JASON TODD

Saturday, 3:00 AM – Uptown, North Corners, Gotham, New Jersey, U.S.A.

“North and west, nine. South and east, seven.” Jason mutters under his breath as he moves across the rooftops, silent and quick, a shadow cutting through shadows. He expected more muscle on watch, but it tracks. New operation. Still small. Most of them will be holed up inside the warehouse.

He drops the case he hauled along for this and snaps it open. Rows of gleaming steel stare back at him—heavier gear than his usual. He scans, picks, preps. Knives and sidearms won’t cut it tonight. Not against a warehouse full of Bratva scum with hostages caught in the middle. This job calls for more gun power.

He hates the cost, but money’s just another tool. Every dollar goes toward bending Gotham’s rot under his rules. He can’t erase crime, but he can make damn sure it runs on his terms—no kids or women will be taken advantage of or exploited. No men will get strapped in more than he wanted to. And h/man traff/ck/ng? That’s something he won’t allow anywhere near his turf.

So when he loads the guns, mercy isn’t on the table. Compassion doesn’t get a seat. He waits, watches, then—

Showtime.

The guards don’t even get to scream. He cuts through them like a storm, efficient, merciless. By the time he kicks the warehouse doors in, his barrels are already blazing. His aim is tight, controlled—every round drops a goon, never strays toward where hostages might be. But after the dust settles, he finds only empty corners. No captives.

He ransacks the place until he finds what he needs:

Victims transferred to container north of here. Boat leaves tomorrow.

Jason exhales. No shipments yet... He's just in time.

He makes quick work of the distance, finds the container, and blows the lock clean off. The door creaks open—and his stomach knots. No matter how many times he’s seen it, he’ll never be numb to this.

“Hey—hey.” He puts away the guns, raises his hands. His voice softens. “It’s alright. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m the Red Hood. I’m here to get you out.”

Dozens of terrified faces shrink deeper into the steel box. Bodies curl into corners, away from him. He takes a slow breath, then removes his helmet to make himself less intimidating and to show he's not one of the Bratva goons. Just his face. Vulnerable, human.

“The bastards who did this are gone. They’re not gonna touch you, or anyone else, ever again.” His tone is even, steady, deliberate. “Emergency services are on their way, including ambulances and police. You don’t have to wait... If you need to leave, you should probably do so now.”

He knows the truth. Some of them will have to run instead of waiting. Some are homeless, sex workers, or addicted to any number of illicit drugs. They might have had outstanding arrest warrants or medical debts. Gotham chews people up, and predators like these traffickers pick through the bones. They go for the ones nobody notices, whose absence regular Gotham wouldn't think to miss—the ones at the bottom of society's heap. Nobody except him. Uptown wasn't his neighborhood, but Jason grew up in the same impoverished hell. They all had families somewhere. They all mattered.

He backs up, gives them space. One by one, they spill out—hesitant, then desperate. Some stumble past him without a word, others throw him a fleeting, grateful look through their fear as they either stay around or quickly move away from the location. Until finally, there’s just one figure left inside.

He himself has to go soon. He'd appreciate not having a run-in with the GCP. It would be such a waste of time.

Jason crouches low at the entrance, making himself small, his voice quieter now. “Everything okay?”

No answer—just your eyes, fixed on him.

“You don’t wanna come out?”