get in here before someone sees."
Casey steps inside. The door rumbles shut behind him, sealing out the sound of the rain. Inside, the garage hums faintly with the radio left on low with some blues track crackling through static. The smell of oil and metal mixes with the copper tang of blood.
Lance gestures toward the workbench. "Put that down."
Casey obeys, setting the bat on the table with a dull clank. The blood smeared along the barrel gleams under the fluorescent light. A drop slides off and lands on the floor with a soft tap.
Lance stares at it, jaw tightening. "Tell me that's not what I think it is."
Casey doesn't answer. He just stands there with rainwater dripping from his hair, his breathing quiet but uneven.
"Casey," Lance says again, voice firmer now. "Talk to me. What happened?"
Casey's eyes stay locked on the bat. His hands flex once, then curl into fists. His knuckles are raw, skin split, blood mixing with rain. He opens his mouth once but then closes it again.
Lance steps closer, studying him. "You did it, didn't you?"
Still no answer.
The silence stretches. The hum of the radio fills the gap, low and mournful.
Lance sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Christ, kid. You think this fixes it? You think it brings peace?"
Casey finally looks up, eyes hollow behind the mask of exhaustion. For a second, Lance swears he sees something flicker there not anger or not pride but emptiness.
"Go home," Lance mutters finally. "Clean up. Get some sleep. We'll… figure this out."
Casey nods once, but it's mechanical. He grabs takes his outfit off and the weapons and put them in a duffle bag and swings it on his shoulder.
As he heads for the door, Lance calls out, "You can't take this back, you know that?"
Casey stops with his hand on the roller door.
The rain outside roars louder.
Without turning around, he says quietly, almost to himself:
"I don't want to."
Then he pushes the door open and steps out into the storm.
Next Morning
The alarm clock blinks in the dark.
4:00 A.M.
Casey groans softly and sits up, the old bedsprings creaking under his weight. His head pounds. His mouth tastes like metal and rain. For a second, he can't tell if he's awake or still trapped in the night because he still hears the bat crack, the wet sound of flesh and the echo of screams bouncing off brick walls.
He rubs a hand over his face. It comes away stained faintly red.
"Great," he mutters under his breath.
The apartment is silent except for the low hum of the fridge and the rhythmic hiss of his mother's oxygen machine down the hall. He listens for a moment, making sure she's still breathing steady. She is.
He stands, the floorboards cold beneath his bare feet, and heads for the bathroom. The door squeaks when he closes it, the noise too loud in the stillness.
He turns the shower handle. Water sputters, then rushes out, steaming. He strips slowly with each one stiff with dried rain and darker stains that won't quite wash out.
Under the harsh light, he sees it clearer.
The red smears along his forearms.
The brown crust beneath his nails.
The faint splatter across his collarbone.
He just stands there for a second, staring at himself in the mirror. His reflection looks back hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing his exhaustion like a mask.
Then he steps into the water.
The heat hits his skin and he flinches, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. He watches the blood start to loosen, swirling into pale pink ribbons that snake down the drain. He scrubs harder. Harder still. Until his skin turns raw and stings.
But no matter how long he stands there, he can still feel it. The weight of the bat in his hand, the way the night went silent after the last hit. He leans forward, pressing his palms against the tile, the water beating against his back. His shoulders shake, but he won't let himself cry. Not here. Not now.
When the water finally runs clear, he shuts it off and steps out, dripping, breathing heavy. The mirror's fogged over, but he wipes it with a trembling hand.
And freezes.
For a split second he sees himself not as he is, but as he was last night.
The mask.
The blood across his face.
The same eyes, cold and empty.
He blinks, and it's gone. Just him again. Wet hair, tired eyes and pale skin.
Casey exhales shakily, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles whiten.
"I'm going crazy," he whispers.
The sound of his voice cracks, soft but hollow.
He stares at the mirror again, searching for the reflection that's no longer there.
All he finds is himself who is bare, broken, and haunted by something he can't wash away.
He pulls on a clean shirt, runs a hand through his hair, and stares out the window at the city below. Gotham still glows faintly in the distance, the streets already moving again, as if the night hadn't just swallowed three men whole.
Casey turns away.
He doesn't want to think.
He doesn't want to feel.
"Case?"
The voice pulls him back and it was soft, cracked from sleep. He turns, startled, and sees Stephanie standing in the hallway. She's in one of his old hoodies, the sleeves hanging past her hands. Her hair's messy, eyes still swollen from the bruise.
For a second, she looks younger than she is. She looks like the kid he used to walk to school.
"Hey," Casey says, forcing his voice steady. "You should be sleeping."
"I heard you up." She rubs her eyes, stepping closer. "It's, like, four in the morning. You okay?"
"Yeah," he lies quickly. "Couldn't sleep."
Steph stops in the doorway, watching him. The light from the bathroom flickers across his face. His eyes look wrong. They were distant, colder somehow. She notices the way his shoulders are tight, the faint tremor in his hands.
"You're bleeding," she says softly, nodding toward the scrape on his knuckle.
Casey glances down, then shrugs. "Cut myself at work."
"Work? You had no cut on your hand last night."
"I….." he starts, then stops. His jaw works for a moment before he mutters, "Just forget it, Steph."
She doesn't move. "Did something happen?"
"No."
"Casey, I'm not stupid." She takes another step toward him, voice trembling. "You came in late, your clothes were soaked, and you look like you haven't slept in days. What's going on?"
"Nothing," he says again, sharper this time.
She flinches but keeps her ground. "Please don't do that. Don't shut me out. I know when something's wrong..."
"Steph." His tone hardens. "Drop it."
She doesn't. Her eyes glisten, desperate. "Was it those guys? Did you find them?"
He freezes. For just a moment.
That's all it takes.
Stephanie sees it. The flicker in his eyes, the one thing he can't hide. Her breath catches. "Casey… what did you do?"
His heart hammers against his ribs. He looks away, toward the window, toward anything but her face. "I said drop it."
"Casey….."
"I said drop it!" he snaps, his voice cracking through the room like a gunshot.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Stephanie stares at him, tears already welling. "You're scaring me," she whispers.
He opens his mouth, regret hitting instantly but she's already backing away. Her chin trembles as she shakes her head and turns, running down the hall. Her door slams shut a second later, the sound echoing through the apartment.
Casey stands there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling. The anger drains fast, leaving only the weight of what he's done and what he's just broken.
He sinks down against the wall, pressing his palms to his face. From behind Stephanie's door, he can hear muffled sobs. He shuts his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he mutters quietly, voice hoarse.
But she doesn't hear it.
Minutes drag into an hour.
The clock ticks past 5:00 A.M.
Casey sits against the wall, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracks in the floorboards. The sound of her muffled crying hits harder than anything he felt in that alley. Every sob is a reminder that no matter how good his intentions were, all he's done is spread the same kind of pain he swore to stop.
Finally, he exhales and pushes himself to his feet. His knuckles ache when he knocks softly on her door.
"Steph," he says quietly. "You awake?"
No answer. Just the faint rustle of blankets inside.
He hesitates, then leans his forehead against the door. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've yelled. That's on me."
For a moment, it's silent. Then her voice comes, small and broken:
"You scared me, Case."
He closes his eyes. "Yeah," he whispers. "I know. I scared myself, too."
There's a pause. He can hear her shift closer to the door. "You lied to me," she says.
He swallows hard. "I know." He lets the silence sit for a beat, then says, "Listen, I was with Lance last night. He needed help at the shop. Some metal frames came in, and I sliced my hand open on one. That's all it was. I was tired. I didn't want you to worry."
It sounds almost believable, even to him. Almost.
He hopes she doesn't notice the tiny shake in his voice.
Inside, Stephanie's quiet. When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse.
"You promise?"
Casey hesitates for a breath too long but then:
"Yeah. I promise."
Another pause. Then the soft click of the door unlocking. It opens just an inch. Stephanie stands there, red-eyed, clutching the sleeve of his hoodie.
He looks at her, guilt tightening in his chest.
She looks so much like their mom when she's hurt.
"I didn't mean to yell," he says again, softer this time. "You didn't do anything wrong."
She studies him for a moment, like she's searching his face for the truth. Then she steps forward and hugs him. Tight.
Casey freezes, then wraps his arms around her slowly. He presses his chin against the top of her head. The scent of her shampoo grounds him in a way he didn't expect.
"You're all I got left, Case," she murmurs. "Don't shut me out."
"I won't," he says quietly. "I swear."
But behind his words, guilt gnaws at him.
Because deep down, he knows he already has.
Stephanie pulls back, wiping her eyes. "Go get some sleep. You look dead."
Casey forces a faint smile. "Yeah. You too, kid."
She nods and closes the door gently.
He stands there for a long moment after she's gone, staring at the wood grain, his reflection faint in the hallway mirror beside it. His eyes look hollow again, darker somehow.
Casey turns from Stephanie's door, still feeling the echo of her hug in his arms.
The hallway feels smaller than ever, shadows stretching across the peeling wallpaper.
He rubs a hand over his face and walks toward the end of the hall toward the faint hum of the oxygen machine.
When he pushes the door open, his mother's already awake.
Marianne lies propped up against her pillows, pale in the morning light. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee gone cold.
Her eyes find him immediately. "You're up early," she says, voice rasped thin. "Couldn't sleep?"
Casey leans against the doorway, forcing a smile. "Didn't really get much of a chance."
Marianne studies him for a moment. "You've got that look again."
He blinks. "What look?"
"The one your father used to get," she says softly. "When he thought if he just worked harder, the world would stop hurting."
He tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow. "Guess it's genetic."
She gestures weakly toward the chair beside her bed. "Sit down before you fall down."
He obeys, the chair creaking under his weight. The silence stretches between them for a long beat before she speaks again.
"Stephanie's okay?"
Casey nods. "Yeah. Just a bruise. She's tougher than me."
"You always say that," Marianne murmurs with a faint smile. "But every time something happens to that girl, you look like the world's ending."
He stares at the floor, jaw tightening. "Feels like it does, sometimes."
Her hand, frail but steady, reaches for his. He hesitates before taking it. The warmth of her fingers anchors him in a way that makes the ache in his chest worse.
"Casey," she says quietly, "you've been running on empty for too long. I can see it. You're scaring me."
He looks up then and she sees it in his eyes. The exhaustion, the anger, the guilt. Something buried deep that he's too afraid to name.
"I'm fine," he lies. "Just… bad night."
Marianne studies him for a long time, then sighs. "You always say that, too." She squeezes his hand. "You don't have to protect us from everything, sweetheart."
He looks away, blinking hard. "Yeah, I do."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't, everything falls apart." His voice breaks halfway through the sentence. "I can't lose you, Ma. I can't lose Steph. I..."
His throat tightens too much to finish.
Marianne lifts a trembling hand and cups his cheek. "You won't lose us," she whispers. "But if you keep carrying the world like this, you'll lose yourself."
Casey shuts his eyes, pressing his forehead against her hand. For a second, the weight of the city, the guilt, the blood fades. There's just the sound of her breathing and the hum of the machine beside them.
"I don't know what to do anymore," he admits, voice small.
"Just rest," she says softly. "Rest and breathe. Let the world turn without you for a while."
He shakes his head. "It doesn't stop, Ma."
"No," she says, smiling faintly, "but you can."
The words hang there.
Casey nods after a long moment. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, okay."
He stays beside her until her breathing evens out again, her hand still resting in his. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"Sleep, Ma," he murmurs. "Please."
She doesn't answer already drifting back to dreams.
Casey stands slowly, looking down at her one last time before turning toward the doorway.
Timeskip
The rain hasn't stopped since midnight.
It falls in sheets over the Gotham City Police Department rooftop, drumming against the floodlights and turning the world into silver and shadow.
Commissioner Gordon stands near the signal, coat collar pulled high, a half-burned cigarette hanging from his fingers. He's staring at the three covered bodies being loaded into a van below.
The air shifts.
He doesn't turn when he hears the quiet thump of boots landing behind him.
"Rough night?" Batman's gravelly voice breaks through the rain.
Gordon exhales smoke, watching it disappear into the fog. "You could say that. Three dead. Same block. All with broken bones, skull fractures, shattered ribs. I've seen mob hits cleaner than this."
Damian drops down beside his father, the younger Robin's cape fluttering like a shadow's echo. "Sounds messy," he mutters. "Not very professional."
Gordon finally turns toward them. His eyes are red-rimmed and tired, but there's a steel edge behind them. "Professional or not, someone made sure these guys wouldn't walk away."
Batman steps closer. "Who were they?"
"Known associates of Black Mask. Thugs, mostly. Drug running, extortion, the usual Gotham filth." Gordon flips open his notebook. "Thing is….." he looks up at Batman "someone beat them to death with a blunt weapon. Metal, judging by the damage."
Damian tilts his head. "What kind of weapon?"
Gordon hesitates. "Baseball bat."
Batman's jaw tightens. "You have witnesses?"
"One." Gordon takes another drag from his cigarette, the ember lighting his face briefly. "A street vendor. Said he saw a guy who looked in his mid-twenties, tall, athletic build wearing a hockey mask."
Robin smirks faintly. "A hockey mask? Gotham never runs out of freaks."
Batman doesn't smile. "Did the witness see his face?"
Gordon shakes his head. "No. Said the guy came out of nowhere. Walked straight into the alley, no hesitation. Then the screaming started. By the time the cops arrived, there was nothing left but blood and teeth."
A long silence settles. Rain pelts the rooftop harder.
Batman finally asks, "You think it's a new player?"
"I don't know," Gordon says. "But whoever he is, he's not one of your usuals. No theatrics. No message. Just… rage."
Robin crosses his arms. "You think it's vengeance, then."
"Could be," Gordon replies. "Could also be someone cleaning house. Either way, I've got a killer running around my city, and the press is already calling him 'The Masked Maniac.'"
Gordon looks between the two vigilantes. "Then find him before my people do. I can't stop the task force if they get a lead."
Batman gives a single nod. "We'll handle it."
As the Dark Knight and Robin turn to vanish into the storm, Gordon calls after them:
"One more thing," he says, his voice carrying across the rain. "The witness said… before he left, the guy stopped and looked at the bodies. Just stood there."
Batman pauses, half-shadowed.
Gordon continues, "Said it looked like he regretted it."
Batman doesn't reply, he just disappears into the rain, cape folding around him like smoke.
Timeskip
Lance Shop
The morning sun cuts through the grimy windows of Lance's auto shop, spilling light over toolboxes, oil stains, and the faint haze of cigarette smoke.
Casey sits on a worn stool near the workbench, his hands clasped together, knuckles still bruised. The radio hums low in the background, the voice of a reporter just barely audible:
"…..three men found dead in the Narrows last night. Witnesses describe a masked assailant wearing what appeared to be a hockey mask..."
Lance reaches over and twists the dial off before the sentence finishes.
The silence hits harder than the news.
He wipes grease from his hands with a rag and eyes Casey across the shop. "You look like hell."
Casey doesn't look up. "Didn't sleep much."
Lance nods. "Yeah. Heard the sirens all night. Whole city's buzzing about that alley mess."
Casey swallows hard, staring at the floor. "Yeah."
Lance leans against the counter, arms folded, waiting. "You got somethin' you wanna say, kid?"
Casey hesitates, then finally meets his gaze. His voice cracks a little. "Do you think I should keep going?"
Lance frowns. "Keep going?"
"With this," Casey says. "With… what I did last night..." He stops himself, the words catching in his throat. "It's getting harder to tell if I'm doing the right thing anymore."
Lance tosses the rag onto the bench and steps closer. "You think the world gives a damn about the right thing? Look around you, kid. This city chews up anyone who tries to play hero."
Casey's jaw tightens. "Then what am I supposed to be?"
"Whatever you have to be," Lance says firmly. "You think those scumbags you dealt with last night cared about right or wrong? They'd have done worse to your sister. To your mom. You stopped that. You made sure it didn't happen again."
Casey's eyes flicker with guilt fighting with something darker beneath it.
Lance presses on, voice low and steady. "You got something inside you, Case. Fire. Purpose. Most people don't have that. You think Bruce Wayne's gonna fix this city? You think the cops can? No. Guys like us we make things happen. We get our hands dirty so the rest of them can sleep."
Casey looks away. "It doesn't feel right."
Lance snorts. "Right doesn't mean safe. Right doesn't mean clean. Sometimes, right looks like a bloodstained bat and a night you can't forget."
Casey's breathing picks up and it was slow at first, then uneven. He presses his palms against his knees, trying to steady himself. "I didn't mean to…. I was just so angry that they hit her and stole her bag."
Lance cuts him off. "You did what needed to be done. And if you hadn't, we'd be burying your sister right now. You think guilt's a bad thing? It means you still got a conscience. But don't let it stop you."
He steps closer, resting a firm hand on Casey's shoulder. "You've got a gift, kid. A rare one. You can take pain and turn it into action. Most people just drown in it. You? You fight back."
Casey looks up at him, eyes glassy but hardening.
Lance nods once. "So yeah. Keep going. The city needs someone who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty."
The words hang heavy in the air.
Casey finally nods slow, uncertain at first but then firmer. "Yeah," he mutters. "Maybe you're right."
Lance gives a small, approving grin. "Damn right I am. Now wash up because we got work to do.
As Lance walks off toward the back of the shop, Casey stays seated for a moment longer, staring at his bloodstained bandages.
He exhales through his nose and whispers to himself,
"Keep going."