The morning news blared from every screen in Gotham, the headline dominating every channel: 'Joker Dead at the Hands of Red Hood.' For decades, no one had managed such a feat. The Clown Prince of Crime, the city's most notorious nightmare, had finally been silenced—permanently.
For Gotham's citizens, it felt like a new era had begun. The streets would no longer echo with that maniacal laughter. Families could walk freely without the constant fear that Joker might escape from Arkham only to target them—or someone they loved.
The city's collective nightmare had ended, and for a fleeting moment, they all rejoiced within their hearts.
The media speculated, as they always did, that Black Mask had played a role in Joker's recent escape from Arkham. But there was no hard evidence, no concrete proof to validate the rumors. Just the kind of conjecture that thrived in Gotham's rumor mills.
Behind the scenes, Roman Sionis's legal troubles were quietly resolved. His team of lawyers worked methodically, flipping the narrative so that Black Mask appeared not as a co-conspirator but as a victim of Joker's chaos. A few well-placed pressures and discreetly greased palms later, Roman walked free.
Even Commissioner Gordon, as determined as he was, had little recourse. The city's legal system could only do so much when wealth and influence had already tilted the scales. One of the perks of being wealthy and well-connected in Gotham's upper echelons.
Of course, Roman's release came with consequences. The stock of his cosmetic company, the legitimate front for his far darker dealings, had taken a small hit during the controversy. But it was a minor setback, a blip on the radar compared to how much cash he would be railing in once he finally got rid of the Red Hood.
To the public eye, the Red Hood was no longer viewed as just the violent but contained threat he had once been portrayed as by earlier news coverage.
Joker's death had altered that perception irrevocably. What had once been speculation and rumor was now fact: the Red Hood was capable of ending even Gotham's most infamous monsters, and he would not hesitate to do so.
That realization fractured the city's opinion of him.
Across Gotham, perspectives diverged om different sense. Many saw the Red Hood as a dangerous vigilante walking a razor's edge, one step away from being branded a full-fledged criminal himself. His methods were brutal, and unchecked by law.
Yet for others—citizens worn down by years of recycled violence, his extremity represented the change Gotham had long been denied. To them, he wasn't the problem; he was the answer.
The broadcast cut to footage from the bridge that night. A reporter stood amid flashing lights and police tape, microphone extended toward a civilian who had witnessed the chaos firsthand. When asked what he thought of the wave the Red Hood had unleashed upon Gotham, the man spoke with blunt conviction.
He talked about Batman—about how the Dark Knight had fought criminals relentlessly for years, breaking bones and dragging them off the streets, only for the same names to resurface time and time again. He added the statement that Batman had gone soft compared to his earlier days as a vigilante.
According to him, the Red Hood was exactly what Gotham needed now: someone willing to end the cycle rather than preserve it.
Several voices around him murmured in agreement. Others shouted over the crowd, condemning the Red Hood as too dangerous, too unstable to be allowed free rein over the city, saying the police should lock up his ass.
While Gotham debated, the underworld listened—and took note of the change that has been on the rise for the past couple of months.
Within the criminal networks that thrived beneath the city, the Red Hood's name carried new weight. His reputation spread quickly, earning him an unprecedented level of prestige, recognition, and fear among Gotham's underbelly.
Some, particularly those who had never encountered him firsthand, dismissed the stories. They believed he relied on fear as a tool, cultivating a legend to keep others in line. To them, he was all bark and no bite, another masked figure exaggerating his cruelty to intimidate rivals.
That belief died the moment Joker's death became undeniable.
If the Red Hood was unhinged enough to kill the Clown Prince of Crime, something no one had managed to accomplish for decades—then he was no bluff. Fear took root in their minds despite their resistance, as a grim truth which the others have tried to tell them— settled in: this was not just another vigilante.
This was Batman without restraint.
For years, criminals had continued operating despite Batman's presence because they understood the limits. He would break them, cripple them, leave them hospitalized for months—but he would never cross the line of taking a life. As long as they could still breathe, there was always another chance to return to the streets. Crime was not just a profession to them; it was a way of life.
The Red Hood erased that certainty.
If he put a bullet in someone's head, there was no recovery or even a prison sentence, just the end of their life.
Now, Gotham's criminals were forced to live with a new reality. They no longer feared only the Bat or the law. They feared the Red Hood, a presence lurking somewhere in the city, one none of them ever hoped to encounter because he was basically Batman with lethal wespons he wouldn't hesitate to use.
- - -
[The Batcave]
Dick's fingers clicked continuously on the mouse, switching from one news channel to another. Every monitor displayed the same story: Red Hood. Headlines flashed across the screens, all echoing the same message.
"Great," Dick muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Looks like your son is officially on Gotham's list of big bads." He extended an arm, pressing a button to mute the monitors, the reports no longer needing to compete for his attention.
"Gone soft?" Damian interjected, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he considered the words of a civilian who clearly had no understanding of what it meant to bear the mantle of Batman.
Dick shrugged, leaning back. "The mayor even refuses to make a statement directly addressing Red Hood." He turned to Bruce, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Remember the way the press slandered you for years when Batman wasn't acknowledged as a hero?" He paused, hoping to get a reaction—but Bruce remained silent. Dick let the comment drop, conceding the point.
"So he finally got his revenge and killed Joker… now what?" Dick asked rhetorically, shifting his attention back to the largest monitor, where footage of Batman's recent fight with Red Hood replayed endlessly.
Bruce's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He had kept the recording on loop ever since briefing them on his encounter with Jason, analyzing how Jason fights.
"There's no telling what's going on in his head," Bruce said, his eyes still the footage of Jason. "Crime can't be stopped completely—but it can be controlled." He rested a hand on his chin, deep in thought, and Damian raised a brow at the unusual tone in his father's words.
"Something Jason said… that must be his goal," Bruce clarified, as if reading his own thoughts aloud.
"Great," Dick muttered with a dry smirk. "We've got one of our own setting up shop in Gotham's underworld."
"That could take months," Bruce replied, eyes narrowing at the screens. "What we need to know now is his next move." He reviewed Red Hood's pattern of actions, but it was messy—chaotic even. Jason never took a direct route; every move was meant to serve for a didferent purpose that demonstrated.
"How about Black Mask?" Damian asked, pointing to a potential thread that could reveal Jason's next target.
"Jason only began his feud with Black Mask to manipulate him into helping free Joker from Arkham," Dick explained. "He's already accomplished that goal. By now, he might be done with Roman."
"Not entirely," Bruce interjected, his voice firm and precise.
"What do you mean?" Dick asked, both sons turning their attention to their father.
"Jason is unpredictable," Bruce said. "We need to account for every piece on the board, even the ones we think are inconsequential. Any of them could draw Red Hood back into our path."
Damian's eyes darkened with curiosity. "Father… when we finally reach him, what's the plan? Do you intend to send him to Arkham?" His question had been gnawing at him ever since he'd watched the footage of the intense fight between Batman and Red Hood.
"No," Bruce said sharply. "If we can't convince him—or stop him outright—we at least prevent him from taking more lives in his pursuit of a safer Gotham."
"Messing in his business is going to get him pissed," Dick commented, leaning back as he recalled past encounters with Jason.
"His methods violate our code," Damian admitted, voice low, "but even I can't deny the results. Has it ever crossed your mind, Father, that maybe Gotham needs both of you? Batman and Red Hood?" He kept his tone casual, but inside, he quietly approved of Jason's actions, something his father clearly saw as his eyes narrowed.
"Oh, so good cop–bad cop?" Dick teased, catching the implication. He knew Bruce didn't condone the bloodshed Jason brought with him, but he understood Damian's point.
"Either way, we need some kind of understanding," Dick continued. "A truce, at least, so he doesn't see us as hostiles. I don't wish to have a pistol at my face and a frigging sword on my neck just because decide to say hi when we cross paths." His voice carried a hint of grim humor.
He recalled being trapped in a cellar with Jason, feeling the heat of the flames around him when Jason left him, he was convinced he might die any second.
Then the memory of the gas station incident flashed in his mind, Jason had almost ruined his reputation as a hero in that one. And let's not forget how Jason had manipulated Black Mask just to get to Joker. Dick realized then that Jason's logic operated on a completely different wavelength from everyone else's.
"With that mouth of yours, I wouldn't be surprised if he shot your leg," Damian remarked with a smirk as though he'd delight in that sight.
Dick shot him a sharp glare but ignored it.
While Damian kept his eyes glued to the endless replay of Batman's encounter with Red Hood. Something about the way Jason moved, calculated yet brutal, pulled him in. He couldn't look away as he studied it.
- - -
Jason hadn't been able to reach Li that afternoon. With no intention of spending the day cooped up at home, he decided to treat himself to lunch at a restaurant known for its high-quality, expertly cooked steaks. It was his way of celebrating a Joker-free Gotham—and, admittedly, giving himself a small pat on the back. Even if the victory didn't feel as satisfying as he had imagined, a win was a win, and revenge well-earned deserved recognition.
A waiter, moving with the precise grace of a butler, led him to a table. Jason ordered three of the restaurant's specialty steaks, and it wasn't long before they were placed before him.
"Your meal, sir," the waiter said, bowing slightly.
Jason's eyes roamed over the dishes. The sight, the aroma, even the subtle hiss of juices on the plate—it all made his mouth water. Without hesitation, he reached for the knife and fork, slicing into the first piece and bringing it to his mouth.
The first bite was a revelation. He closed his eyes halfway, nodding in appreciation, savoring the flavors as if his mood had been lifted by the simple act of eating.
"Too bad I couldn't reach Li… I'll bring her here another time," he murmured to himself, already planning a small outing for her.
After finishing his lunch, he ordered a steak to go and left the restaurant, heading to the parking lot where his black bike waited. He had work to do—stalking Roman Sionis, studying his routines in case his arrest caused further changes, and determining the perfect moment to strike. Now that Joker was gone, Black Mask would surely tighten his security since his trump card has been sent to the grave.
'My daily life as a part-time stalker,' Jason lampooned in self deprecation. Most of his time since returning to Gotham had been spent surveilling and monitoring his targets like some overzealous shadow.
He pulled on his biking helmet, revved the engine, and shot off into the city. The sky was a muted gray, the afternoon sun hidden behind Gotham's persistent smog. He thought of the last time Black Mask had set a trap with KGBeast, almost crippling him in the process. 'That really sucked,' he recalled grimly, taking note to be catilous this time around because Black Mask was sure to get another, but the question was who.
As he wove through the streets, a sudden realization hit him. He swerved to the curb, bringing the bike to a stop. Around him, the city wore hints of holiday decor; building windows glimmered with festive lights, and a small café displayed a miniature Christmas tree in its front window.
"That's right… it's almost Christmas," he said softly, removing his helmet. He looked up at the clouded sky. "Looks like we're in for a late snow this year."