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Chapter Text

     Chapter 1: Warehouse Of Madness

The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with the smell of oil, rust, and stale blood. The dim flickering overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the cold concrete floor. The walls, once pristine and sturdy, were now cracked, scrawled with graffiti and streaked with the remnants of forgotten fights. Old machinery lay dormant in the corners, their iron frames twisted and covered in a layer of grime.

The battered and bloodied young man lay on the cold, hard ground, his hands tied tightly behind his back. He groaned in pain, his bruised body trembling under the flickering light of the dimly lit warehouse. Towering above him was the grinning menace of Gotham, the Joker. Dressed in his signature purple suit, the mad clown exuded an aura of pure malice.

The victim, none other than Robin, groaned in agony, his head snapping to the side as fresh blood trickled from his split lip.

His once-bright green tights were now stained with dark crimson, the blood seeping from countless cuts and abrasions that covered his chest, legs, and face. His mask, now ripped in several places, hung loosely around his face, exposing the raw, swollen skin beneath. His breath was shallow, the pain in his chest making it hard to draw air. Each breath seemed to send a wave of agony through his body, and his vision blurred from the damage.

Above him, standing like a twisted specter, was the Joker—dressed in his signature purple suit, his green hair unkempt, and his lips pulled into a manic, bloodstained grin. His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he surveyed his work, the cruel glow in his gaze never wavering. The Joker was in his element here—this broken, dilapidated place, with its rusting remains of a once-thriving factory, now the backdrop to his chaotic kingdom.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” The Joker’s voice dripped with mock concern as he crouched down, his face inches from Jason’s. His gloved hand twirled a crowbar casually in his fingers. “You’re a mess, little bird. Looks like Gotham’s new favourite sidekick is finally learning the true meaning of pain.”

Jason’s bloodshot eyes flickered open, and his lips parted as he tried to speak, but the words came out in a strained rasp. “Y-you… bastard…”

The Joker’s grin widened, his pale face lighting up with twisted joy. “Oh, that’s cute! That’s real cute.” The Joker’s hand swung the crowbar down with brutal precision, slamming it into Jason’s jaw with a sickening crack. Jason’s head jerked to the side as blood poured from the split in his lip, and a harsh cough wracked his body.

“Ow, that’s gotta hurt,” the Joker sang, almost in delight, his voice high and mocking. “But don’t worry, this is just the beginning. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

The Joker moved around Jason like a predator circling its prey, each step deliberate, filled with malice. He stood behind Jason, dragging the tip of the crowbar along the ground with a sharp scrape, the sound sending a chill down Jason’s spine. “You know, your predecessor—what was his name again? Oh, yes, Boy Blonder! That batty little rat had a bit more fight in him. He was a bit more of a challenge." The Joker’s voice dropped, turning venomous. "But you? You’re just… well, you're a disappointment."

Jason tried to push through the agony, trying to lift himself up, but the pain from his ribs and the gash in his side was too much. The Joker’s words—twisted and mocking—stung worse than the crowbar ever could. The Joker wasn’t just hurting him physically. He was attacking everything Jason stood for.

“Come on, pumpkin,” the Joker’s voice was now syrupy sweet, and before Jason could react, the crowbar came down again, landing on his forearm with a brutal THWACK that sent waves of pain coursing through his body. The bones in his arm shattered, and he let out a ragged scream, his body convulsing in response.

“Wow, that looks like it really hurts,” the Joker said, his tone dripping with sarcastic sympathy. He tilted his head, feigning concern as he crouched slightly to get a better look at his victim’s battered face. Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, he swung the crowbar in his hand, delivering a brutal blow to the young man’s already swollen jaw.

The Joker stood back, observing his handiwork with an almost childlike curiosity. “Hang on, that looks like it hurts a lot more,” he remarked, patting the crowbar against his gloved palm. His grin widened as a gleeful glint sparked in his eyes.

“Okay, let’s try and clear this up, pumpkin,” he continued, the mocking endearment hanging in the air like a venomous taunt. He raised the crowbar high above his head, the motion slow and deliberate. “Which hurts more, hmm?”

Robin barely had time to react before the metal came crashing down again.

“A?” the Joker asked, his voice sing-song as he delivered another merciless strike. “Or B?” Another savage blow followed, each one accompanied by the sickening crunch of bone and muscle giving way.

“Forearm?” He swung the crowbar like a baseball bat, the force making Robin’s arm buckle awkwardly.

THUD.

“Or backhand?” The next hit landed squarely on Robin’s ribs, forcing a pained gasp from his cracked lips.

THWACK.

The Joker leaned back and surveyed Robin’s pitiful form, his own face splitting into a wide, maniacal grin. “Decisions, decisions,” he mused, chuckling as if he’d just told the punchline to a hilarious joke.

Robin’s face was barely recognizable, swollen and smeared with blood. His body trembled as he tried to speak, his voice reduced to a faint mumble.

The Joker leaned in close, placing a hand to his ear theatrically. “Ehh, ehh, ehh… you gotta speak louder, lambchop!” he jeered, his breath hot against Robin’s ear. He studied the boy with mock pity, tilting his head. “You know, I think you might have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory.”

With a deranged chuckle, the Joker reached out and ran his gloved fingers through Robin’s blood-matted hair. But Robin, summoning what little strength he had left, spat a mouthful of blood into the Joker’s face.

The clown prince froze, his grin faltering for just a moment. Then, his expression twisted into something far darker.

“Now that,” he said, his voice low and venomous, “was rude.” Without hesitation, he grabbed Robin by the hair and slammed his face into the cold, hard ground. The impact sent a fresh wave of blood splattering across the concrete.

Straightening himself, the Joker reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief. He dabbed at his face, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “The first Boy Blunder had some manners, you know,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Despite the unbearable pain coursing through his body, Robin managed a weak, defiant smile. It was enough to reignite the Joker’s fury.

“I suppose,” the Joker said, drawing out the words as he tapped the crowbar against his chin, “I’m going to have to teach you some manners. You should learn to follow in his footsteps.” He paused, pretending to consider the idea before waving it off with a dismissive laugh.

“Nah,” he said, his smile returning, this time more sinister than ever. “I’m just going to keep beating you with this crowbar.”

Jason’s vision blurred as the pain threatened to overtake him. But even as darkness crept into the edges of his mind, there was one thought that lingered: he wasn’t done yet. He wouldn’t go down like this. Not by the hands of this monster. He couldn’t.

The Joker’s smile grew wider as he raised the crowbar high. Jason’s body was on the verge of collapse as the beating continued, each strike punctuated by the Joker’s unhinged laughter. The sound echoed through the empty warehouse, a chilling symphony of madness and cruelty that seemed to stretch on forever.

                                         ***

[Ra’s al Ghul’s POV]

Ra’s al Ghul’s sharp gaze turned toward his assistant as he strode into the room with an air of tension that mirrored the night outside. The man held a tablet displaying the latest update on the operation Ra’s had so meticulously planned. Despite the apparent success of their objective, there was no word from their unpredictable ally, Joker—only the chilling report that Batman’s protégé had been abducted.

“What is it?” Ra’s asked, his voice calm yet edged with a dangerous curiosity.

The assistant hesitated for a moment, clearly reluctant to deliver bad news to his formidable master. “I’m afraid it’s as you feared, sir,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

Ra’s turned from him, walking slowly to the massive window at the far end of the room. The ancient glass panes framed a view of the vast mountain range, their peaks cloaked in darkness and dusted with fresh snow. The night was cold, unforgiving, and utterly silent—much like Ra’s himself when his plans went awry. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture commanding despite the weight of the situation.

“And the Detective?” he asked, his tone betraying only a flicker of concern. 

The assistant shifted uncomfortably. “On his way,” he replied, his voice tight. “But I fear he won’t arrive in time, sir. The boy… well, the situation appears dire.”

Ra’s exhaled slowly, his breath fogging slightly against the chill radiating from the glass. He shut his eyes, his expression unreadable. “Let us hope he does,” he said, his voice low and contemplative.

Though his face betrayed no emotion, Ra’s mind was racing. This wasn’t how things were meant to unfold. He had anticipated chaos when aligning himself with the Joker—madness and bloodshed were always part of the clown’s repertoire—but he had never intended for the young one to be caught in the crossfire. This was not his way, not his style. The boy had potential, after all, and Ra’s was nothing if not a man who recognized the value of untapped greatness.

The assistant lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to speak or leave. Ra’s sensed his hesitation and, without turning, dismissed him with a single wave of his hand. The man bowed slightly before retreating, leaving Ra’s alone with his thoughts.

The snowfall outside thickened, the flakes swirling like restless ghosts under the pale moonlight. Ra’s opened his eyes and studied the scene, a rare twinge of doubt tugging at his otherwise unshakable confidence. The Detective, Batman, had faced countless trials before and emerged victorious. But tonight, Ra’s wasn’t sure if even the Dark Knight could outpace the merciless clock ticking against him.

Joker was a dangerous gamble, a force of chaos that could never truly be controlled. Ra’s had known this when he struck the deal, but desperation had clouded his judgment. Now, the consequences of that choice weighed heavily, not only on him but on the life of a boy who should never have been dragged into the depths of this madness.

As the moments passed, Ra’s remained still, staring into the storm. For the first time in years, he felt a pang of regret—not for himself, but for the Detective. If Batman failed, it wouldn’t just be his protégé who paid the price. It would be another crack in the fragile balance between order and chaos, one that even Ra’s al Ghul might not be able to mend.

Chapter Text

[After a while into the beating…]

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that seemed to seep into the bones, chilling the marrow, as though the world itself had decided to hold its breath. The only sound that cut through the stillness was the frantic, pounding thrum of Jason Todd’s heartbeat. It hammered in his skull, relentless, a grim reminder that life was slipping from him with each tortured beat.

His vision was a crimson blur—his blood, thick and sticky, dripping steadily from the gash on his forehead. His face felt cold, but the pain was an inferno. His limbs ached like they were being torn apart, each breath a struggle, ragged and shallow as if his lungs were too broken to draw in air properly. He could feel the weight of his own body, the oppressive pressure of his wounds, and yet, all that registered in his mind was the pounding of his heart, each throb louder than the last, louder than everything else.

Somewhere, far away but painfully close, there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing in the hollow vastness of the abandoned warehouse. The faintest hint of a presence that Jason could not escape. His eyes, barely open, flicked toward the source, but his blurred vision offered little clarity. What he could make out, though, was enough.

The Joker stood over Jason like a predator inspecting its prey, a wide, sickening grin stretched across his face. Bloodied and battered, Jason could barely lift his head to acknowledge him, but the Joker didn’t seem to mind.

“Been fun, hasn’t it, kiddo?” The Joker’s voice was disturbingly casual, as though he were speaking to an old acquaintance, not someone he’d just beaten within an inch of their life. His eyes sparkled with perverse delight as he casually twirled a bloodied crowbar between his gloved fingers. The sound of it scraping against the floor made Jason’s skin crawl, but there was no strength left in him to even flinch.

Joker’s laugh—high-pitched and unnervingly cheerful—rang through the warehouse. “Aw, don’t be like that, Boy Blonder. Giving me the cold shoulder already?” His grin deepened, and he straightened his tie with exaggerated flair, savoring the moment like it was a fine wine. “Maybe this wasn’t as fun for you as it was for me, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all.”

Jason’s body was a wreck. His limbs were stiff, his muscles screaming in agony with every slow, deliberate move he managed to make. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, only the dull throb of the brutal hits to his chest and ribs. His breath came in strained, panicked gasps, a struggle to stay conscious.

Joker ignored him now, his hands moving to adjust his coat, speaking as though Jason were simply an afterthought. “Anyway, be a good little soldier. Finish your homework, and don’t forget to brush your teeth before bed. Oh, and tell Batsy I said… hello.” His words were soaked in mocking affection, as though he were a warped, twisted father bidding his son farewell. The laughter bubbled up again, echoing off the crumbling walls, bouncing around the cold, empty space like a maniacal choir.

With a theatrical flourish, Joker swept his coat over his shoulders, the fabric swirling dramatically in the air. His steps toward the door were slow and deliberate, each one a final punctuation mark to the twisted performance. And then, just as quickly, the heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of footsteps faded away into nothingness, leaving Jason alone in the stark, cold silence.

Jason’s body trembled as he struggled to push himself up, the effort overwhelming his senses. His hands, still cuffed behind his back, scraped against the cold concrete floor. Every inch of him felt like it was unraveling, but still, he fought against the overwhelming fatigue, the pain that threatened to crush him.

He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, each movement sending shockwaves through his ravaged body. His right hand reached for the cuffs, twisting painfully as he tried to bring them to the front. His face, streaked with blood, was a mask of exhaustion and determination. He would not die here. Not like this.

Every movement was an eternity. Jason managed to get his hands in front of him and pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky, like they might collapse at any moment. His mind raced, desperate for a plan, for a way out, but his body betrayed him. He stumbled, barely able to catch his balance, before crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, his head slamming against the cold concrete.

But Jason Todd was nothing if not stubborn. He dragged himself, inch by inch, his arms trembling with the effort. Each movement was a struggle, his blood pooling beneath him as he left a crimson trail across the warehouse floor. Every inch forward felt like it could be his last, but he refused to stop. Not when the man who had done this to him was still out there. Not when there was still a chance to survive.

Through the haze of pain, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, mechanical beeping. His eyes, unfocused and blurry, darted around the room. He couldn’t see it at first, but then… a faint shape, hidden under a tarp, caught his attention. A crate. And with it, the ticking of a timer.

His blood ran cold as he crawled toward the source. With trembling hands, he yanked away the tarp, revealing a cluster of dynamite sticks, wired to a timer counting down—ten seconds. Jason’s heart skipped a beat.

He froze. Time seemed to stretch out around him, each second stretching into eternity, mocking him with its inevitability. His hands trembled as he reached for the timer, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t disarm it. He couldn’t escape.

Closing his eyes, Jason let out a shuddering breath, as if willing the pain to disappear, willing the world to stop spinning. He had fought. He had given everything. And now, there was nothing left but the inevitable.

Outside, Batman’s motorcycle roared to a halt in front of the warehouse, its tires skidding on the icy ground. His cowl hidden the grimace of worry etched on his face, but his eyes were locked on the tracker blinking in his radar, showing him Jason’s last known location. He was close—he had to be close.

He sprinted toward the door, urgency driving every step, but just as he reached for the handle, the ground shook beneath him. The explosion was deafening, a violent roar that ripped through the night and tore the building apart. The heat of the blast burned through the cold air, and the shockwave sent Batman crashing backward, his body slamming into the snow.

The warehouse erupted in flames, the sky now illuminated by the inferno, the fire curling up into the blackness above, roaring as though the very heavens themselves had opened in fury. For a moment, everything was still. Silent.

But then, slowly, the sound of debris settling and the crackling of fire was all that remained. Jason Todd was gone.

“Jason!” Batman’s voice cut through the stillness, ragged and desperate, as he leapt to his feet and charged toward the charred remnants of the warehouse. His cape billowed behind him, but it was the sound of his boots striking the debris that filled the air—the only sign of his presence in the midst of the roaring flames.

The fire crackled, sending waves of heat into the night, but Bruce paid it no mind. His hands bled as he dug through the wreckage, recklessly scraping at the broken beams. His gloves were slick with soot and blood—his own, perhaps, but more so from the boy he had failed to save. His heart thudded in his chest with every passing second, each beat pulling him deeper into the vortex of guilt that seemed to threaten to swallow him whole.

“Jason!” he called again, his voice hoarse with emotion. The flames hissed and popped around him, but he couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

And then, through the smoke and chaos, he found him.

Jason’s body lay limp beneath a pile of twisted metal and shattered concrete. His face was ghostly pale, streaked with blood, his eyes closed in eternal stillness. His once vibrant, rebellious spirit was now a faint echo in the shadows. Batman’s breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside him, his hands trembling as they gently cradled the boy who had once been his son.

“Oh no…” The words slipped from Bruce’s lips in a broken whisper. The weight of his failure pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. He had failed to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was nothing left but the crushing reality of loss.

He lifted Jason’s body with the careful tenderness of a father, his own emotions threatening to tear him apart. “Jason…” His voice cracked, the sound raw and filled with an anguish he had buried for so long. It was too much. It was always too much.

***

Later, Bruce stood outside the morgue, the night heavy with the scent of rain. He had brought Jason’s body there under the guise of his civilian identity, Bruce Wayne—donating a large sum to ensure no questions were asked, no details revealed. The cause of death was registered simply as “explosion.” The world would never know the truth of what had happened. But Bruce knew. And that knowledge, that brutal truth, would haunt him forever.

At Wayne Manor, Alfred, Barbara, and Dick gathered in the study, their faces grim, their hearts heavy with the weight of the tragedy. Bruce sat in silence, his head bowed, his hands pressed against his face. The clock ticked on, indifferent to the storm of emotions brewing within him.

Alfred, ever the steady presence, placed a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder, offering the only comfort he could. “There was nothing you could have done,” he said softly, his voice full of quiet understanding. “You didn’t know he would be in Bosnia.”

Bruce shook his head slowly, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke through clenched teeth. “For someone who’s lost so many, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not.” His chest tightened with the weight of his grief, his failure. “I failed him, Alfred. I should’ve protected him.”

Alfred said nothing more, simply allowing the silence to settle around them. Sometimes, there were no words that could ease the pain.

Dick, restless and torn between his own grief and the need for answers, stepped forward, his face a mixture of confusion and barely contained anger. “What exactly happened in Bosnia?” His voice was sharp, his frustration evident. “How did a mission tracking Ra’s al Ghul lead to... this?”

Barbara, her eyes fierce despite her wheelchair, rolled closer to Bruce, her hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. Her voice was calm but firm, a reminder to them all of the strength that remained even in the face of overwhelming loss. “Not now, Dick,” she said, her words cutting through the tension that had thickened in the room. “This isn’t your fault, Bruce. You did everything you could.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t have the strength to explain, to confront the questions that gnawed at him. He stood in silence, the weight of his failure settling deeper within him, suffocating him in the shadows of his own mind.

Without a word, he turned and walked toward the staircase. The quiet hum of the house, the faint murmur of his family behind him—none of it could drown out the voices in his head, the haunting echo of the Joker’s laughter that still reverberated in his ears. The laughter that had led them here. To this point of no return.

As he ascended the stairs, his footsteps heavy with guilt and grief, the voices below him faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cold, relentless sound of his own heartbeat.

And Jason’s absence, more deafening than any laugh, echoed through the hollow halls of Wayne Manor.

Chapter Text

The rain fell in torrents, a relentless downpour that seemed to mirror the sorrow hanging heavy in the air. Each drop splattered against the earth, the rhythmic sound a constant companion to the quiet procession making its way toward the small graveyard behind Wayne Manor. The somber procession trudged through the rain-soaked grass, each step weighed down by the gravity of their grief. The storm seemed to seep into their very bones, an unspoken reminder of the pain that hung over them all.

Dressed in black, the Bat family stood united yet isolated in their shared loss. Their faces were obscured by a mixture of rain and unshed tears, their expressions unreadable beneath the wet fabric of their umbrellas. The umbrellas offered little protection against the downpour; their fragile coverings barely held against the storm’s fury. Still, they raised them high, as if attempting to shield themselves from the weight of the world pressing in around them.

At the front of the procession, Bruce Wayne walked with his usual commanding presence, though now it was as though an invisible weight had settled onto his broad shoulders. His figure, always so imposing, now appeared hunched under the burden of grief. His face, usually masked in stoic determination, was softened with an unspoken sorrow, the anguish in his eyes betraying the calm exterior he fought to maintain.

To his right stood Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-faithful butler, whose face was a picture of quiet grief. His eyes, though calm, were shadowed by the pain of years spent alongside Bruce, witnessing the tragic losses that had marked his life. Alfred’s unshakable composure did little to mask the heaviness in his gaze.

Behind them, Dick Grayson walked with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. Once the bright and confident Robin, he now carried the burden of memories—some joyous, some filled with the bitterness of regret.

As Nightwing, he stood not only as a brother but as a man haunted by the loss of his sibling in arms. Beside him, Barbara Gordon moved forward with quiet determination, her wheelchair seeming to glide across the wet earth as if nothing could stop her. Her strength, her resilience, stood as a quiet testament to the unwavering love she had for those around her, despite the unbearable ache of their shared grief.

The grave was ready, the coffin standing solemnly beneath the darkened sky, draped in black. Red roses had been placed around it by those who had come before, their vibrant color a stark contrast to the rain-soaked scene. The water pounded against the polished wood, creating a mournful rhythm that resonated in the silence that had fallen over the mourners. The only sounds were the rain, the wind, and the faint rustle of fabric as each person gathered around the gravesite, waiting for Bruce to speak.

He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and measured, though every step seemed to cost him more than the last. The others gathered behind him, their faces solemn, their gazes fixed on the coffin. Bruce paused before it, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered on the polished wood. His thoughts seemed distant, his voice thick with emotion as he finally spoke.

“Jason Todd,” he began, his voice steady, though laden with an undercurrent of pain. “Was more than just a partner. He was a fighter. Brave. Stubborn. Fierce.” His voice cracked slightly as he continued, “He believed in the mission, in making Gotham a better place. Even when we disagreed... he never stopped trying to do what he thought was right.”

The rain continued to pour down, but it did nothing to mask the tremor in Bruce’s voice. He cleared his throat and pressed on, the words coming slower now, quieter. “He made mistakes, like we all do. But he was still... my son. And I failed him.”

Dick stepped forward then, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, grounding him in the moment. His voice was soft, but firm. “You didn’t fail him, Bruce. Jason knew the risks. He wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself for this.”

Bruce didn’t respond, his eyes still fixed on the coffin as if he could will it to come back. The weight of his silence was unbearable, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

After a long, still moment, he stepped back, making room for the others to say their goodbyes.

Dick knelt first, his movements slow, measured. His hand rested briefly on the coffin, and then he spoke, his voice tight with emotion. “You were a pain in the ass, Jason. But you were my brother, and I loved you. I’ll never forget that.” His voice cracked as he placed a red rose atop the coffin. He stood and took a step back, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Barbara followed, her hands steady as she gripped the rose. She leaned forward and spoke quietly, though her voice carried an unmistakable weight of affection and regret. “You were reckless, but you had so much heart. Too much, maybe. I just wish you could’ve seen how much you meant to all of us.” She placed the rose gently on the coffin and took a step back, her head lowered in reverence.

Alfred’s turn came next. He approached with the calm dignity that had defined him for decades, his movements deliberate, each step filled with quiet resolve. His hand trembled slightly as he placed his rose on the coffin, and his voice, barely audible above the rain, whispered the words that carried decades of care, loss, and fatherly affection. “Master Jason,” he murmured, “you were far from perfect. But you were ours. Rest well, young man.”

With the final rose placed, the coffin began its slow descent into the earth. The sound of the mechanism whirring as it lowered, combined with the steady beat of the rain, created an eerie dirge, a mournful soundtrack to their collective sorrow.

Bruce stood motionless, his face set in an expression of quiet torment, watching as Jason was slowly swallowed by the earth. The rain soaked through his coat, the cold seeping into his skin, but he remained frozen. A part of him wanted to reach out, to pull Jason back, to undo the irreversible, but he knew that it was impossible. Jason was gone.

As the grave was filled, a simple headstone was placed, bearing Jason’s name, the dates of his birth and death, and the words: Beloved Son. Fierce Protector. Taken Too Soon.

The family lingered for a moment, each lost in their thoughts, their grief too heavy to speak of. Finally, it was Alfred who spoke, his voice gentle but firm. “Master Bruce, it’s time to go. The rain will do us no favors if we linger much longer.”

Bruce didn’t move immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the headstone, his thoughts swirling with memories of Jason—the boy who had challenged him, frustrated him, and, above all, made him proud.

After what felt like an eternity, Bruce turned away, the weight of his sorrow too much to bear. The family began their slow walk back to Wayne Manor, the rain continuing to fall, relentless as ever, as though mourning alongside them.

Inside the manor, the silence was deafening. The rooms, once alive with the sounds of laughter and bickering, now felt hollow, as if Jason’s absence had left an irreparable void. Bruce retreated to the Batcave, seeking solace in the work that had long been his only refuge. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape the memory of Jason’s lifeless body, the image that haunted him even in his most isolated moments.

The others gave him space, understanding that grief was a battle Bruce had to fight on his own. But they, too, carried the weight of Jason’s loss, each in their own way, each unable to escape the shared sorrow that lingered in the house like an unshakable shadow.

That night, as the rain finally ceased and the clouds parted to reveal a pale moon, Bruce stood alone in the Batcave, staring at the Robin suit encased in glass. His hand reached out to rest against the cold, transparent surface. The silence enveloped him, broken only by the faint sound of his voice, barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I should’ve been there. I should’ve saved you.”

The suit remained still, its silent presence a stark reminder of what had been lost.

****

[Meanwhile]

Jason Todd drifted in the void, a dark, empty expanse where there was no light, no sound, no sense of time or place. The absence of everything was suffocating, an oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. He had no sense of how long he had been there, but his thoughts were sharp—razor-sharp—and they cut through the nothingness with a clarity that felt almost wrong.

“Where the hell am I?” he muttered, his voice breaking the stillness, but even as it echoed into the void, it felt too quiet. He paused, staring into the vast blackness, and then the realization slammed into him like a freight train. “Oh. Right. I died.”

The memories hit him all at once—raw, vivid, and unforgiving. The Joker’s maniacal laughter, the sickening crack of the crowbar against his skull, the blinding explosion that followed. The pain, the panic, the final, fleeting moments of life. It all replayed in brutal detail, each image searing into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost.

“Is this it?” Jason’s voice cracked, the question escaping him before he could stop it. “Is this where people end up when they die? Some pitch-black nowhere?” He tried to move, to lift his hands, to do anything, but his body refused to cooperate. It was as though he was paralyzed, trapped in this empty space with only his thoughts for company. Helpless. Frozen. A prisoner in his own mind.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the silence—deep, mocking, reverberating inside his skull rather than his ears. It was a voice that seemed both familiar and alien, like a shadow of something he couldn’t quite place.

“You finally ended up dead. Killed by a fucking clown, no less. How poetic.”

Jason’s heart—or whatever remained of it in this strange place—skipped a beat. The voice felt like a jolt of electricity, a surge of shock and confusion. “Who the hell’s there?” he demanded, his voice sharp and filled with a sudden unease. He strained, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, but it was everywhere and nowhere all at once, an omnipresent echo that seemed to invade every corner of his mind.

“You can’t guess?” The voice taunted, a smug, almost gleeful tone dripping with a familiarity that made Jason’s stomach twist. “Come on, partner. You should know this one.”

Jason frowned, confusion beginning to replace his initial anger. He had nothing but time here in this void, so he might as well try to figure out what was going on. “Why do you sound like me?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but still sharp with suspicion.

The voice chuckled darkly. “That’s because I am you. Or at least, I’m the part of you that’s actually got some sense left. You know, the voice in your head that’s been trying to keep you alive all these years. The one that’s been screaming for you to ditch Bruce, to stop pretending you needed him. But you didn’t listen, did you? You just kept crawling back, like some desperate mutt, begging for scraps of affection.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his frustration starting to boil over. “Oh, great. I’m stuck in some twisted version of hell, and my tormentor is... me?”

The voice scoffed, as though Jason had missed the point entirely. “Hell? Nah, this isn’t hell. Though, it might as well be, considering how royally you screwed up. Let’s face it, kid: You spent your whole life chasing Bruce’s approval. And what did it get you? Dead. Beaten to death by a damn clown. And where was dear old Batman when you needed him? Nowhere. He wasn’t there to save you. And guess what? He doesn’t even have the guts to admit he failed you.”

Jason gritted his teeth, anger and frustration surging through him. “Alright, enough of the pity party,” he snapped. “What is this place, then? If it’s not hell, then what the hell is it?”

“Questions, questions,” the voice mocked, its tone annoyingly calm, like a parent humoring a child. “Don’t worry, we’ve got all the time in the world to get to the answers. But first, let’s play a little game. How about a nice stroll down memory lane? Let’s revisit the events that led to your oh-so-tragic demise. Maybe seeing it all laid out will help you understand just how badly Bruce screwed up your life—physically and mentally.”

Jason scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. A recap of my greatest hits sounds like exactly what I need. Not like I have anything better to do, right?”

The void seemed to pulse in response, the oppressive darkness shifting as if acknowledging his words. Then, a faint light flickered in the distance. At first, it was so small it seemed insignificant—just a pinprick of brightness in the endless blackness. But as moments passed, it began to grow, its light pulsing steadily, drawing Jason’s attention like a moth to a flame.

Chapter Text

“Well, here we go,” he muttered, resigned to the inevitable pull toward whatever awaited him.

The voice in his head chuckled again, low and bitter. “That’s the spirit, partner. Let’s start at the beginning. Walk yourself through it all—the choices, the mistakes, the moments you ignored every warning sign. Let’s see if you can finally peel back those scales you’ve been so desperate to keep over your eyes.”

Jason drew in a deep breath—or what passed for one in the strange, liminal space he now occupied—and focused on the distant light. As his thoughts narrowed in on the glow, the nothingness around him began to tremble, its emptiness folding and reshaping itself.

Faint colors bled into the blackness, slowly taking form, as if the universe itself was drawing a picture. The shadows sharpened, becoming familiar streets. Gotham. The past.

It was the Gotham he knew well, the one he had spent years fighting to survive in. The cracked pavement, the crooked alleyways, the constant hum of distant sirens—all the sights and sounds were there. The city hadn’t changed. But Jason had.

And there, standing in front of the Batmobile, was a much younger version of himself—skinny, scrappy, and furious. His face was twisted with defiance as he glared up at the towering figure of Batman, whose silhouette was shrouded in the darkness of Gotham’s alleyways. Jason’s hands were covered in grease, the tires of the Batmobile already stripped away.

“Oh, great,” Jason muttered to himself, his voice laced with irritation. He rolled his eyes. “This is where we’re starting?”

“Where else?” the voice retorted, dripping with disdain. “This is where your story with Bruce begins. The moment he decided to ‘save’ you. The moment everything started going to shit.”

Jason couldn’t argue with that. The memory felt fresh, as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday. His younger self had been full of anger, frustration, and the reckless confidence of a street rat who thought he could outsmart the legendary Batman.

He remembered the desperation that had driven him to risk his life, to steal from the one person in the city who could ruin him with a single word.

The memory unfolded like a slow-motion movie, a younger Jason staring defiantly at Batman, daring him to make a move. He had felt untouchable, so confident like he was invincible back then. He was hungry for power, for respect, for something—anything—that could give his life meaning.

“Look at you,” the voice jeered, its tone thick with mockery. “A scrappy little street rat, thinking you could outsmart the goddamn Batman. And what did he do? Instead of throwing you in a cell, he decided to make you his little project.

Congratulations, Jason. You got adopted by Gotham’s most emotionally constipated billionaire.”

Jason scowled at the voice, but couldn’t shake the bitter sting of truth in its words. He had been a mess, no doubt about it. And Bruce—Bruce had taken him in, given him a chance. Or so it seemed at the time. Jason’s mind raced, but before he could form a response, the memory shifted.

The streets of Gotham faded, replaced by the crisp, sterile atmosphere of the Batcave. Jason watched as the scene morphed into his early days as Robin.

The sparring sessions. The long nights spent training with Bruce. The adrenaline of their joint missions, side by side. There had been pride back then. Pride in proving he was worthy of the mantle. A strange sense of family too. A bond that felt unbreakable.

But the voice was relentless.

“And there it is,” it taunted, its tone dripping with disdain. “The honeymoon phase. The part where you actually thought you mattered to him. But tell me, Jason—how long did that feeling last? A year? Two? Before you started to realize you were just another cog in his endless crusade?”

The scene flickered once more, fast-forwarding through the months of training, the missions, the escalating tension between them. Jason remembered it all—the way Bruce had kept him at arm’s length, the unspoken distance that had grown between them.

The arguments had started small, but they soon became an undercurrent to everything they did. Jason had wanted more. He had wanted to be seen. To be valued.

Jason’s fists clenched involuntarily. He wasn’t sure if he was angry at the voice, at Bruce, or at himself for not recognizing the truth sooner. “I get it, alright?” he snapped, frustration building in his chest. “Things weren’t perfect. But Bruce tried. He—”

“Tried?” the voice cut him off, its mocking tone sharp enough to make Jason flinch. “He failed, Jason. Over and over again, he failed you. And deep down, you know it.”

With that the memory dissolved again, flashing forward, and suddenly Jason was standing in that warehouse as he was forced to recall the memory where he saw himself tied to the chair drenched in his blood as the dim light casted a long shadows on the walls.

The echoes of the Joker’s cruel laughter filled his ears, cold and mocking, as the infamous crowbar gleamed in the dim glow. Jason could almost feel the weight of it, hear the sickening crack as it descended on him. His chest tightened, and his stomach lurched.

Jason turned away, his breath coming in shallow gasps, unwilling to watch the scene unfold once more. “I don’t need to see this again,” he muttered, his voice thick with anger and pain.

“Oh, but you do,” the voice insisted, its tone cold and unrelenting. “You need to remember how it felt. How Bruce wasn’t there. If only he had gone after Joker with you.

He knew you wouldn’t be able to sit still when Joker was not too far from you in Bosnia, and would inevitably go after the mad clown. Yet he left you in pursuit of Ra’s al Ghul, you died alone, ”

The words hit him like a physical blow, and he felt a wave of nausea rise up in him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the memory played out once more.

The light dimmed around him, the scene fading into the darkness, leaving Jason alone once more in the void. His heart—or whatever remained of it—ached.

His hands were clenched into fists, his body trembling with the raw weight of the emotions crashing over him. He was silent for a long time, seething with frustration, guilt, and loss.

“We’re just getting started, partner,” the voice said as it broke the silence, its tone dripping with mockery. “Plenty more to unpack. Brace yourself.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, the weight of them pressing down on Jason’s chest. He couldn’t deny it. He didn’t have a choice. This was where he was. And for better or worse, he was going to have to face what came next.

***

The void around Jason dissolved once again, but this time he wasn’t drifting aimlessly. Instead, he was yanked back into a memory so vivid that it felt like it had just happened yesterday.

He could almost taste the adrenaline in the air, that heady rush of excitement that had pulsed through him like electricity. It was his first night in the Robin suit, and the world seemed to stretch out before him like an endless horizon.

He was invincible then. With the cape draped around his shoulders, and the mask on his face, he truly believed he could take down anyone, anything, that Gotham could throw his way.

That night, the target was The Riddler.

The memory was sharp, its details clear as crystal. Jason stood just outside the Gotham City Museum, the night air crisp and biting. A faint chill nipped at his exposed skin, but the cold did nothing to dampen the warmth in his chest.

His heart raced, not out of fear, but anticipation. Inside, he could hear the clinking of glass breaking and muffled voices—Riddler’s goons had already started their work, ransacking the museum for priceless artifacts.

Jason’s gaze flicked over to Bruce, standing in the shadows just a few steps away, as silent and imposing as ever.

With a simple, curt nod, Bruce signaled that it was time.

Inside, chaos unfolded in front of him. The Riddler and his crew moved through the museum like they owned it, dragging valuable paintings and priceless relics across the floor.

The golden frame of a large portrait shimmered under the low lighting, an eerie contrast to the thuggish activity unfolding around it.

Jason’s pulse quickened. He could barely contain the excitement coursing through him. With a barely audible grunt, he leaped into action. From a nearby chandelier, he swung down with the grace of a predator, landing with a resounding thud on the floor in front of one of Riddler’s henchmen.

The thug barely had time to register his presence before Jason’s boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thump.

“Are you guys having a party?” Jason quipped, his voice laced with feigned innocence, though his grin was anything but. The henchman groaned beneath him, but Jason wasn’t slowing down.

He sprang to his feet, darting toward the next goon with lightning speed. With an elbow to the gut and a twist of his body, the thug crumpled to the ground, defeated.

The Riddler, standing at the center of the chaos, turned in shock at the sudden interruption. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jason, decked out in the Robin suit, sleek and shining under the museum lights.

“What the—?” The Riddler’s words caught in his throat as he took a step back, not sure whether to retreat or fight.

“Guess our invite got lost in the mail,” Jason shot back with a smirk, wiping his gloved hands together as if he’d simply been brushing off some dust after a long day.

The energy in his movements was boundless, every action filled with youthful enthusiasm and a sense of invincibility.

But then came the unmistakable presence of Batman. The air seemed to thicken as Bruce’s dark silhouette descended from the rafters, landing with a soundless thud beside Jason.

Without a word, he dispatched another henchman with a single punch, sending him hurtling into a nearby display case with a crash.

“It’s over, Riddler,” Bruce’s voice was low, commanding, the sound of authority that made the room fall into an almost unnatural quiet. The Riddler scowled, his eyes flashing with annoyance and determination.

“Over? Not even close!” he sneered, before making a swift dash for the nearest exit, his goons scattering in all directions.

Jason was already on the move before Riddler had finished speaking. His instincts kicked in, overriding everything else. He was out the door in an instant, shouting, “I’ll get him!” as he propelled himself forward.

Using the shoulders of two stunned henchmen as a makeshift springboard, he launched himself toward the retreating villain, his body moving before his brain could catch up.

The crack of a whip split the air, aiming for his legs. Without breaking stride, Jason twisted and leaped, his nimble body moving in a blur of skilled precision.

The whip coiled around his ankles for a split second, but with a quick flick of his batarang, he severed it, watching it fall uselessly to the ground.

“Nice try,” Jason muttered, his lips curling into a grin as he landed smoothly, unscathed. The Riddler was no longer in his sights, but Jason didn’t have to chase far. The villain wasn’t nearly as fast or agile as Jason was.

It didn’t take long before he was standing in front of Riddler, his stance confident and relaxed, blocking the escape route.

“Riddle me this,” Jason said, his voice dripping with cocky confidence. He raised an eyebrow, watching Riddler carefully. “What’s green and purple but about to be covered in red and yellow?”

Riddler’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his signature question-mark cane. Before he could retaliate, the cane swung toward Jason’s head with a swift, calculated arc. Jason blocked the blow effortlessly with his batarang, spinning into a half-cartwheel to evade the next attack.

He landed gracefully behind Riddler, delivering a solid kick to his groin. The sound that escaped Riddler’s lips was almost comical as he crumpled in pain.

“Wrong answer,” Jason smirked, his chest swelling with the rush of victory as Riddler tried to creep away from him. He followed the Riddler down a small staircase, effortlessly landing atop him with a satisfying thud.

“You,” Jason answered his own riddle, grinning. “When I land on your sorry butt.” He remarked as he laughed at his own joke.

But as quickly as the victory felt real, the scene around him warped once more. The bright lights of the museum dissolved, and Jason was thrust into another memory. But there was something different this time around, this one felt different.

Chapter Text

This memory felt different. There was a tension to it, a crackling energy that made the air around Jason feel heavier. It was a night of familiar conflict, one of those countless times he had butted heads with Bruce.

Their moral differences were like an ever-present rift, growing wider as time went on. One could say Bruce was the ever-calm protector, calculating and controlled, while Jason was the fierce and impatient kid who saw the world through a different lens—one that believed Gotham’s worst criminals needed to face consequences— permanent consequences.

That night, they were targeting a drug gang holed up in an abandoned warehouse. The mission, though familiar, was about to go south fast.

The world around Jason felt thick with anticipation as they crept closer to the entrance of the warehouse. As they approached, the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed from inside.

Everything felt still—too still. Then, like a cue, one of the gang members stepped outside for a cigarette. Jason’s eyes snapped to him, his focus unwavering. The thug was an easy target.

The moment the thug saw him, his hand instinctively reached for his gun. The panic in his eyes was fleeting, but it was enough to ignite Jason’s response.

“Don’t move, or I’ll—”

Jason didn’t wait for him to finish the threat. “Or what? Shoot me?” he retorted, the sarcasm in his voice sharp and biting.

Before the thug could even bring the weapon into position, Jason was already in motion. His foot slammed into the thug’s chest with brutal force, sending him flying backward through the warehouse door with a deafening crash. The other gang members, alerted by the sound, scrambled to grab their weapons, and the warehouse erupted into chaos.

Jason dropped to the ground in a perfect roll, his body moving instinctively, narrowly avoiding the hail of gunfire that streaked through the air above him. He didn’t hesitate.

Springing up in a fluid motion, he reached for the nearest thug, his fingers closing around the man’s collar before yanking him down into a brutal knee to the chin. The thug crumpled, his body going limp in Jason’s grip. Without missing a beat, Jason propelled himself into the air, flipping onto a nearby table, his movements a seamless blend of speed and talent.

But the gang wasn’t done. One thug, armed with a rapid-fire weapon, aimed directly at Jason. The muzzle flashed, but Jason was already moving.

He darted through the rain of bullets, evading the bullets as the fabric of his cape fluttered in the air like a blackened wing. In one swift motion, he hurled a small plasma disc at the thug’s gun. The device sparked with electrical energy, paralyzing the man’s arms and leaving him defenseless.

Jason was on him before he could react, taking the thug down with a quick strike to the chest, moving faster than most could process.

The fight was contained—at least for the moment. Jason approached the downed thug, his hands closing around the man’s jaw, forcing him to look up at him. “Twenty rounds a second, and you were still too slow,” Jason taunted, his voice low and mocking. His grip tightened for a moment, but before he could push further, a harsh voice sliced through the air.

“I’m not slow, punk!” The words were thick with anger. Jason turned to see an heavily weight man, his broad chest heaving as he raised a gun, aiming directly at Jason. There was no hesitation. The man fired twice, the shots ringing out in the silent night.

Jason swerved, his reflexes sharp, and dodged the first bullet. The second one grazed his shoulder, but the pain was nothing compared to the rush of the fight. “Me neither,” Jason muttered, his voice low and laced with frustration.

Without wasting a second, he dove toward the shooter, closing the remaining distance in a heartbeat. Batman, always a step ahead, threw a Batarang that knocked the gun out of the man’s hand before Jason could even land.

Jason's elbow shot forward with precision, a vertical strike aimed straight at the thug’s right shoulder. The man’s arm was outstretched, practically inviting the blow, and Jason didn’t hesitate. His strike landed clean, the force of it driving through muscle and bone.

A sickening crack echoed in the air as the shoulder dislocated under the pressure. The thug staggered, his balance faltering as a guttural groan escaped him. The gun slipped from his fingers, forgotten in the dirt as he crumpled to his knees, clutching at the mangled joint.

“Robin!” Batman’s voice rang out, sharp and filled with disapproval. It was the kind of tone that sent a chill down Jason’s spine.

The memory once again shifted without warning, and Jason found himself back in the Batcave, the familiar hum of the Batmobile providing a dull backdrop to the tension in the air. He leaned against the car, his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face a mixture of defiance and frustration. Bruce was pacing in front of him, his movements tight, his jaw clenched.

“I had to take him down,” Jason said, his voice cold as he tried to justify his actions. He wasn’t apologizing—not yet.

“You shattered his collarbone!” Bruce snapped, his voice rising with irritation. “We needed him alive! He would’ve talked!”

Jason didn’t flinch. He raised an eyebrow, unmoved. “He’s a drug-dealing pimp. I didn’t think I had to prop up pillows and mattresses before I took him out.”

“We needed information,” Bruce shot back, his tone laced with barely contained fury. “And you put him into shock.”

Jason glanced down at the floor, a flicker of doubt creeping into his chest as Bruce’s words sank in. “Sorry, that was dumb,” he muttered, his voice softer now, acknowledging his mistake. But his belief still lingered, strong and unwavering. “But he deserved it,” he added, his eyes meeting Bruce’s for the first time, a challenge in his gaze.

Before he could leave, Jason’s subconscious voice cut through the silence, a quiet whisper that echoed in his mind.

“See what you did there?”

The voice was lower now, almost conversational, but it carried an air of authority. A mirror version of Jason which one can only assume was his subconscious, manifested before him, stepping forward just slightly, creating an invisible line between them—one Jason was reluctant to cross. “Thugs like that are the rot festering in Gotham, Jason,” it said, its tone cool and assured. “And deep down, you know you were right.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as the words lingered. The accusation in his subconscious’s voice was not new, but it felt sharper now, more personal. Still unwilling to accept the words of what seemed to be from his inner voice, he spoke up, his tone was neutral but defensive and sharp.

“For all the times I’ve questioned Bruce, you can’t deny what he’s done for the city,” Jason shot back, his voice rising with the familiar heat of a well-worn argument. “Even with his flaws, he’s done more good for Gotham than anyone else. And for the world.”

The subconscious sighed, a long, frustrated sound, running a hand through its hair. It mirrored Jason’s own frustration, the weariness evident in every motion. “You keep putting him on this pedestal,” it said, its voice rising with intensity, “but it’s time to face reality. Bruce isn’t perfect. Hell, he’s the furthest thing from it. He’s part of the problem, Jason. He’s part of what keeps Gotham in this endless cycle of decay.”

Jason’s mouth opened, ready to counter, but the voice pressed on, cutting him off with an intensity that left him no room to respond.

“Think about it,” it said, leaning in closer. “How many lives has Bruce actually changed? How many criminals has he truly stopped? He fights the disease, but he refuses to cure it. And worse? He drags people like us into his crusade—kids who needed help, not spandex suits.”

“I never wanted him to be perfect.”

Jason’s shoulders sagged, and the words caught in his throat. His voice faltered, losing the fire it once had. “I know Bruce and I don’t agree on everything,” he murmured, his words softer now, laced with doubt. “I get that. But he’s still the only reason Gotham hasn’t collapsed completely. He’s—”

The words died in his throat, a faint tremor betraying the uncertainty that was starting to crack through his defenses. Even as he tried to defend Bruce, a small part of him wondered if it was the truth—or just a lie he told himself to keep moving forward.

The colour of the Batcave around him began to dissolve, its familiar shadows fading away to reveal a different memory. This one was darker, colder. The rain poured down in torrents, each drop hitting the ground like a drumbeat. Jason stood, watching a younger version of himself—Robin—arguing with Batman in the storm-soaked streets of Gotham.

“Why do we always have to let them go with a pointless punishment like Jail when we know they would just come right out and fall back into their way of crime? It’s not enough to teach them a rehabilitating lesson.” young Jason shouted, his voice raw with frustration. “They’re just going to do it again when they get out!”

Batman stood firm, his silhouette towering over the drenched city, the cold light from the flickering streetlamps casting harsh shadows over his features. His voice was calm, but the finality in his words left no room for debate. “Because we follow the law, Jason. We don’t decide who deserves a death penalty. That’s not our job.”

The memory shifted, molten and unstable, until Jason found himself on a familiar rooftop, crouched in the shadows like a ghost haunting his own past. He moved with the raw energy of youth, his movements quick and precise, taking down petty criminals with violent strikes that could leave each of them in critical conditions, going beyond Bruce’s code of conduct.

“You always wanted to do more than just stop them,” the voice of his subconscious rang out, cutting through the moment. “You wanted them to pay. You wanted them to suffer the consequence of their crime.”

Jason’s eyes followed the younger version of himself as he cornered a thug in an alley. The man trembled, hands raised in a desperate plea. “Please! Don’t hurt me!”

But Jason’s expression was cold, his fists clenched with quiet rage. “You deserve this,” he growled before delivering a brutal punch. Blow after blow followed, the impact echoing through the alley. Batman’s voice suddenly rang out from behind him.

“That’s enough, Robin!” Batman barked, stepping forward to pull Jason away and memory came to an abrupt pause.

“Bruce couldn’t save you from yourself because he tried enforcing his own belief upon you.” it said, the words cutting deep. “I know all you’ve ever wanted was his love and acknowledgment, it had you continuously competing with his first and beloved first son, Dick-fucking-Grayson.

At the end of it all you ended up dead because of him, Jason. Because of his unreasonable choices. He brought you into this life, knowing the risks, knowing the pain it would bring. And what did it accomplish? Nothing. You died for nothing. And guess what? The cycle keeps going.”

Jason’s chest tightened, anger and sorrow mixing into a knot that threatened to choke him as he refused to accept the truth presented before him. “I know he saw loved me as much as he loved Dick.” he said, his voice a shaky whisper. “I know, but… I just… I can’t always see it sometimes.”

The Batcave reappeared around him, cold and unfeeling. The familiar hum of the cave’s machinery was absent, leaving only the weighty silence to fill the void. Shadows clung to every corner, seeming to grow darker with every echo of his subconscious’s words.

“Now that that’s sunk in, we can move on,” his subconscious said, stepping back into the shadows. Its tone was calm, almost detached, but its presence lingered, a constant weight pressing down on Jason’s shoulders as he struggled with his dilemma, turned between two parts of himself.

Before Jason could respond, the world shifted again. This time, he was floating, suspended in a vast, endless void once again. The darkness was oppressive, but it didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like a blank canvas—a place where everything had been stripped away, leaving only the truth from his very soul.

***

After giving Jason enough time to self reflect, his shadow self materialized out of the void, a perfect reflection of himself, just as before.

“We’ve gone through your memories,” it began, its voice steady but burdened with a sense of gravity. “We’ve dragged out the thoughts you’ve refused to confront and buried deep within yourself, under a pile of the lies you tell yourself as you sort acknowledgement.

And now it’s time to face reality: like I said before, our death didn’t change anything. We died for nothing, Jason. And Bruce? He’s going to replace you. He always does.”

Jason flinched at the words, but he forced himself to hold his ground. His voice wavered as he asked, “What are you saying?”

The eyes of his shadow self narrowed, its expression darkening. “You still don’t get it, do you?” it asked, stepping closer. “The Bat family—it’s not a family. It’s a group of traumatized kids, thrown into the same cycle Bruce has been stuck in for years. And instead of helping us heal, instead of giving us a chance to be something more, he hands us a mask and a suit and throws us into his war against crime.”

The words struck Jason like a physical blow. As it spoke, it’s voice grew colder, sharper, each word laced with bitterness. “You were never more than a soldier to him. And now that you’re gone, he’ll train another Robin. Another kid, another life ruined. And the worst part? The cycle will never end.”

Jason clenched his fists, his knuckles white. “It’s only natural he gets himself another Robin,” he shot back, his tone defensive. “Just as he made me his sidekick after Dick went off on his own. That’s how it works.”

His shado sneered, its expression twisting with disappointment. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?” it asked, its voice dripping with disdain.

“That it’s natural? That it’s just how things are? Wake up, Jason. You’re not a legacy. You’re a replacement. A patch for the hole left by someone else. And now that you’re gone, the hole you left will be patched too. Over and over, until there’s nothing left but masks and the continued sequence of crime.

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, the void darkened further. The silence grew absolute, swallowing the world around him. Everything—the voice from his shadow self, the memories, even the faint echoes of his own breath—was gone.

He was alone now, suspended in the endless dark, his thoughts the only thing keeping him company.

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd’s POV]

From the void, the voice came again without its physical manifestation in my image. It didn’t speak—it tore its way into my mind, a jagged intrusion that demanded to be heard.

It writhed and clawed, its presence so heavy and consuming it felt like it could split me apart.

“Here’s a glimpse of what might have happened if, by some twist of fate, you had survived that explosion,” it hissed. The words weren’t just spoken; they were carved into my skull, each syllable a cruel twist of the knife.

The oppressive darkness surrounding me unraveled like smoke, giving way to something sharper, something painfully vivid. I wasn’t floating anymore. I was alive—or something close enough.

The first thing that hit me was the smell: antiseptic, bleach, and something faintly metallic. It was sterile, suffocating, a stark contrast to the faint ache radiating through my body.

I was lying in my bed. The sheets were stiff, the air cold, and the room so quiet that the steady beep of the monitors felt deafening. Sunlight filtered through a crack in the curtains, but it was muted, weak, casting faint streaks of gold across sterile white walls.

It should have been calming. It wasn’t.

I blinked against the light, disoriented, my throat dry and raw as if it had been scraped clean. “Am I… alive?” The words escaped me in a hoarse rasp, unfamiliar and fragile.

No answer. Not at first.

Then, Bruce stepped into view, He stood at the foot of the bed, silent, looming like a gargoyle. His face wore an expression of relief.

Beside him, Barbara appeared. Her expression was fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

She reached out, hesitant, her fingers brushing my arm as if I might shatter beneath her touch. “Yeah, Jason,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re alive. Somehow… you’re alive.”

On the other side of the bed, Dick leaned forward. His grin was crooked, forced, his usual confidence replaced by something brittle.

“That’s quite a lot of stitches, Jay,” he said, trying for humor but failing. “It kinda feels like you intend to beat my record. But hey… you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Further back, Alfred stood behind everyone, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. His calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension in the room, but even he couldn’t hide the faint warmth in his gaze.

“Indeed, Master Jason,” he said quietly, his voice steady and reassuring. “You have given us quite the fright. But it seems you are far more resilient than we dared hope.”

“How long?” I rasped, forcing the words out past the rawness in my throat. My gaze locked onto Bruce, his face had on an expressing I have never see on him before, one of worry. “How long have I been out?”

The faint glimmer of relief in his expression disappeared, replaced by one of regret. “Seventy-two days,” he said flatly.

Seventy-two days.

I tried to sit up, but pain exploded through my body, sharp and unrelenting. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and the tight pull of stitches across my chest forced me back down.

My hands instinctively went to my face, tracing the gauze that wrapped my head. Beneath the bandages, I could feel the sting of healing wounds, each one a grotesque reminder of how close I’d come to dying.

“Don’t push yourself, Jay,” Dick said quickly, his voice strained with worry. “You’re still weak. Just… give it time.”

Time. The word hung in the air as it resounded in my head, meaningless and hollow. Time wouldn’t fix this.

Their faces blurred, their voices fading into static. I was covered in stitches, skin grafts, scar tissues. Seventy-two days bedridden.

The outside was healing, sure, but inside? Inside, it was a different story. It was like something had been stripped away, some veil that had shielded me from the ugliness of it all. It was as if something clicked inside of me, shattering the lies I tell myself.

It felt like I could finally see through the walls—not literal walls, but the lies, the facades, the pitying smiles they wore to hide their fear.

That’s what they felt—fear. And pity. They pitied me.

To them, I was a victim. A failure. A reminder of what could happen to them. And you know what? They weren’t wrong.

But the truth? The truth cut deeper than the pain from Joker’s crowbar, hurt more than the twenty-seven shattered bones he left me with.

The truth was staring me in the face now, raw and undeniable: they’re the real victims. Victims of Bruce Wayne.

My fists clenched, the sheets twisting under my grip as the anger burned hotter, spreading like wildfire.

Dick? A broken, abducted child, clinging to Bruce because of his mummy and daddy issues. Barbara? A bright and fearless woman crippled by a maniac of his creation.

And Bruce? What kind of damaged man mentors children to fight his war? How deranged does a person have to be that they would see a kid struggling to survive on the streets and decide to throw him into the line of fire?

I was doing fine before Bruce dragged me into his world. I was alive before I met this “family.” Alone, sure. But alive. And now? Now I was just another casualty of their dysfunction. Another unfortunate victim of Bruce’s endless crusade.

Never again.

No more family.

If by some miracle I got a second chance—if I somehow clawed my way out of this abyssal void—I’d do things differently. No more playing by Bruce’s rules. No more bending to his hypocritical, self-imposed leash. I’d become exactly what they feared.

I’d take the fear Bruce uses to scare criminals and turn it into a weapon for me to utilize as I see fit.

****

[Deep within the mountains where the League of Assassin’s base]

The cave pulsed with an unnatural, otherworldly glow, its light casting jagged shadows across the damp, uneven walls.

Deep beneath the earth, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic drip of water, each drop echoing through the cavern like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive. Shadows clung to every corner, thick and restless, as if they were watching.

Around a steaming, bubbling pool of luminescent green, figures cloaked in deep crimson cloaks, stood in a solemn circle.

Their hoods were drawn low, shrouding their faces in darkness, their collective stillness almost inhuman. Not one shifted, not one breathed loudly, as though the very air in the cavern belonged to the ritual they were witnessing.

Apart from them stood Ra’s al Ghul, the new immortal leader of the League of Assassins, loomed tall and imperious. His sharp, angular face bore the lines of wisdom from the times of old, the glow of the Lazarus Pit casting stark shadows across his cheekbones.

At his side stood his daughter, Talia, a picture of poised elegance betrayed only by the tension in her stance.

Her sharp eyes were fixed on the churning waters, their usual calculating gleam softened by something rare: apprehension.

“It’s not working, Father,” Talia said, her voice a quiet whisper, but there was no mistaking the frustration laced within it.

Her fingers tightened at her sides, betraying her inner turmoil, worried her lover might loose one of his sons for good.

“The waters… he’s not responding.” Her gaze flickered to Ra’s, searching his face for some sign of doubt, but his expression remained as unreadable as stone.

Ra’s didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the Lazarus Pit, its surface now rippling faintly, as though disturbed by an unknown force.

“Patience, my daughter,” he said, his tone even, calm—a true man of patience who is accustomed to waiting centuries for his plans to come to fruition if need be.

“The Pit works in its own time.” He added.

The hooded figures shifted imperceptibly at his words, their heads bowing slightly in reverence—or fear. Ra’s crossed his arms behind his back, a faint glimmer of anticipation sparking in his eyes. The air seemed to grow thicker, the heat emanating from the bubbling pool more oppressive.

Seconds stretched into eternities. Talia’s nails dug into her palms, her patience fraying. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the words froze on her tongue as the water erupted.

A violent burst of motion sent the green liquid scattering across the cave walls. Steam hissed upward in twisting, serpentine coils, and the once-faint ripples transformed into a boiling, chaotic frenzy.

“Father!” Talia’s voice rose, her composure breaking as she gripped his arm. “The waters—they’re reacting!” Her wide eyes reflected the pit’s glow, her usual confidence replaced by awe and dread.

The cloaked figures leaned forward, their hidden faces catching the eerie light for fleeting moments. Some wore expressions of reverence, others fear, and a few curiosity—but all were transfixed by the spectacle before them.

The pit churned violently, its glow intensifying until it seemed to fill the entire cavern. The mist rising from its depths thickened, coiling around the pool like living tendrils.

Talia’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the chaos. “Do you think he’ll come back… whole?”

Ra’s raised a hand, silencing her. “The Pit is not known for mercy,” he said, his tone heavy with grim certainty. “It restores what it will, how it will. Whatever returns to us will bear the mark of the Lazarus.”

As if on cue, the water surged violently, and a piercing scream tore through the cavern. It was a sound that seemed to come from beyond the grave, raw and guttural, scraping against the ears of all who heard it.

From the center of the pool, a figure erupted, breaking the surface in a violent, gasping convulsion. Steam clung to his form, curling around him like a shroud as he thrashed, his movements wild and uncoordinated.

Talia’s breath caught. “Jason Todd…” she whispered, her voice trembling with both awe and dread. She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on the man now clawing at the air, his body wracked with pain.

Jason’s eyes, once dull and lifeless, now burned with an unnatural green light. They darted around the cavern, wild and unseeing, as if he were trapped between two worlds.

His gasps turned to choked retches, his body convulsing as he struggled to purge the remnants of the Lazarus Pit from his lungs. His movements were erratic, animalistic, every muscle in his body taut with pain and confusion.

Ra’s watched him intently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of fascination.

He stepped closer, his voice calm, almost gentle. “He is strong,” he murmured, half to himself. “Stronger than most who have emerged from the Pit. But the madness… it lingers.”

Jason staggered, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. His gaze locked onto the crimson-cloaked figures, then onto Talia and Ra’s, and something primal flared in his eyes. Panic turned to fury.

Two figures stepped forward to restrain him, but Jason moved with a speed and ferocity that defied his weakened state. His fist collided with one man’s jaw, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the cavern as the assassin crumpled to the ground.

The second man barely had time to react before Jason drove his thumbs into his eyes, a guttural snarl escaping his lips as the man screamed in agony.

“Enough!” Talia shouted, drawing out a gun in one fluid motion. She leveled it at Jason, her hands steady, though her eyes betrayed her hesitation.

Ra’s placed a hand on her arm and pushed it down just as she pulled the trigger.

Jason’s gaze snapped to them, his chest heaving as he fought for control. His eyes flickered with recognition, but it was fleeting, swallowed by the storm raging within him.

Without another word, he turned and bolted, toward the edge of the cavern, his movements erratic but fueled by sheer will.

Jason sprinted through the upper levels, his breath ragged but his resolve unshaken. Ahead, a large window loomed, its fractured surface catching the faint moonlight.

Without breaking stride, he launched himself through it, the crash of shattering glass echoing like thunder in the still air.

For a fleeting second, he hung suspended, weightless against the vast night sky. Then gravity seized him, pulling him into a freefall.

His scream tore through the air, raw and defiant, as he plummeted from the dizzying height of the mountain. The jagged valleys below rushed up to meet him, their rocky surfaces cloaked in shadow.

Ra’s al Ghul arrived at the broken window moments later, his long cloak billowing behind him. He leaned forward, scanning the darkness below, his eyes sharp and searching.

The echo of the boy’s scream still lingered, bouncing off the cliffs like a phantom haunting the mountainside.

But there was nothing. No sign of Jason. No trace of his descent. Just silence and the cold, unyielding night.

Ra’s straightened, his expression unreadable. Whatever had just unfolded, it wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

The night in Gotham was cold and suffocating, the kind of darkness that felt alive. Thick clouds smothered the sky, blotting out the moon and stars, leaving the city in an eerie gloom.

It wasn’t unusual for Gotham to feel oppressive, but tonight, the air carried something else. Anticipation. As if the city itself knew what was about to go down.

On the rooftop of an old, crumbling building, Batman stood still as a statue, his cape rippling in the wind.

His figure was almost indistinguishable from the night, a dark silhouette against a darker backdrop. He stared down at the city below, his jaw tight, his expression hidden but his fury unmistakable.

He couldn’t shake the memories tonight, no matter how hard he tried. Jason’s funeral played on a loop in his mind, every detail vivid. The rain had been relentless that day, drumming on the coffin like some cruel punctuation.

Everyone had spoken in hushed tones, their words meaningless in the face of what they’d lost.

A coffin too small for someone who still had so much life to live. Batman’s fists clenched at the thought, the leather of his gloves groaning in protest.

But this wasn’t a night for grieving. Not this time. There was no Bat-Signal in the sky, no Commissioner Gordon waiting with another case. Tonight, the mission wasn’t about Gotham, it was about him. About Jason. And the Joker.

He’d spent hours chasing whispers, fragments of rumors that barely qualified as leads, but he didn’t care. He followed every single one.

Now, it had all brought him here, to the gates of an abandoned amusement park. The Joker’s kind of place. It was perfect in that grotesque way only the clown prince of crime could appreciate.

The gates creaked on their rusted hinges as Batman pushed through, the wind making them groan like they were alive. Inside, the park was a ghost of what it once was.

Broken rides loomed in the dark, their faded colors dull under layers of grime. Clown faces were everywhere, grinning in a way that felt less cheerful and more like a warning.

He moved through the wreckage with practiced ease, every step calculated, every movement deliberate so as to not give away his presence.

The silence pressed in, heavy and almost suffocating, until it was shattered by a sound that made his blood run cold.

The Joker’s laugh.

That high-pitched, grating cackle that seemed to echo from everywhere at once. Batman froze for half a second, his muscles coiled like a spring.

Then, he moved, heading straight for the sound, his cape trailing behind him. His destination was clear, a funhouse at the center of the park, its garish neon lights flickering in and out, casting jagged shadows on the ground.

Inside, mirrors lined the walls, distorting his reflection into grotesque shapes. He ignored them, his focus unshakable as the Joker’s laughter grew louder.

It was coming from somewhere deep within the funhouse, bouncing off the walls in ways that made it impossible to pinpoint.

“Joker!” Batman’s voice was low and rough, a growl with the weight of suppressed emotions.

Then the man himself appeared, stepping out from the dark like he owned the place. His pale face almost glowed under the flickering lights, that red grin of his stretched wide, and his eyes sparkled with sick glee. He clapped his hands slowly, the sound deliberate and mocking.

“Batsy!” the Joker said, his voice dripping with that manic cheerfulness. “I knew you’d come! Took you long enough. I was starting to think you didn’t care.”

Batman didn’t waste time. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his first punch landing squarely on the Joker’s jaw. The clown stumbled back, laughing even as the blow split his lip.

Batman didn’t stop. His fists flew, each strike harder than the last. Every hit was fueled by the memory of Jason, of the pain and guilt he couldn’t shake. Glass shattered around them as they crashed into mirrors, the shards raining down in glittering fragments.

“Still so serious!” the Joker wheezed, his grin never faltering. “You really don’t know how to have fun, do you?” He said as he looked at blood stain on his suit. “I had so much fun with the kid, too bad he died at the end. What can I say, he was indeed a… Blunder.”

Batman grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the nearest wall, the cracked glass spider-webbing out from the impact. His voice was a snarl. “This is for Robin.”

The Joker’s grin widened, somehow, his eyes alight with cruel amusement. “Oh, little Robin,” he said, his voice softening to a mockingly tender tone. “He was such a good boy, wasn’t he? Too bad…” He leaned in, whispering like it was a secret meant just for them. “…he couldn’t take a blast.”

Batman saw red. He struck again and again, the Joker’s words cutting deeper than any blade.

The sound of shattering glass filled the air as the mirrors around them gave way, but all Batman could see were flashes of Jason, Jason alive, Jason gone, Jason lying still in that coffin.

Finally, he stopped, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The Joker crumpled to the floor, blood smeared across his face, his smile somehow still intact. He coughed, then let out another laugh, hoarse but just as maddening.

“Go on,” the Joker rasped, his voice a dare. “Do it. Finish it. You know you want to. Kill me. It’s what the little bird would want, isn’t it?”

Batman’s fist hovered in the air, trembling with the force it took to hold back. He could do it, end it all right here, right now. One strike, and it would be over. Justice for Jason. Justice for all of them.

But deep down, he knew the truth. It wouldn’t bring Jason back. It wouldn’t even feel like justice. It would be surrender, giving the Joker exactly what he wanted.

With a sharp exhale, Batman tapped a button on his belt. The silent signal activated, and seconds later, the rumble of engines broke through the oppressive quiet. A prison van rolled into view, the armed officers inside ready for his cue.

He let the Joker fall, his grip releasing with a snarl. The clown hit the floor hard, shards of broken glass crunching beneath him as he crumpled in a heap.

“You’re going back to Arkham,” Batman said, his voice cold and clipped. “But this isn’t over.”

As the van screeched to a halt outside the dilapidated funhouse, the officers spilled out, their weapons trained on the maniac sprawled on the floor.

The Joker, of course, couldn’t resist. He grinned up at Batman, blood smeared across his chin, his teeth still stained with that twisted, perpetual smile.

“Oh, Bats,” he rasped, a wheezing chuckle bubbling up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Always so predictable.”

Batman ignored him, dragging the Joker to his feet before shoving him toward the waiting officers. They moved in swiftly, slapping on cuffs that clinked like a death knell.

“Way to ruin the finale, Batsy,” the Joker said as they hauled him toward the van. He threw his head back, laughing through the pain. “I’ll see you soon.”

The echo of his laughter cut through the night, sharp and grating, and for a moment, Batman stood frozen, his jaw tight.

Commissioner Gordon approached, his boots crunching over the broken remnants of the Joker’s chaos. A cigarette burned between his fingers, the ember casting a faint glow in the darkness.

“When you called earlier, I thought tonight might be the night,” Gordon said, his voice heavy with something between relief and resignation. “Thought maybe you wouldn’t hold back this time. Thought maybe it’d finally be the end of him.”

He dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the ground beneath his shoe.

Batman didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He simply turned and walked away, the Joker’s laughter following him like a taunting echo.

It clung to him as he stepped through the rusted gates of the park, the sound burrowing deep into the corners of his mind. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Not tonight.

The Batmobile waited just beyond the shadows, its sleek frame a sharp contrast to the decay around it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar hum of the engine steadying his restless thoughts. When the car roared to life, it drowned out everything else, the laughter, the memories, even his own doubts.

The city blurred past him as he sped into the night, light and shadow streaking across the windshield. But no matter how fast he drove, he knew one thing for certain: that laughter would follow him long after the night ended.

Batman’s thoughts weren’t on the roads ahead. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as his mind wandered, dragged back to a past that refused to stay buried. Jason.

Even thinking his name felt like a punch to the gut, stirring a storm of emotions he couldn’t control, grief, guilt, anger, and an ache that no amount of time or distance could dull.

Jason was a tough kid, all fire and fight, with a grin so wide it seemed to dare the world to knock him down.

Bruce could still hear his laughter, rare in Wayne Manor’s somber halls, but so full of life that even Alfred couldn’t help but smirk when Jason’s antics got out of hand.

That laughter had been sunlight breaking through the darkness, a sound that made the weight of their mission feel lighter, if only for a moment.

“C’mon, Bruce!” Jason’s voice echoed in his memory, sharp and vibrant. “You gotta loosen up! You’re not just the Dark Knight, you’re also a billionaire.

Billionaires are supposed to have fun, right?”

For the briefest second, Bruce felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips, only to vanish beneath the crushing weight of reality.

Jason had been more than a partner, more than Robin. He was family. A son. Even if Bruce had never managed to say it aloud.

The Image of Jason’s first meeting flashed through his mind. A scrappy, fearless kid trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile in the middle of Crime Alley.

There had been something in Jason’s eyes that day, something raw and untamed. Bruce hadn’t just seen a thief. He’d seen potential.

He’d seen himself, years ago, burning with the same anger and drive to make something better out of the chaos.

“Am I doing this right, Bruce?” Jason had asked during a quiet rooftop stakeout, his voice unusually uncertain. “I mean, really right? Do you think I’m good enough?”

Bruce could still feel the weight of his response, his voice steady and sure. “Jason, you’re more than good enough. You’re extraordinary. Don’t ever doubt that.”

But no words, no assurances, had been enough to keep Jason safe. That image—Jason’s broken body, the blood, the stillness—was seared into Bruce’s mind, a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

He could still hear the explosion, the deafening silence that followed, the crushing realization that he had been too late.

The Batmobile’s engine roared as he pushed the memory aside, forcing himself to focus on the present.

Jason was gone, and no amount of regret or anger could bring him back. But his loss lingered, woven into the fabric of Gotham itself, a shadow Bruce would carry forever.

When the Batmobile finally slowed, it was outside the Batcave. I, he made his way atop the rooftop of the Wayne Manor overlooking the city.

Batman stepped forward, letting the cold wind wash over him as he stared at Gotham’s sprawling lights, glittering like scattered stars. Somewhere out there, Jason’s memory lingered, refusing to fade.

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce turned to find Alfred standing behind him, his expression calm but lined with quiet compassion.

“Alfred,” Batman said, his voice low, raw. “I failed him. Jason’s gone because of me.”

Alfred stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on Bruce’s shoulder, a small but steadying gesture.

“You did everything you could, sir. Jason knew the risks. He chose this life, chose to fight alongside you. Blaming yourself will not bring him back.”

Bruce’s fists clenched, the words like a bitter pill. “I was supposed to protect him. He trusted me. I let him die.”

Alfred’s voice softened, though his gaze remained steady. “Grief is a heavy burden, Master Bruce, but it’s not one you must bear alone. Jason admired you. He believed in you. He wouldn’t want you to lose yourself in guilt of his death.”

For a moment, the words hung between them, raw and unvarnished. Bruce took a slow, steadying breath, letting them sink in.

He couldn’t afford to let grief consume him, not when there was still so much work to be done. Jason’s memory wouldn’t be his undoing. It would be his strength.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said quietly, the words heavy with sincerity.

“Always here, sir,” Alfred replied with a faint smile. “Now, perhaps it’s time we head back down. Gotham isn’t going to save itself, after all.”

They returned to the Batcave, the silence felt heavier, broken only by the hum of machinery.

Bruce’s eyes landed on the glass case where Jason’s Robin suit had once hung. Now, it was empty, a painful reminder of a promise he hadn’t been able to keep.

He stood there for a moment, his thoughts heavy, his heart heavier. “Jason…” he whispered, the sound swallowed by the cavernous space.

From the shadows, Alfred watched quietly, his usual stoicism softened by an undercurrent of sadness.

He knew better than anyone that Bruce’s grief wasn’t something words could mend. Still, he hoped that, in time, Bruce might find peace, or at least purpose in Jason’s memory.

When Bruce finally turned away from the empty case, it was with renewed focus. He moved to the massive computer, its screens alive with data and surveillance feeds. The Joker had been taken down, but crime still lingered somewhere in Gotham’s shadows.

.........

Chapter Text

[Talia al Ghul’s POV]

“Father, we were unable to find a body.” Talia reported, her tone calm but measured as she dipped her head in a brief bow. “It’s impossible for anyone to survive that fall. He’s undoubtedly dead.”

Ra’s al Ghul stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the storm battering the mountainside.

Snow swirled in relentless waves, the howling wind a reminder of nature’s indifference. Without turning, he replied, his voice quiet but heavy with thought.

“That would be the logical conclusion. Yet, even if by some miracle he survived the fall, this storm will finish the job.

Frostbite, hypothermia...or the weight of the snow burying him alive.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible but laden with frustration. Turning to face his daughter, he studied her with sharp, discerning eyes.

For a moment, disappointment flickered across his face—a rare crack in the fortress of his composure. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the detached calm of acceptance.

“It pains me,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low and deliberate, “that my actions have led to the death of such a promising young man. I sought to restore him, to make him whole again. And I failed.”

Talia tilted her head, her curiosity breaking through the polished exterior she usually maintained. “Why do you care so much, Father? Why does it matter if that boy lives or dies?”

Her question hung in the air like the echo of a blade. It wasn’t like him to fixate on the fate of a single life.

After all, Ra’s al Ghul had sent countless soldiers of the League to their deaths without a second thought, believing every life expendable in service of his greater vision. Why was this different?

Ra’s turned back to the window, his gaze distant as he watched the storm rage. “His death wasn’t part of the agreement,” he said simply. “The Clown acted on his own madness.

The boy’s death was meant to torment the Detective—and I had hoped to make things right.”

Talia studied him carefully. His words felt...odd. Compassionate, almost. But it didn’t align with the man she knew, the man who rarely spared a thought for casualties unless they served his purpose.

“But that’s not your mistake to fix,” she said after a pause, stepping closer. “In his own twisted way, the Clown did this to spite Batman.

You chose the right distraction, Father. No one can control that madman. Least of all you.”

She rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, a rare gesture of reassurance. “You shouldn’t carry the burden of a lunatic’s actions. Robin wasn’t our responsibility.”

Ra’s turned to her, his sharp eyes narrowing—not in anger, but as if considering her words. Then, without another word, he strode toward the door. He paused at the threshold, glancing back briefly.

“My condolences to the Detective,” he said, his tone cool and final. “But what’s done is done.”

With that, he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Talia alone with her thoughts.

She turned to the window, staring out at the storm as it raged on, the snow swallowing the mountainside inch by inch. Yet, even as the cold winds howled outside, a thought began to form—a flicker of determination sparking in the depths of her mind.

Ra’s had made his decision, but Talia wasn’t one to leave things unanswered. If Robin was truly dead, they needed to confirm it. If there was even a sliver of a chance he had survived, she needed to know.

Her gaze sharpened as she made her decision. She would take two of her most resilient League members and venture into the storm. The boy’s fate would not remain a mystery, even if it meant braving the unforgiving cold.

Talia turned, her resolve set. For better or worse, she would find him—or what was left of him—before the snow erased all trace of his existence.

****

[Jason Todd’s POV]

Jason’s pale skin seemed almost ghostly against the swirling white of the blizzard. Out of his mind and lost to any sense of purpose, he trudged through the relentless storm.

The wind howled mercilessly, biting at his exposed skin and cutting through the bandages wrapped around his body like knives.

Each step felt heavier than the last as the snow buried his feet, but Jason pushed forward. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he couldn’t stop.

Pain from freezing muscles and stiff joints had dulled into an almost comfortable numbness, his body too exhausted to feel anymore.

Eventually, his strength gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the snow. The bitter cold seeped into his bones, the edges of his vision beginning to blur.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, when a voice echoed faintly in his mind.

“Don’t give in to the cold. Fight. Survive.”

The words jolted him slightly, and he clung to the thread of consciousness they offered.

“We have to get our revenge,” the voice whispered again, urgent and insistent. “We can’t die here—not like this. Get up, Jason. Get up!”

A grunt escaped his lips as he pushed against the icy ground, managing to get one knee under him. But his body betrayed him, and he fell back into the snow.

The cold was suffocating, but as his head tilted upward, he spotted something in the distance—a faint orange glow. It was small but unmistakable: fire.

With every ounce of willpower he had left, Jason began crawling toward the light. Each inch felt like an eternity, but finally, he reached the mouth of a shallow cave. Inside, a fire crackled warmly, and next to it sat a rugged man—a hunter, judging by his attire—roasting fish over the flames.

Jason’s focus locked onto the fish. His empty stomach growled faintly as he collapsed just inside the cave’s entrance, barely conscious.

The hunter looked up, his eyes widening in terror.

“Ahhh!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. Jason’s pale skin and the bandages covering his body gave him the appearance of some undead creature, and the hunter instinctively grabbed a machete.

But as he took a closer look, he realized the “mummy” before him was just a boy—freezing, starving, and barely alive.

“Hey, kid! Are you...are you alright?” The hunter’s voice softened as he crouched beside Jason. Seeing no response, he slung Jason’s arm over his shoulders and hauled him closer to the fire.

The warmth was overwhelming. Jason shivered uncontrollably, his teeth chattering as he finally began to feel the sensation returning to his frozen limbs.

The hunter sat him down on a log by the fire, draping his jacket over the boy’s trembling shoulders.

“I’ll be right back,” the hunter said gently as he got up, watching as Jason stared blankly into the flames. “Gotta grab more kindling before the fire dies out.”

The boy didn’t respond, his focus consumed by the dancing flames.

****

Talia al Ghul and three of her best soldiers pushed through the unforgiving blizzard. She wasn’t one to waste time on a fool’s errand, but something told her the boy was still alive.

As they crested a ridge, Talia spotted a faint orange glow. She raised her hand, signaling her team to stop. With a few quick hand gestures, she directed two of them to flank the entrance of the cave while she and the other soldier approached from the front.

Inside, they saw Jason sitting by the fire, his expression blank, and a rugged hunter handing him a stick with a roasted fish.

“I’ll be back soon,” the hunter said as he stood. “Gotta grab more kindling before the fire dies out.”

The hunter’s steps faltered as he came face-to-face with a masked figure blocking the cave entrance. A knife pressed against his throat, freezing him in place.

Jason looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the four masked figures now surrounding the cave.

“See?” a sly voice whispered in his mind. “You haven’t even been here five minutes, and he’s already sold you out. Typical.”

Jason’s lips moved faintly, forming a whisper. “Maybe they’re his associates. Maybe this was all a setup.”

The hunter turned slightly, panic flashing in his eyes.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t care,” the voice hissed again. “Make him pay.”

Jason’s gaze shifted to the flames, his mind sharpening with sudden clarity. Without hesitation, he grabbed the nearest object—a bottle of alcohol—and hurled it at the closest masked figure. The glass shattered on impact to the forehead, and he followed up by swinging a burning log into the face of another attacker as they screamed in pain.

The sudden violence sent the hunter stumbling backward, only to be caught by Jason, who drove a jagged piece of broken glass into his neck. Blood sprayed as the hunter dropped to the ground, gurgling his last breath.

Talia’s eyes widened in shock as she watched Jason’s brutal efficiency. The boy turned his attention to the remaining masked soldier writhing on the ground, his face burned from the firewood.

Without hesitation, Jason kicked them into the flames, their screams echoing through the cave.

“Stop!” Talia commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos. She stepped forward cautiously, observing the boy who had once been Batman’s second Robin.

“I see death lingers around you now,” she said softly.

Jason turned his fiery gaze toward her but said nothing. She extended a hand, her tone calm and persuasive. “Come with us. You don’t belong out here, freezing to death.”

Jason didn’t respond. His body moved on instinct as he lunged at her with a kick. Talia dodged, sweeping his planted leg out from under him. He rolled with the motion, landing on his feet and charging again.

The fight was brief but fierce. Talia and her remaining soldier skillfully avoided his wild, desperate attacks. With one well-placed strike, Talia delivered a sharp chop to Jason’s neck, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“Take him,” she ordered, straightening her posture as her soldier hoisted Jason over their shoulder. Talia cast a final glance at the carnage Jason had left behind, her thoughts swirling.

‘Was this the Lazarus Pit’s influence...or his true innate nature revealed?’

Without another word, she led her team back into the storm, Jason’s limp form carried away into the night.

****

At the break of dawn, the training hall echoed with the sharp clatter of weapons and the grunts of men in combat. At the center of it all stood Ra’s al Ghul, shirtless and unarmed, surrounded by a circle of skilled foot soldiers armed with a variety of weapons.

This was no ordinary drill—it was a deadly training exercise where every soldier was tasked with attacking Ra’s with the intent to kill. Despite their lethal intent, the Demon’s Head moved with astonishing precision and grace.

Ra’s weaved through their attacks effortlessly, his movements as fluid as water. Every strike, every blow directed at him was either dodged, countered, or redirected.

His bare feet danced across the floor with the agility of a man decades younger, and his fists and open palms struck with pinpoint accuracy, sending soldier after soldier crumpling to the ground.

Talia al Ghul entered the hall silently, observing her father’s exercise without interruption. She crossed her arms, her eyes following Ra’s as he flowed seamlessly from one movement to the next.

For a man approaching five centuries of life, his speed and reflexes were unparalleled, and the power in his strikes betrayed none of his years.

A soldier loosed an arrow at close range, the projectile whistling through the air. Ra’s caught it mid-flight with ease, pivoted on his heel, and sent it flying back toward its origin.

The arrow nicked the shoulder of its shooter, a calculated move to incapacitate without causing undue harm.

In mere minutes, the floor was littered with unconscious soldiers. Ra’s stood at the center of the carnage, his sweat-soaked chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

A soldier approached cautiously, bowing before offering him a towel. Ra’s took it without a word, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Though his body bore the years of his immortal life, he looked no older than a man in his early fifties, his physique as sharp and disciplined as his mind.

“I trust my performance was satisfactory, daughter?” Ra’s asked, his voice calm yet commanding as he walked toward Talia.

She inclined her head in a respectful bow. “As always, Father. No matter how often I watch you train, I’m still in awe of how effortlessly you blend so many fighting styles. It’s as if combat flows through you.”

Ra’s offered a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, my child,” he said, draping the towel over his shoulders.

Without breaking stride, he continued toward the exit, his movements as measured as ever.

Talia followed a few steps behind, her tone shifting to one of formality. “Father, I’ve received news. Our guest has regained consciousness. He’s awake as we speak.”

Ra’s paused mid-stride, his back still to her. Slowly, he turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder, his piercing eyes sharp with interest.

“How long has it been?” he asked, extending his arms slightly as two attendants stepped forward, draping a finely embroidered robe over his shoulders.

“It’s been almost a week, father,” Talia replied.

Ra’s hummed thoughtfully, fastening the robe at his waist. “Get him something to eat and help him relax,” he instructed, his tone firm but not unkind. “His mind will likely still be rattled from the ordeal.”

“Yes, Father.” Talia bowed again, though she couldn’t help but wonder why her father was so invested in keeping the boy alive. There was a time when Ra’s would have left such matters to fate, yet this was different.

“I will see him when he has calmed and regained his sense of self,” Ra’s added before turning away and disappearing down the dimly lit corridor, his silhouette fading into the shadows.

Talia remained behind for a moment, her thoughts lingering on the boy who was brought back from the dead, and the unusual interest her father seemed to have in him. Whatever plans Ra’s had for Jason Todd, she would have choice but to go along with it for her father knows best.

.....

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd’s POV]

I laid there for three days, unconscious, completely comatose—but strangely aware of my surroundings. It felt like I was trapped in a haze, my mind wide awake but unable to move.

Every day, I saw him. He was me, but different. His skin was burned, parts of his body charred and blackened as if he’d been from hell itself.

“You know what we must do, right?” he said to me, his bloodshot eyes glaring with a crazed intensity. There was madness in his stare, a twisted kind of obsession.

He hovered around me, pacing like a predator, before finally sitting down beside me. His breath was warm against my ear as he leaned in close. “I hope Bruce hasn’t killed Joker yet… We must get our revenge,” he whispered, his voice laced with venom.

Now, I couldn’t tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if we were two separate entities sharing the same body.

It was hard to admit, but a part of me was okay with dying. I’d accepted the idea, even told myself it was fine if Bruce took vengeance in my place. This whole life, this rollercoaster of pain and anger—it wasn’t worth it anymore.

He was the part of me I didn’t want to acknowledge, the angry side, the side I buried deep. No, he was more than that—he was my repressed thoughts and emotions, a manifestation of everything I couldn’t process.

He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear at the window, his anger intensifying. “Even if Joker’s dead, Gotham’s parasites must pay for their sins.” His voice was loud, sharp with fury, ranting on and on.

This went on for days—him disappearing, reappearing, spewing vengeance into my ears. It had been 72 hours, but now, I was awake.

For the first time in days, I felt my fingers twitch. Slowly, I clenched my fist, then my other hand. My legs finally felt like they were mine again. It was like my nerves had finally reconnected, the spark of life returning to my body.

I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My body felt so weak, like I had to build up the strength just to stand. It took all my focus, all my energy to make the next move.

I wasn’t going to let myself fall back into that motionless state, not again. I wouldn’t let that hallucination of me, all burned and twisted, keep rambling in my head while I couldn’t move.

With every ounce of willpower, I pushed myself to my feet. I made it. One step forward. The excitement surged within me, and I tried for a second step—but my legs buckled beneath me, and I hit the ground hard, my head slamming into the edge of a wooden stool.

“Shit!” I groaned, vision blurry, my frustration boiling over as I slammed my fist against the floor.

Then, I heard the door open, the sound of hurried footsteps. A voice called for help.

The light above me dimmed, and my vision started to fade as they lifted me up, carrying me back to the bed.

The last thing I saw was the flash of eyes—eyes I couldn’t quite make out. Maybe they were wearing masks, or maybe scarves were covering their faces, but their eyes—those I could see clearly.

And then, in the backdrop of the room, there he was. The figure standing in the corner, his wide, sinister grin staring back at me. His body was burned, just like the vision of me, but worse.

As I slipped into unconsciousness, his voice echoed through my mind—calm, assured, like a dark promise. “You can no longer run from this…”

And with that, the world went black.

****

Once again, I regained consciousness. Blinking slowly, I took a closer look at my surroundings, and the strangeness of it all hit me like a freight train. Everything looked unfamiliar, alien.

“Oh, shit. Where am I?” I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse as if I hadn’t used it in days.

I scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that might clue me in. Yet, even as I tried to piece things together, a bigger, more nagging question clawed at the back of my mind: ‘Who am I?’

I racked my brain, desperate for a sliver of memory, anything to explain this situation. A fragmented flash struck me—masked individuals dragging me, their hands gripping me tightly as they hauled me into… this room? This bed?

The disjointed memory only left me more disoriented, and I found myself staring at the ceiling, the question looping in my head: Who were they? Why was I here?

Sitting up slowly, I propped myself against the bed frame, my movements sluggish as if my body was still catching up from a deep sleep. The room was spartan yet strangely luxurious.

I took in the carved wooden furniture, the faint flicker of a dimly lit lantern, and the faint scent of something herbal lingering in the air.

“Where the hell am I?” I muttered again, feeling a rising sense of unease.

The door swung open suddenly, startling me. A tall, older man stepped inside, his posture commanding, his green eyes sharp and piercing. He radiated an air of authority that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

He walked to my bedside without a word, his eyes locked onto mine like he was studying me. I met his gaze, refusing to look away, as if we were in some sort of unspoken staring contest.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his tone calm yet firm. “Relax, Jason. I know this must be overwhelming for you, waking up in a strange place. You’re probably wondering where you are right now. But rest assured, you are safe. You’ll be taken care of.”

His words made me freeze.

Jason?

That name echoed in my mind like a distant bell. Was that my name? It had to be. I replayed his words over and over, trying to make sense of them. I’m Jason.

I looked around the room again, this time with a different lens. The man in front of me must know me—must know something about how I ended up here.

“Wh-Who are you?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly as I squinted at him, trying to read his expression.

He raised a brow, surprised by my question. “You don’t remember me?”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember much of anything.”

His expression shifted, concern creasing his features. He stroked his beard thoughtfully before responding. “I see. Then tell me, what do you remember?”

“Nothing,” I admitted, frustration lacing my tone. “It’s like my mind’s completely blank. I’ve been trying to pull up something, but the only thing I can picture is…” I hesitated, wincing as a dull pain throbbed in my temple. “A clown’s face. Just a clown. That’s it.”

The image of the clown lingered in my mind, disturbing and vivid. The more I focused on it, the more it made my head ache, like trying to force open a locked door.

“And nothing else?” he asked, his voice laced with a mix of both disappointment and curiousity .

“Nothing else,” I replied, shaking my head.

He nodded, though he looked troubled. “I see…” He gestured toward the door with a sweep of his arm. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“To…?” I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice. I wasn’t about to follow this guy blindly, no matter how calm he sounded.

“To the dining hall for dinner,” he explained. “You must be starving after nearly a week of sleep.” He turned on his heel, heading toward the door.

I stood slowly, my legs shaky but holding firm. That’s when I realized I was wearing a black robe—nothing underneath. I hesitated, feeling a bit exposed, but before I could say anything, the man stopped at the door and knocked twice.

A masked guard entered silently, his face obscured by a scarf.

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said, bowing slightly.

“Fetch the boy some proper clothing,” the older man instructed. “He must be feeling overwhelmed enough as it is.”

“Yes, my lord.” The guard bowed again and left as quickly as he had come.

The older man turned back to me. “There’s a bathroom over there,” he said, pointing to a door on the far side of the room. “Freshen up and get dressed. Then join us for dinner.”

“Us?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Yes. My daughter and I. We try to have breakfast together when time allows. I thought you might join us. Perhaps it will help jog your memory,” he explained.

Before I could respond, the masked guard returned, placing a neatly folded set of clothes on the bed. Without a word, he disappeared again.

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. The man gave a faint smile before stepping out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I wasted no time heading to the bathroom. The sight of hot water pouring from the faucet was a welcome relief.

I stepped into the shower, letting the warmth wash over me, easing my stiff muscles and numbing the chill I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying.

The water felt like a reset, like the first step to piecing myself back together—whoever I was.

*****

[General POV]

Jason emerged from the bathroom, the towel slung lazily around his neck. He dressed quickly, his movements brisk and efficient, though his mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts.

He didn’t want to leave the room—his instincts screamed at him to stay put, to avoid the people outside. But hunger gnawed at him, and curiosity about his circumstances was even harder to ignore.

Grimacing, he pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. A masked figure stood there, silent and imposing. The guard motioned for Jason to follow, and with a reluctant sigh, he complied.

The halls of the building were cold and dimly lit, the walls lined with intricate carvings and tapestries that hinted at an ancient, almost mythical history.

Jason’s eyes flicked around, cataloging exits and potential threats as they walked. His paranoia, though simmering just below the surface, felt justified. He didn’t trust this place—or the people in it.

Eventually, they reached a large dining hall. It wasn’t extravagant, but there was a sense of refined grandeur to the long, polished table and the dimly glowing chandeliers overhead.

Seated at the table were two people. One was the man Jason immediately recognized as “the geezer”—Ra’s al Ghul, the man who radiated an aura of quiet authority.

The other was a woman whose familiarity stirred something in Jason’s memory.

Her striking features, the sharpness in her gaze—Jason couldn’t place her, but it was clear she knew him. Her dark eyes studied him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

“Oh, welcome,” Ra’s said, gesturing toward a chair a few seats away from him. The gesture was calculated—close enough to engage in conversation, but distant enough to avoid crowding Jason’s space.

Jason hesitated, his gaze flicking over the table. The smell of the food was intoxicating, his stomach growling loudly in response. Embarrassed but too hungry to care, he pulled out a chair and sat down, his movements slow and deliberate.

A plate was placed in front of him, the food steaming and aromatic. His stomach growled again, louder this time, urging him to dig in. He picked up a spoon and took a cautious bite.

The flavor was rich and satisfying, but Jason’s mind remained sharp. He ate slowly, instinctively watching the others out of the corner of his eye. Trust was a foreign concept here, and he wasn’t about to lower his guard.

Ra’s allowed him to eat in silence for a while, his piercing gaze never leaving Jason. Finally, he broke the quiet. “How do you feel?”

Jason paused, swallowing his food and placing the spoon down. He stared at the plate for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I feel… hollow,” he said finally, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, as though analyzing the weight of Jason’s words. “Hmm… I see.”

Jason’s gaze flicked to the woman at the table. She hadn’t said a word yet, but her presence was palpable. He caught her watching him, her expression curious but guarded.

“This is my daughter, Talia,” Ra’s introduced, his tone light but tinged with pride. “She is the one who found you. You were lying in the cold, on the brink of death. It is thanks to her that you are alive to sit here today.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying her face more closely. There was something achingly familiar about her, but the memory danced just out of reach.

“You don’t remember anything?” Talia asked, her voice calm but edged with suspicion. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face for any flicker of recognition.

Jason stared back at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering, he turned his attention back to Ra’s. “What happened to me?”

Ra’s leaned back in his chair, his expression grave. “You were met with an unfortunately traumatic experience which assured everyone you were dead. Infact, you were dead.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Okay-y,” he drawled, his tone dripping with disbelief.

“He’s not joking,” Talia interjected, her voice sharper now. There was no trace of humor in her expression.

Jason chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Right. So what’s the punchline? Because last I checked, dead people don’t sit around eating dinner.”

Talia sighed, her patience thinning. “You were dead,” she said firmly, “and my father brought you back with the help of the Lazarus Pit. It’s a sacred ritual, one that is not without risks.”

Jason’s smirk faltered as her words sank in. His hand instinctively went to his temple as a sharp pain suddenly pierced through his skull. He winced, groaning as he leaned forward, clutching his head.

“What’s wrong?” Ra’s asked, his voice calm but tinged with concern.

Jason waved him off, gritting his teeth. “I… I’m fine,” he muttered, though the pain was anything but. It felt like his head was splitting open, memories flashing and fading like broken film reels. “Just light-headed for a second.”

He kept his head down, breathing deeply as the pain began to subside. But when he opened his eyes, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—a quiet, simmering anger that hadn’t been there before.

Ra’s exchanged a glance with Talia, the unspoken tension between them growing. They both knew that whatever Jason had been through, the real fight was only just beginning.

Jason wiped his mouth with a napkin and let it fall to the table, landing upon a gleaming fork. He sat still, his face hidden behind the curtain of his unkempt hair.

“Thank you for the meal,” he muttered, his voice low, laced with an edge of bitterness.

“But I don’t think I can manage this much food. The news of being brought back from the dead…” He trailed off, his hand slowly reaching under the napkin as he added, “…has a way of killing one’s appetite.”

Ra’s al Ghul, seated at the head of the grand table, watched the young man intently. “I see,” Ra’s said thoughtfully, his tone measured.

“Do not fret, young Jason. With time and discipline—perhaps a few mental exercises—you will regain your full strength and memories. Resurrection can be…”

Before Ra’s could finish, Jason’s hand shot out, clutching the fork hidden beneath the napkin. In one fluid motion, he hurled it across the room, the sharp prongs aimed directly at Talia al Ghul.

She was mid-bite, her guard lowered as she dined casually at the far end of the table.

“Daughter,” Ra’s said with eerie calm, not moving from his seat.

Talia barely glanced up before her hand snapped out, catching the fork between her fingers just as it was about to strike her throat. The steel trembled in her grip for a moment before she dropped it onto the table, her eyes narrowing.

But the distraction had served its purpose.

Chapter Text

Jason had already closed the distance between himself and Ra’s, a glinting kitchen knife now in his hand. His movements were swift and precise, honed into his muscle memories from years of training—he thrust the blade toward the elder man’s chest, aiming to end the Demon’s Head in one strike.

The attack was intercepted.

A masked League of Shadows guard, who had been standing silently in the corner, reacted instantly. He caught Jason’s arm mid-thrust and slammed his head into the table with a dull thud.

The knife clattered to the ground, skidding out of reach.

Jason gritted his teeth, refusing to yield. Using his free elbow, he drove it into the guard’s face with enough force to make the man stagger back. But the grip on his arm was ironclad.

Thinking quickly, Jason stomped on the guard’s foot, leveraging the pain to push himself upward. He kicked off the edge of the table, twisting mid-air like a wildcat, and landed behind the guard, finally freeing himself from the hold.

Ra’s remained seated, his expression passive. He observed the scuffle as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Talia, however, was now on her feet, her body tense, while the masked guard took a low, balanced stance, preparing for the next move.

Jason lowered himself into a neutral stance, his eyes fixed on the ground, hair hanging over his face. “What kind of monsters play with the dead?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath. “What kind of sick people disturb the souls of the resting?”

Ra’s cocked his head slightly, his curiosity piqued.

Jason slowly lifted his head, his face shadowed but his eyes unmistakable. They were a dull, unnatural shade of green, devoid of any spark or reflection. They were dead eyes—empty and haunting.

“Jason?” Talia’s voice softened as she addressed him cautiously. “Are you… there?”

Jason’s gaze shifted toward her, but it was as if he was looking through her rather than at her.

Without warning, he lunged, aiming to take Talia down. But the masked guard intercepted him with a perfectly timed strike, blocking Jason’s advance.

The guard opened with a series of swift, calculated jabs aimed at Jason’s torso and head, each blow designed to disorient.

Jason countered with raw aggression, parrying the strikes and delivering a brutal knee to the guard’s ribs. The guard staggered but immediately retaliated, sweeping low to trip Jason.

Jason leapt over the sweep, using the momentum to deliver a spinning kick to the guard’s shoulder. The impact made the guard stumble, but he recovered quickly, locking Jason in a grapple.

The two struggled, each vying for dominance. Jason headbutted the guard, loosening the hold, then twisted free, landing a vicious elbow strike to the man’s jaw.

The guard faltered but adapted, using Jason’s momentum to throw him toward the table. Jason hit the edge, knocking over plates and glasses, but he didn’t stay down.

Grabbing a broken plate shard, he flung it at the guard, forcing him to block. In that split second, Jason surged forward, his fists a blur as he overwhelmed the guard with a barrage of punches.

The guard managed to catch Jason’s wrist, twisting it to disarm him. But Jason, ever resourceful, used his free hand to strike the man’s throat.

The guard gasped, losing his balance, and Jason capitalized on the opening. He swept the guard’s legs out from under him and delivered a final, decisive blow to the back of his head, leaving the man unconscious.

Jason turned, his focus shifting to Ra’s. Talia was now on the opposite side of the room, her expression wary. Jason moved toward Ra’s with a dangerous calm, his fists clenched and his steps deliberate.

Ra’s, unbothered by the chaos, simply extended a hand. Jason swung his fist, but Ra’s caught it effortlessly, pulling Jason forward and delivering a precise strike to his temple. Jason’s body went limp, collapsing onto the floor in an unconscious heap.

“What just happened?” Talia asked, her voice tinged with both concern and frustration.

Ra’s stood, examining Jason’s lifeless form with a critical eye. “It appears,” he said slowly, “that this is a side effect of the Lazarus Pit. A temporary surge of overwhelming anger, perhaps… or something deeper.”

Talia glanced at Jason, her brow furrowed. “And what do we do with him now?”

Ra’s smiled faintly, his tone as cold as ever. “We wait. The answers will reveal themselves in time.”

****

At sunrise Jason stirred awake, his bleary eyes blinking open to the same dimly lit ceiling he had seen before. "Why does this feel like déjà vu?" he muttered to himself, shifting slightly on the bed.

He tried piecing together memories of the previous night. The last thing he could recall was dining with Ra’s and Talia al Ghul. Beyond that? Nothing.

“Must’ve had too much to drink,” he concluded with a faint groan. The lack of clear memories didn’t bother him much—after all, losing his memory was already a recurring theme in his life. “Cut me some slack,” he muttered under his breath.

Jason sat up, letting his eyes adjust to the faint glow of the torches in the room. His attention snagged on something different this time: a masked figure standing silently by the door, watching him. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered. “Either I’m hallucinating, or the creepy patrol has officially arrived.”

Shaking off the unsettling thought, Jason swung his legs off the bed and reached for the slippers placed neatly beside it.

He crossed the room to the adjoining bathroom, freshened up, and returned, towel-drying his hair. As he glanced back at the door, the figure was still there, unmoving.

“Not a hallucination after all,” he noted grimly, tossing the towel aside as he got dressed.

The silence was unbearable. “Hey, what’s your deal?” Jason called out, addressing the figure. The masked person remained eerily quiet, their gaze fixed straight ahead.

Jason frowned, stepping closer. “You’re just gonna stand there? No explanation? No ominous warnings? I feel like I’m starring in some low-budget thriller.”

Still nothing.

“Alright, fine. I’m out,” Jason declared, striding toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, the figure moved swiftly, blocking his path with an assertive sidestep.

Jason raised a brow. “Last warning, get out of my way.”

The figure held firm. Then, to Jason’s surprise, a woman’s voice broke the silence. “Lady Talia has ordered that you remain here until she arrives.”

Jason smirked. “Oh, so you do talk. And you’re a lady. I was hoping for that. Otherwise, it’d be even creepier having some dude standing there, watching me sleep.”

Before she could respond, Jason reached up and tugged the mask from her face. The woman gasped, revealing striking features marred by a bold scar running diagonally across her cheek. Snatching the mask back, she quickly pulled it over her face again.

“A pretty one, too,” Jason remarked, his tone neutral but laced with cheek.

The woman’s voice sharpened. “Do not ever do that again.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “Feisty, huh? Look, I wouldn’t be bothering you if you just let me out of this room.”

“My orders are to ensure you stay put. Lady Talia will come for you when she have your time.” She snapped, her tone all business.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Right. Because waiting around in a glorified dungeon sounds like a blast.”

He stepped forward, brushing past her, but she moved with lightning speed, pulling his arm over her shoulder and attempting to flip him. Jason instinctively adjusted his stance, flipping himself to land squarely on his feet.

The exchange escalated. She threw a punch, which Jason caught, followed by a kick that he narrowly dodged.

The fight ended abruptly when she jabbed two pressure points on his shoulder, rendering his arm limp. Jason stared at his useless limb, then cast an intense gaze at the woman, a wave of raw bloodlust radiating from him.

The woman faltered for a moment, her instincts urging her to step back. She regained her composure, widening the distance between them.

Before Jason could retaliate, the door swung open.

“What is going on here?” Talia’s voice cut through the tension as she entered the room. Her sharp gaze flicked between Jason and the masked woman.

Jason pointed accusingly. “She creeped on me all night and refused to let me leave.”

The masked woman stood at attention, speaking curtly. “I followed your orders, Lady Talia. He refused to comply.”

Talia studied Jason with a raised brow. “How do you feel?”

“…Peachy,” Jason deadpanned.

Talia nodded, dismissing the guard with a wave. The woman bowed stiffly before leaving, not without casting one last hostile glare at Jason.

“Do you remember what happened last night?” Talia asked, her tone probing. From the lack of light in his eyes when he acted hostile, she assumed the might have not been himself and probably wouldn’t remember much of his actions that from the previous night.

Jason frowned, trying to recall. “Not much. I remember dinner and… then waking up in my bed without the slightest memory of how I got back to my room last night.. What happened? Am I going to keep losing chunks of my memory like this?”

Talia hesitated, then gestured for him to follow. “Come with me. My father will explain.”

Jason sighed, trailing after her. “Sure, why not? I’ll just ignore the whole magical schizophrenia vibe I’ve got going on.” He deadpanned, sarcasm practically dripping down his words.

"That's what we’re about to find out, now stop with the sarcasm and follow me," she said, exasperation evident in her voice.

"Finally," Jason muttered, ignoring her tone as he fell into step behind her.

Stepping out of his chambers, the hallways were dimly lit by flickering torches mounted on stone walls. Shadows danced across the ancient, worn floors, adding an eerie ambiance to the fortress.

Jason couldn’t help but notice the masked individuals patrolling in silence, their movements purposeful. Every one of them was armed—knives, swords, and other weapons glinted faintly in the torchlight. His eyes lingered on a guard adjusting a strap on his chest.

“Who are you people, anyway?” he finally asked, his voice breaking the heavy silence.

Talia glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, as though she found his question amusing.

They made a sharp turn, entering a narrower, more secluded hallway guarded by two imposing figures who stood like statues, their faces obscured by dark masks.

As they passed the guards, she mused aloud, “We are part of an organization that was long thought to be a myth—an invention of Ra’s al Ghul to keep his followers in line. But in reality, we exist to stop humanity from destroying itself. That is our sacred duty.”

Jason frowned, trying to process what she had just told him. “So, you guys are like some kind of… world-saving vigilantes?”

Talia chuckled softly. “Something like that. But we’ve been doing this for over a thousand years. While the world remains blissfully ignorant of us, we carry on with our mission.”

As they approached a grand wooden door adorned with intricate carvings, her pace slowed. The air here felt heavier, the faint scent of incense lingering in the corridor.

Jason smirked faintly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me the old man was some kind of immortal vampire.”

This earned a genuine laugh from Talia, light and melodic. “Not quite. He is no vampire, but he is indeed centuries old. A man of great power and unparalleled knowledge.” She gestured at the door. “We’re here.”

She knocked lightly, her voice soft but firm as she called out, “Father.”

A deep voice responded from the other side. “Come in, daughter.”

Chapter Text

She opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for Jason to enter. The room was grand, almost intimidating. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of ancient tomes, scrolls, and books.

Paintings depicting battles, landscapes, and symbols Jason didn't recognize hung in ornate frames. Swords and statues in black, gold, and jade adorned various pedestals, each placed with deliberate precision. A large window dominated one side of the room, revealing snow-capped mountains under a pale gray sky.

Ra's al Ghul sat behind a grand mahogany desk, his sharp features illuminated by the warm glow of an oil lamp. A jade dragon statue sat on the desk, seemingly watching over the papers scattered beneath it.

His piercing eyes studied Jason for a moment before he subtly gestured for Talia to bring the boy closer.

Jason, still captivated by the snowy expanse outside, took a few steps toward the window, ignoring Ra's for the moment. Talia cleared her throat softly, drawing his attention.

Ra's rose gracefully from his chair, clasping his hands behind his back. His presence was commanding, his movements deliberate. "How are you feeling today, boy?" His voice was calm, yet carried a weight that demanded attention.

Jason turned to face him, his expression guarded. "Aside from this weird emptiness in my chest and the fact that I can't remember anything meaningful beyond my name? I'd say I feel just fine." His tone was sarcastic, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of frustration.

"Also, blacking out last night and waking up in bed with no memory? Yeah, that's concerning."

Ra's nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to the window. He spoke without looking at Jason. "What do you remember from last night?"

Jason hesitated, briefly glancing at Talia before answering. "Everything up until the moment you told me I was dead and brought back to life. After that, I felt... sick, like something was clawing at my insides. The next thing I knew, I woke up in bed. It was like I blinked at the dining table and found myself elsewhere."

"And you recall nothing of what transpired during that time?" Ra's inquired, turning his head slightly to observe Jason's reaction.

Jason shook his head, his brows furrowed. "No. Nothing."

Ra's exhaled softly, as if weighing his next words. "I see."

Jason crossed his arms, his tone growing sharper. "So, since I've answered your questions, how about someone tells me what actually happened?"

Talia glanced at her father, who gave a subtle nod of approval. She spoke carefully, her voice steady. "You blacked out. In that state, you attacked everyone in your line of sight."

Jason's eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face. "You're kidding, right?"

"I am afraid she's not," Ra's interjected, his voice as composed as ever.

Jason took a step back, running a hand through his hair. "Being brought back from the dead was one thing—I'm still wrapping my head around that. But going on some rampage without remembering it? That's... terrifying."

"You must calm yourself," Talia interjected, her tone firm but not unkind. "And mind your tone when speaking to my father."

Jason shot her a glare but bit back a retort. "Calm down? What if it happens again? What if I hurt—or kill—someone and don't even know it?"

Ra's stepped forward, placing a steady hand on Jason's shoulder. His gaze was firm but understanding. "Your concerns are valid, child. Rest assured, we will help you recover your memories and rid you of whatever lingers from your resurrection. You are not alone in this."

Jason took a deep breath, his jaw tight as he wrestled with his emotions. "Fine. But what about my family? Do they know I'm alive?"

Ra's offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "With every step you take on this journey, answers to your questions will come. For now, trust us. Trust the process."

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism flickering in his expression, but he said nothing. What choice did he have? He didn't understand what was happening to him, and for now, this place—the League—was his only option.

After a moment of silence, Jason exhaled heavily. "Fine. How long is this gonna take?"

Ra's stepped back, his posture relaxed but commanding. "That depends on you. For now, you are one of us. You will be treated as family, not as a stranger."

Jason mulled over the words, uncertainty lingering in his eyes.

Ra's extended his hand toward Talia. "My daughter will see to it that you settle in and have all you need."

Jason finally nodded. "When do we start?"

Ra's allowed a small smile. "Right now. Follow me."

Without another word, the two men left the room, leaving Talia behind. She watched them go, her expression unreadable as the heavy door clicked shut behind them.

Ra's al Ghul led Jason to a dimly lit chamber, its air thick with the earthy scent of aged stone and faint traces of incense. The room was minimalistic, almost austere, with four mats neatly arranged in a square formation on the cold ground.

The only illumination came from a few candles placed in the corners, their flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows.

"Sit," Ra's instructed, his tone calm yet commanding. Jason obeyed without question, lowering himself onto one of the mats.

The atmosphere became heavy with silence, broken only by the distant crackle of the candles. Jason glanced around, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The space felt ancient, sacred even, as though countless rituals had taken place here over the centuries.

Ra's settled onto the mat opposite Jason and reached for a matchstick. He lit two sticks of incense from the bundle placed in the center of the square, their thin trails of smoke spiraling upward and dispersing into the air.

"Earlier, you mentioned feeling a sense of emptiness within," Ra's began, his voice steady as the smoke drifted between them. "Could you elaborate on that?"

Jason hadn't given the feeling much thought before, but now that Ra's mentioned it, he let his mind wander, searching for the words to explain. "It's not the kind of emptiness you'd feel when you're missing something obvious—like my memories, for instance. It's… different."

Ra's hummed softly, a thoughtful sound that invited Jason to continue.

Jason's brows furrowed as he tried to articulate the sensation. "It's more like a hunger—something deep and insatiable. No matter what I do, it feels like nothing could ever fill it. But I don't know what it's craving."

Ra's regarded him with a contemplative expression, his fingers steepled in thought. "That feeling could be a side effect of your resurrection. Death often leaves its mark in ways we cannot immediately see or understand. Or—" he added after a pause, "it could stem from a lack of purpose."

Jason's jaw tightened slightly, mulling over the implications of Ra's words. Before he could respond, the quiet creak of the door drew their attention.

A League member entered silently, his movements fluid and respectful. He carried a tray with a small ceramic kettle and two delicate cups.

Without a word, the man approached, set the tray down near Ra's, and bowed deeply before retreating back into the shadows, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Ra's poured tea into the two cups with a practiced grace, the liquid steaming faintly. He handed one to Jason, who accepted it with a raised brow.

"This tea is brewed from a rare herb," Ra's explained, his tone calm and measured. "It soothes the mind and nerves, preparing one for introspection."

Jason took a tentative sip, the warmth spreading through him as the earthy, slightly bitter flavor settled on his tongue. Ra's waited until Jason had taken another sip before speaking again.

"In two minutes, we will begin meditating."

Jason frowned slightly. "Meditating?" His skepticism was evident.

Ra's gave a faint, almost amused smile. "Yes. Meditation is a powerful exercise. In your case, it will help calm the storm within and allow you to look inward. This space is intentionally secluded to free us from distractions."

Jason's frown deepened. "I'm not exactly the meditative type."

Ra's remained unperturbed. "You need not worry. I will guide you. Do not expect immediate results, but with time and practice, meditation may reveal what your soul seeks—and perhaps fragments of your memories."

Jason hesitated but eventually nodded. "Alright. Let's give it a shot."

Ra's positioned himself with his legs crossed, his posture regal yet relaxed. Jason mirrored him, albeit less gracefully.

"Do not attempt to silence the voice and thoughts in your mind," Ra's began, his tone gentle but firm.

"That voice isn't you but thoughts swirling around the universal consciousness. identifying with it and then resisting it will only create struggle within yourself. Instead, focus on your breathing and take no thought. Let your gaze rest on the smoke from the incense. Take deep, measured breaths and detach from that voice."

Jason inhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the swirling smoke. The room seemed to shrink, the world beyond its walls fading into insignificance.

"Now, close your eyes," Ra's instructed. "Focus solely on your breathing. Let every other thought pass by like a stream. Do not hold onto them. Let them flow."

Jason closed his eyes, his breathing steady but tentative. The sound of his own breaths filled his ears, mingling with the faint crackle of the candles. For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind began to quiet.

****

[Later that evening]

Talia approached her father's chambers, her soft knock barely audible against the thick wooden door. "Father," she called.

"Enter," came Ra's measured reply.

She stepped inside, finding him standing by the large window, his silhouette framed against the moonlit expanse of snowy mountains. He seemed deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Talia asked, her tone polite but curious.

Ra's turned, his expression unreadable but calm. "It is fine."

Talia stepped closer, her mind teeming with questions. As the one tasked with overseeing Jason, she needed clarity. "How did the exercise with Jason go?"

Ra's exhaled softly, his gaze steady. "It was a first step. There were no visible results, but progress is not always immediate."

Talia nodded, her thoughts drifting to the events of the previous night. "What do you think happened to him? You saw his eyes, didn't you? There was… nothing there but darkness."

Ra's sighed, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. "I did. From what I observed, his mind appears fractured—disjointed. The disunity between his body, mind, and soul is evident."

Talia tilted her head, her brows knitting in confusion. She understood the words, but the implications unsettled her. Still, she pressed on. "And this emptiness he spoke of? Do you think recovering his memories would sooth that feeling?"

Ra's turned back to the window, his gaze distant. "I doubt it. The scar of death is imprinted on his soul. Even if his memories return, the cold sense of emptiness may remain."

Talia studied her father's profile, sensing there was more he wasn't saying. She knew him well enough to recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders.

"There's more, isn't there?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

Ra's finally met her gaze. "Resurrecting someone is not without consequence. The universe has a way of maintaining balance. I fear we do not yet know the price Jason has paid for his soul—or how the Lazarus Pit has influenced his return."

Talia's lips pressed into a thin line. The weight of her father's words settled heavily on her. The act of bringing Jason back wasn't just an extraordinary feat; it was a gamble with stakes they couldn't yet comprehend.

For the first time, doubt crept into her heart. Had they truly helped Jason? Or had they simply chained him to a burden no one could bear?

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd's POV]

Jason sat by the window in his dimly lit room, the moonlight painting soft streaks across his face. His dinner tray lay untouched on the nearby table, save for a piece of bread he'd nibbled on absentmindedly.

"This place is like a fortress," he muttered, his voice carrying softly into the stillness. His gaze lingered on the crescent moon hanging high in the sky.

"Meditating with that old geezer actually relieved some of the pent-up stress," he added with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle.

His room was simple, almost barren, with few personal touches. He glanced around, searching for anything to occupy his restless mind. His eyes landed on a corner of the room where a tall, ornate mirror hung. He hadn't noticed it before—it was tucked away, unobtrusive.

Curiosity piqued, Jason rose and approached it. His reflection stared back at him, sharper and more defined than he remembered.

His dark hair was disheveled from a restless evening, but one feature stood out, a streak of white cutting through the dark locks at the front.

"Have I always had that?" he murmured, running his fingers through the streak. The question lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug. His attention was soon drawn to the suffocating quiet of his room.

"This is boring as hell," Jason muttered. He grabbed a shirt, slipping it over his toned frame as he made his way to the door. "Might as well look around before I lose my mind."

Jason cracked the door open just enough to poke his head through, scanning the dimly lit corridor. To his surprise, no guards were stationed outside.

"Huh. I guess I'm not a prisoner after all," he mused. He stepped into the hallway, keeping his footsteps light.

Jason wandered through the labyrinthine halls of the compound, passing guards stationed at intervals.

He noted two distinct groups: those in gray uniforms patrolling with firearms and another, more ominous group dressed in black with masked faces and traditional weapons strapped to their waists.

The masked ones intrigued him. They didn't patrol like the others; instead, they stood watch at specific points or moved with purpose, as if on important assignments.

"Special ops, maybe," Jason muttered to himself.

The sharp clash of metal against metal drew his attention. The sound grew louder as he followed it to a wide courtyard illuminated by torches. Jason leaned against a wall, crossing his arms as he took in the sight before him.

A child—no more than five years old—was sparring with two masked men. The boy wielded a sword with skill and precision far beyond his years, pushing back his opponents despite their size and experience.

Jason let out a low whistle, yet not all that impressed. "Damn, kid's got moves."

"You're impressed?" a familiar voice asked from behind him. Jason turned to see Talia al Ghul approaching, her steps graceful and deliberate.

Jason smirked, his attention still on the boy. "Not judging, but shouldn't a kid his age be dreaming of becoming an astronaut or something?"

Talia chuckled softly, her gaze fixed on the child. "For most children, perhaps. But Damian is not like most children."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I got that much. What's the deal? He some kind of child prodigy?"

Talia's expression softened with a hint of pride. "He's my son. And yes, Damian is exceptional. While other children play and dream of the future, he is already mastering the art of war."

Jason's brow furrowed. "Art of war? He's barely six."

Talia met his gaze, unflinching. "Age is irrelevant. The world is dangerous, Jason. He will be prepared for it."

Jason turned back to the courtyard. Damian had disarmed one of his opponents and was now holding his ground against the second, moving with startling agility.

"And what about the rest of you? Did everyone here grow up like this?" Jason asked, gesturing vaguely to the compound.

Talia tilted her head, considering the question. "Not everyone. Many here came to the League seeking purpose. Some were lost, broken, victims of war or circumstance.

The League gave them a home, a purpose—to make the world a better place, even if it must be done from the shadows."

Jason let out a low hum, skeptical but not entirely dismissive. "And the kid? He doesn't get a say in any of this?"

Talia's tone turned firm, though not unkind. "Damian understands his duty. He is destined for greatness."

Jason's focus returned to the boy, who had now disarmed his second opponent and was sparring barehanded against a third. "He's got talent," Jason admitted.

"Would you like to try?" Talia asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Jason blinked, caught off guard. "You mean fighting? Against them?" He nodded toward the courtyard.

"Why not?" Talia pressed. "You might surprise yourself."

Jason let out a dry laugh. "I doubt it. Unless you'd get some kink from watching zombie-boy here get his ass handed to him." He replied, referring to himself in third person.

Talia laughed lightly at his self-deprecation. "I haven't laughed this much in a long time. At least you haven't lost your sense of humor along with your memories."

Jason's expression turned neutral, her words sparking questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. "You knew me before all this?"

"Our paths crossed," Talia said casually. "But we weren't friends."

Before Jason could press further, the sparring match ended. Damian stood victorious, his expression calm despite his obvious effort.

"Be here at dawn," Talia said, turning to leave. "We'll begin your lessons."

Jason watched her retreating figure, her words echoing in his mind. He glanced back at Damian, who was now sheathing his blade with practiced ease.

"Lessons, huh," Jason muttered. "Guess I'd
better not disappoint."

****

The crisp morning air greeted Jason as he stepped into the courtyard, dressed in the dark training attire that Talia had sent over.

The fabric was light yet durable, a stark contrast to the rough, utilitarian outfits he felt more at home in. His boots made a dull thud against the stone ground as he walked, his eyes scanning the gathered group.

The training grounds of the League of Assassins were as unforgiving as their philosophy. The air was dense with the scent of sweat and sand, the ground beneath Jason's feet uneven and littered with worn patches where countless warriors had fought before him.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls surrounding the arena.

Every face was obscured by a black mask, revealing only sharp eyes that seemed to size him up as he approached. The uniformity made them appear as a singular, cohesive unit—disciplined, focused, and utterly lethal.

Jason smirked. "Guess I missed the memo about the dress code."

A few of them exchanged glances but said nothing. The silence was unnerving, but Jason wasn't about to let it shake him.

Talia made her appearance, her presence commanding as always. She was dressed similarly but without a mask, though her air of authority set her apart. "You're on time. Good," she said, her tone neutral.

Jason shrugged. "Wouldn't want to keep the 'Assassin Academy' waiting."

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she quickly regained her composure. "This is no academy, Jason. This is survival. And today, you begin your training with weapons."

Talia led Jason to a long table in the center of the courtyard. Spread across it was an arsenal of weapons: swords, daggers, staffs, throwing stars, and more exotic tools of the trade.

"Each of these weapons requires practiced precision, discipline, and respect," Talia began, her voice steady. "You will start with the basics, the sword and dagger. From there, you will progress to more advanced weapons."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Start with a sword? Shouldn't I be learning to crawl before I run?"

"You don't have the luxury of time," Talia replied sharply. "The League demands readiness. You'll adapt."

She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward and handed Jason a simple, unadorned sword. It was heavier than he expected, the cold metal pressing into his palm.

"Your first task is to familiarize yourself with the weight, balance, and reach of the blade," Talia instructed. "Begin."

Jason swung the sword experimentally, feeling its weight pull at his arm. His movements were clumsy, the blade slicing through the air with no real purpose.

"You're overcompensating," Talia said, observing him. "Relax your grip. Let the blade do the work."

Jason adjusted his hold, his movements becoming slightly smoother but still lacking finesse. He could feel the eyes of the other assassins on him, their silent judgment palpable.

"This isn't exactly beginner-friendly," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Mastery comes through struggle," Talia replied coolly. "Now, again."

After an hour of drills, Talia stepped forward. "Enough practice. It's time to test your instincts." She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward with their own sword.

Jason squared up, gripping his weapon tightly. His opponent moved with practiced ease, their strikes swift and precise. Jason, however, was awkward and defensive, barely managing to block each attack.

The fight was short and brutal. Jason was disarmed within minutes, the tip of his opponent's blade resting against his chest.

"Again," Talia commanded, her tone firm.

Jason retrieved his sword, his jaw tightening. The second bout was no different—the assassin overwhelmed him with speed and skill.

By the third round, Jason started to find a rhythm. His movements, though still rough, began to flow more naturally. His old habits kicked in, and he started to anticipate his opponent's attacks. He dodged a strike aimed at his ribs and managed to counter with a swing of his own.

It wasn't enough to win, but it was progress.

Talia nodded approvingly. "You're beginning to adapt. That's enough for today."

Jason sheathed his sword, his arms trembling from exertion. "Great. I'll be a master swordsman by the time I'm eighty."

Talia allowed herself a small smile. "You underestimate your potential, Jason. With time and discipline, you'll surpass even your own expectations."

Jason exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Despite the bruises and the fatigue, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't worth much but he was getting better—slowly but surely. And for the first time since arriving, he felt a strange sense of purpose.

****

The morning greeted Jason with no fanfare, only the dull ache of his muscles from the previous week's training. As he pushed himself out of bed, the soreness reminded him of every failed block and strike. He muttered under his breath, "Nothing like waking up to feel like a truck hit you."

A quick, cold shower did little to ease the tension in his body, but it woke him up enough to throw on the dark training attire that had been left at his door again.

He glanced at the mirror as he tightened the straps on his boots, catching a glimpse of the faint shadow under his eyes and the white streak in his hair that refused to blend into the rest of his dark locks.

"Let's see what fresh hell they have planned for me today," he muttered, heading out of the room.

Upon arrival, he noticed courtyard was already alive with activity. The masked assassins moved with precision, their blades cutting through the air in synchronized patterns.

The sound of metal on metal rang out like a macabre symphony, the rhythm punctuated by the dull thuds of fists meeting flesh.

Jason stepped into the training ground, his boots crunching against the gravel. He didn't have to wait long before Talia appeared, her presence as commanding as ever.

"You're late," she said, though her tone lacked true reproach.

"Or maybe you're all just early," Jason shot back, cracking his neck.

She smirked faintly. "Today, you'll be sparring without weapons. Hand-to-hand combat is the foundation of your training. Master your body before you master your blade." That phrase earned her a sarcastic look from him.

Jason rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in his joints. "Great. Because yesterday wasn't brutal enough."

Talia signaled one of the masked assassins to step forward. This one was lean but muscular, their stance radiating confidence.

The assassin moved like a shadow, their feet silent on the gravel. Jason barely had time to brace before a fist shot toward his face. He ducked instinctively, the air whooshing past his ear as he narrowly avoided the strike.

"Good reflexes," Talia commented from the sidelines.

Jason didn't have time to feel smug. The assassin's next move was a lightning-fast kick to his ribs, landing with a sickening crack. Pain exploded in Jason's side as he stumbled back, clutching his torso.

"Okay, that's how it's gonna be?" Jason growled, straightening up.

The assassin didn't respond, instead rushing forward with a flurry of blows. Jason managed to block two punches, his arms screaming in protest, but the third hit his jaw with enough force to snap his head back.

Stars danced in his vision as he staggered, spitting blood onto the ground. With a sudden taste of metal in his mouth, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain. "You hit like a pissed-off gorilla."

The assassin's only reply was another attack, this time aiming low. Jason anticipated it, stepping to the side and throwing a punch of his own.

His knuckles connected with the assassin's shoulder, the impact reverberating through his arm. It wasn't a clean hit, but it was something.

The assassin recovered quickly, grabbing Jason's arm and twisting it behind his back. The pressure on his shoulder was unbearable, but Jason gritted his teeth and drove his heel into the assassin's shin. The hold loosened, and Jason broke free, spinning around to face his opponent again.

After a brief break, Talia ordered Jason to fight another assassin. This one was stockier, their movements less fluid but more powerful. Jason was already exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but he stepped into the ring without hesitation.

This time, something clicked. As the assassin charged, Jason didn't just react—he anticipated and moved at his own pace. His body moved on instinct, ducking under a wide swing and delivering a sharp elbow to his opponent's ribs. The satisfying thud of impact spurred him on.

The assassin retaliated with a punch aimed at Jason's temple, but he blocked it with his forearm, the force rattling his bones. Ignoring the pain, Jason followed up with a knee to the assassin's gut, driving the breath of air out of them.

"Better," Talia remarked from the sidelines, her voice calm but approving.

Jason didn't let up. He dodged a clumsy jab and countered with a swift uppercut, his fist connecting with the assassin's jaw. The crack of bone meeting bone echoed through the courtyard, and the assassin stumbled back, dazed.

For the first time since he'd arrived, Jason felt a hint of pride. He wasn't just surviving—he was somehow fighting back.

By the time the training session ended, Jason was covered in sweat and bruises, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He leaned against a stone pillar, trying to catch his breath as the adrenaline ebbed away.

"You're doing quite well," Talia said as she approached.

Jason snorted, wincing as he adjusted his stance. "If by improving, you mean I'm getting my ass handed to me slightly less, then sure."

Talia smirked. "Pain is a teacher, Jason. And you're a quick study."

He glanced at his bruised hands, flexing his fingers. Despite the pain, he felt stronger, and with a more focused train of thought. "So, what's next?"

Talia's smirk widened. "Tomorrow, you will try this one more time then we'll see how you fare against multiple opponents."

Jason groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillar. "Can't wait."

But beneath the sarcasm, a part of him was eager.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was eerily silent as Jason stepped into the ring for his final sparring session of the day. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and blood, and the faint hum of cicadas served as a haunting backdrop.

His body ached from hours of relentless training, but beneath the fatigue, something darker simmered—a bubbling, restless anger he couldn’t quite name.

Talia stood nearby, her arms crossed as she observed him. “This will test your endurance and control,” she said, her voice calm but firm. She gestured to three assassins, each masked and armed with dulled practice blades. “They will fight as a team. Show me you can hold your own.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. Control. That word gnawed at him. There was something inside him that resisted control, a storm he couldn’t suppress. But he stepped forward, his muscles taut as he prepared for the onslaught.

The assassins didn’t waste time. The first lunged at him, blade aimed for his chest. Jason sidestepped, his movements sharp and instinctive. His fist shot out, catching the assassin’s ribs with a sickening crack.

The second attacker came at him from behind. Jason ducked under their swing and spun, his elbow smashing into their face. Blood sprayed from their nose, and they staggered back, groaning.

The third assassin was faster, they threw a precise kick, slicing toward Jason’s neck. He barely managed to block it with his forearm, the force rattling through his bones. A growl escaped his lips, low, guttural, animalistic.

“Focus, Jason!” Talia’s voice cut through the haze.

But he wasn’t listening. The world blurred around him, his vision tinged with red. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

The first assassin recovered and charged again, but Jason was already moving. He grabbed their wrist mid-strike, twisting it until the blade fell from their hand. Then, with a feral roar, he drove his fist into their jaw. The sound of cartilage snapping was deafening.

Jason didn’t stop. He yanked the assassin forward, slamming his knee into their gut. They crumpled to the ground, coughing and gasping, but Jason didn’t even glance at them.

The second assassin hesitated, their stance faltering as they saw the fire in Jason’s eyes. He pounced, his movements more beast than man. His fist collided with their temple, sending them sprawling.

Before they could recover, he was on them, his fists raining down like hammers. Each strike was accompanied by the wet, meaty thud of flesh giving way. Blood splattered across Jason’s knuckles, but he didn’t care.

“Jason, stop!” Talia’s voice was sharp now, tinged with urgency.

He didn’t hear her. The third assassin made a desperate move, swinging their blade at his back. Jason spun, catching their arm mid-swing. With a savage twist, he disarmed them and shoved them to the ground.

Something inside him snapped. He grabbed the fallen blade and stood over his final opponent, his chest heaving. The assassin looked up at him, fear evident even behind their mask.

Jason raised the blade, his hands trembling—not with hesitation, but with the sheer force of his rage.

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the chaos like a blade of its own. Jason froze, the blade hovering inches above the assassin’s throat. He turned, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the figure standing at the edge of the courtyard.

Ra’s al Ghul.

The Demon’s Head approached with measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was sharp, piercing, but there was no judgment in his expression. If anything, he seemed… intrigued.

Jason’s chest heaved as he dropped the blade. It clattered to the ground, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. The red haze began to lift, leaving him staring at the bloodied, broken bodies around him.

“I told you to stop,” Talia said, stepping forward. Her tone was stern, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—concern, perhaps.

Ra’s held up a hand, silencing her. His attention remained fixed on Jason. “Remarkable,” he said softly.

Jason’s hands were still shaking as he turned to face Ra’s fully. “I—I didn’t mean to…”

“You lost control,” Ra’s interrupted. “You surrendered to the animalistic nature which gnaws within you.”

Jason blinked, his breathing still uneven. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Ra’s stepped closer, his voice calm but commanding. “The Lazarus Pit has left its mark on you. It has awakened something primal, something powerful. Most would be consumed by it, reduced to madness. But you…” He gestured to the carnage around them. “You harnessed it. Unrefined, yes, but the potential is undeniable.”

Jason looked down at his bloodied hands, his mind racing. The anger, the rage—it had felt like a monster inside him, clawing to get out. But in that moment, it had also felt… exhilarating.

“You are wasted in group training,” Ra’s continued. “From now on, I will train you personally.”

Talia’s eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.

Jason met Ra’s gaze, his jaw tightening. “Why?”

Ra’s allowed a small smile. “Because you could be great, Jason. If you learn to wield your bloodlust, to temper it with discipline, you could become a weapon the likes of which this world has never seen.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately. He wasn’t sure if Ra’s words were a promise or a threat. But deep down, he couldn’t deny the allure of it—the chance to master the storm raging inside him.

“I’m in,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind.

Ra’s nodded, his expression unreadable. “Then let us begin.”

*****

It’s been a couple of days since then and Ra’s only had him engage in physical training so he could master his body. But today, he was to finally engage in combat training.

Jason stood in the center, his fists clenched at his sides. His body still ached from days of conditioning—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until his lungs burned.

Yet, none of that compared to the nervous energy coiling in his stomach as he faced his opponent, a veteran League assassin clad in black, whose calm expression betrayed nothing.

“Begin,” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice rang out from the sidelines, sharp and commanding.

The assassin struck first, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Jason barely had time to register the movement before a fist slammed into his ribs. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he staggered backward, clutching his side.

“Too slow,” Ra’s observed, his tone devoid of sympathy.

Jason grit his teeth and lunged forward, throwing a wild punch. His opponent sidestepped with ease, grabbing Jason’s wrist and twisting it painfully.

Before Jason could react, a kick swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground. The coarse sand bit into his skin as he rolled, coughing.

“Get up,” Ra’s ordered.

Jason pushed himself to his feet, his hands trembling with both exertion and frustration. The assassin waited, motionless, his stance a perfect combination of offense and defense. Jason’s mind raced. He had no formal technique, no strategy, but instinct urged him forward.

This time, he feinted a right hook and pivoted sharply, aiming a knee at his opponent’s midsection.

The move caught the assassin off guard, earning Jason a grunt of pain as the knee connected. A flicker of triumph flashed in Jason’s chest, but it was short-lived.

The assassin recovered almost instantly, grabbing Jason’s leg and yanking him off balance. Jason hit the ground hard, his vision swimming. The assassin loomed over him, pressing a knee into his chest.

“Yield,” the assassin said coldly.

Jason glared up at him, defiant, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Screw you,” he spat.

A faint chuckle escaped Ra’s. “Enough. Let him up.”

The assassin released Jason, who rolled onto his hands and knees, spitting out sand. His body throbbed with pain, but a fire burned in his chest, a refusal to give up.

Hours later, after being given only a brief respite, Jason was summoned again. His muscles screamed in protest as he stepped back into the arena.

This time, a younger, less experienced opponent faced him. Jason thought he might stand a chance, but Ra’s had made one thing clear, no opponent in the League was weak.

The second fight began with a blur of motion. Jason tried to focus, watching for openings. His opponent moved with fluidity, every strike precise and controlled. Jason blocked a series of punches, his arms absorbing the brunt of the blows.

Then it happened. His institutive muscle memories began to serve as his guide. All he had to do was assimilate the situation and take the initiative.

When his opponent aimed a kick at his head, Jason ducked and countered with a swift uppercut that snapped his opponent’s head back.

Without thinking, Jason followed up with a low sweep, taking the younger fighter’s legs out from under him. His opponent hit the ground, and Jason pounced, pinning him with an elbow to the chest.

For a moment, Jason felt a surge of pride. He’d done it. He’d won.

But his opponent wasn’t done. With a burst of strength, the younger assassin bucked Jason off and scrambled to his feet. Jason hesitated, and that split-second delay cost him. A flurry of strikes overwhelmed him, ending with a powerful kick to the sternum that sent him crashing into the dirt.

“Still raw,” Ra’s commented, stepping forward. “But there is potential.”

Jason groaned, clutching his chest as he struggled to sit up. “Potential? I just got my ass handed to me. Twice.”

Ra’s leaned down beside him, his expression unreadable. “And yet, you displayed moments of brilliance. That uppercut was instinctual. The sweep, effective. These are the fragments of a warrior buried within you, Jason. We will unearth them.”

Jason looked up at him, his jaw tightening. “Then teach me how to fight.”

A rare smile tugged at the corners of Ra’s lips. “Oh, I intend to. For now go and take a shower, it will be meal time soon. Also ensure you get plenty of sleep.” He left as Jason remained on the floor a while longer as Ra’s made his exit.

Chapter Text

[Barbara Gordon’s POV]

It’s been barely a month since we lost Jason, and every member of the Bat-Family is coping with the loss in their own way. Some are more open about it, while others try to bury it deep, but the weight is unmistakable.

Jason’s absence isn’t something you can ignore, it lingers in every corner, in many unspoken word.

Alfred, as always, is the glue holding us together. He’s been trying to console everyone with his calm, all-knowing words of encouragement, often starting random conversations just to distract us whenever he catches us staring off into space, probably thinking about Jason.

I know he’s hurting too. How could he not? Although rebellious, Jason was like a grandson to him. But Alfred being Alfred, he puts on a brave face for our sake.

He refuses to let us all fall apart at once. Someone has to keep the pieces together, and it’s no surprise that it’s him. Still, I catch glimpses of it sometimes—the quiet moments when Alfred pauses mid-task, his gaze distant. I know he’s thinking about Jason, just like the rest of us.

I’ve been visiting Wayne Manor more often lately. It’s a strange comfort being here, even though the air feels heavier than usual. It’s not like I can do much else—going out on patrol or punching my frustrations out isn’t an option for me anymore. Not since the Joker took my legs, my freedom, and my identity.

That clown. He’s already stolen so much from us. My dreams, my future as Batgirl, and now Jason’s life. He keeps taking and taking, leaving nothing but pain in his wake.

Dick’s been dealing with it the way he knows best, by throwing himself into the fight. He’s been hitting the streets hard, putting every ounce of his grief into beating the crap out of Bludhaven’s criminals.

I’ve caught him a few times scrolling through old pictures of Jason, the ones where Jason would surprise him with selfies while they were out in costume.

The candid ones where Dick is mid-sentence or caught off-guard, looking annoyed but secretly amused. Jason had that way about him, bringing a little chaos and laughter wherever he went.

I know Dick misses those moments, more than he’ll admit. But he’s Dick. He’s always been resilient, the kind of person who finds his way through the storm. He’ll be fine… eventually. Once he’s finished grieving in his own way.

Then there’s Bruce. Let’s just say you don’t want to be on the wrong side of Batman right now. Over the past few weeks, criminals who cross his path don’t just end up in jail—they end up in the hospital first.

And not just with minor injuries, either. I’m talking broken ribs, shattered kneecaps, the works. No life insurance is going to cover that, and once they’re patched up, it’s straight to Blackgate or Arkham.

I think, deep down, Bruce blames himself for Jason’s death. He’s been pulling back from letting Dick take on the more dangerous jobs whenever he offers to lend a hand, assigning him to boring stakeouts and routine patrols while Bruce goes after the heavy hitters alone.

It’s like he’s trying to shield Dick from danger, but it’s obvious what he’s really doing. He’s terrified of losing another son. The guilt is eating him alive, even though none of us blame him for what happened. But Bruce? He’ll carry that weight forever.

I just wish he’d stop punishing himself. Jason wouldn’t want that. None of us do.

And then there’s me. Sometimes I feel so helpless. My days as Batgirl are over, thanks to the Joker, but that doesn’t stop the itch to do something—anything—to help. Watching Gotham from the sidelines is torture.

I want to be out there with them, fighting back, making a difference. But all I can do is sit here in this chair, watching the people I care about crumble under the weight of their grief, unable to do anything to ease it.

Jason’s death left a hole in all of us. He was more than just a teammate or a member of the family. He was this fiery, stubborn, reckless kid who had a way of leaving an impression on everyone he met. And now he’s gone. And we’re all just… trying to figure out how to move forward without him.

If that’s even possible.

****

The next morning, Jason’s body protested every movement as he trudged toward the training grounds. Every muscle felt like it had been put through a blender, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through the pain.

The League wasn’t a place for weakness, and he had no intention of giving Ra’s or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

This time, the arena was lined with racks of weapons—blades of every size and shape, bows strung taut with expertly crafted arrows, staves, and chains glinting menacingly in the sunlight. Ra’s stood at the far end, observing Jason with that ever-present air of calculated detachment.

“Today, you will begin your training in weapon mastery,” Ra’s announced. His voice carried authority, sharp as a blade. “A true warrior is not defined solely by his fists. The League has honed its techniques over centuries, each weapon an extension of the body and mind. You will start with the basics.”

Jason glanced at the array of weapons. His gaze lingered on the swords, their polished edges gleaming like invitations to carnage. He reached out, his hand hovering over the hilt of a katana.

“Not that one,” a young voice piped up behind him, sharp and dismissive.

Jason turned to see a small boy—barely five years old—standing with his arms crossed. His dark hair framed an unnervingly confident face, emerald eyes brimming with arrogance.

The boy was clad in the same training attire as the other assassins, though it seemed almost comical given his diminutive size.

“And why not?” Jason asked, arching a brow.

The boy smirked, stepping forward with the swagger of someone who thought they owned the world. “Because you’ll just embarrass yourself. That blade is too advanced for someone as... unrefined as you.”

Jason chuckled, his grip tightening on the katana. “Unrefined? Big words for someone who probably needs a stool to reach the weapon rack.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, his smirk deepening. “I don’t need a stool, toddler. I’ve been training with these weapons since before you were dragged out of the gutter.”

“Dragged out of the gutter? You’re bold for a kid who probably still needs a bedtime story,” Jason shot back, though his tone remained light, refusing to let the boy’s arrogance get to him.

Ra’s interrupted the exchange with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Jason, meet Damian. My grandson and the heir to the League of Assassins.”

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown. “Your grandson?” He looked Damian up and down, taking in the boy’s confident stance and piercing gaze.

“Well, that explains the attitude.” His mind then flashed back to the night Talia introduced her kid, the one he saw training at the courtyard about a week ago.

“Unlike you, I don’t need explanations,” Damian said, brushing past Jason and walking toward the centre of the arena.

“Perhaps you should focus less on talking and more on not embarrassing yourself in front of Grandfather.” He added.

Jason raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, his attention shifted to the two assassins who entered the arena, both fully armed. They surrounded Damian, their movements calculated and precise.

Jason crossed his arms, intrigued. “What’s this, babysitting duty?”

Ra’s glanced at him. “Hardly. Watch closely, Jason. You may learn something.”

Jason watched as Damian sprang into action. The boy moved with an efficiency that belied his age, darting between the two assassins with a blade in each hand.

His strikes were sharp and precise, his small frame making him a difficult target. One assassin swung a staff toward him, but Damian ducked effortlessly, countering with a quick slash that disarmed his opponent.

The second assassin came at him with a flurry of strikes, but Damian deflected each one with almost casual ease. Within moments, both assassins were disarmed and on their knees, Damian standing over them with a triumphant smirk.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Alright, I’ll give you this—kid’s got moves.”

Damian wiped the blades clean and sheathed them before turning to Jason. “Of course I do. I’m Damian al Ghul. And you, whoever you are, will never match me.”

Jason smirked, stepping closer. “Maybe. Or maybe one day, you’ll look back and realize this ‘unrefined’ guy you’re talking to is the one who kicked your ass.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Ra’s clapped his hands, signalling the end of the session.

“Jason,” Ra’s said, motioning to the weapon rack. “Choose your weapon. Let’s see if you have the discipline to wield it.”

Jason grabbed a staff, its weight feeling unfamiliar but manageable in his hands. As he walked toward the centre of the arena, he glanced back at Damian. “Hey, kid,” he called. “Stick around. You might learn something from me.”

Damian scoffed, turning on his heel. “Highly doubtful.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. “Cute kid,” he muttered, stepping into the arena and preparing for the gruelling training ahead.

Jason stepped into the arena, gripping the staff tightly in his hands. The weight felt unnatural, but not unwieldy.

Across from him stood one of the League’s seasoned instructors, a towering man with a scar running down his left cheek. The instructor twirled his own staff with ease, the movement smooth and intimidating.

“Begin,” Ra’s commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The instructor struck first, closing the distance in an instant. His staff came down in a brutal arc aimed at Jason’s shoulder.

Jason barely raised his weapon in time to block, the force of the blow reverberating up his arms and nearly knocking the staff from his grip.

“Hold your ground, Jason,” Ra’s called out, his tone calm but expectant.

Jason gritted his teeth and shifted his stance, planting his feet more firmly in the sand. The instructor didn’t give him a moment to recover, following up with a series of quick jabs aimed at his ribs and legs.

Jason dodged the first two strikes but miscalculated the third. The staff struck his shin with a sickening crack, and he stumbled, hissing in pain.

“You’re overthinking,” Ra’s observed, his voice cutting through Jason’s haze of pain. “Stop trying to predict his moves. React.”

Jason growled under his breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the staff.

The instructor came at him again, but this time Jason stepped into the attack, deflecting the blow and countering with a wide swing aimed at the man’s midsection.

The instructor blocked it easily, but Jason noticed something—a flicker of acknowledgment in the man’s eyes. For the first time, Jason wasn’t feeling completely outmatched.

The fight continued, the instructor pushing Jason harder with each exchange. The strikes came faster, more brutal, testing Jason’s endurance and resolve. Each blow he blocked sent shockwaves through his arms, but each time, he recovered a little quicker.

As the fight wore on, something shifted. Jason stopped trying to match the instructor’s technique and instead leaned more into his instincts.

When the instructor swung low, Jason leapt back with a fluidity that surprised even himself. When the instructor aimed for his head, Jason ducked and jabbed his staff upward, catching the man in the ribs.

The strike wasn’t strong enough to do any real damage, but it was enough to create an opening. Jason surged forward, his staff a blur as he unleashed a flurry of strikes.

The instructor blocked most of them, but Jason’s aggression forced him to take a step back—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“You see?” Ra’s said from the sidelines, his voice laced with approval. “When you stop hesitating, you begin to see the rhythm of the fight.”

Jason didn’t reply. He was too focused on the instructor, whose expression had shifted from calm indifference to guarded respect.

The man came at him again, faster this time, his movements a blur. Jason’s instincts screamed at him, and he reacted without thinking, sidestepping the attack and spinning his staff in a wide arc.

The strike connected with the instructor’s shoulder, and the man grunted, stumbling slightly. Jason pressed his advantage, following up with a quick jab that caught the instructor in the stomach.

Chapter Text

The instructor recovered quickly, his movements now more measured. Jason could feel his body beginning to falter—the pain in his shin throbbed with every step, his arms felt like lead, and his breathing was ragged. But he refused to back down.

The final exchange was brutal. The instructor swung with enough force to shatter Jason’s staff if it connected. Jason ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow, and pivoted on his uninjured leg. He swept his staff low, aiming for the man’s legs, but the instructor jumped, avoiding the strike entirely.

Jason barely had time to register the counterattack before the instructor’s staff slammed into his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He hit the ground hard, the staff rolling from his grasp.

“Enough,” Ra’s said, raising a hand.

The instructor stepped back, lowering his weapon. Jason lay on the ground, gasping for air, his body screaming in protest.

“You lost,” Damian’s voice chimed in, smug and condescending. “Again. No surprise there.”

Jason pushed himself up on shaky arms, glaring at the boy. “Keep talking, kid. One day, I’m going to wipe that smirk off your face.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Doubtful. But watching you stumble around is mildly entertaining.”

Ra’s approached, his gaze fixed on Jason. “You fought well for a beginner,” he said. “Your instincts are sharp, but your technique is lacking. That will change with time and discipline.”

Jason nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “I’ll do better.”

Ra’s offered a faint smile, placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “I expect nothing less.”

As Jason limped away from the arena, Damian’s voice followed him. “Try not to embarrass yourself tomorrow.”

Jason smirked despite the pain. “Enjoy the show while it lasts, kid. It won’t be long before I’m giving you pointers.”

Damian scoffed but said nothing, watching as Jason disappeared into the shadows of the compound.

****

The cavernous Batcave felt colder than usual. Its usual hum of activity was subdued, weighed down by the unspoken grief that permeated its every corner.

Nightwing stood at the edge of the main platform, staring at the void beyond. The familiar scent of oil, old leather, and damp stone filled the air, but they were no comfort tonight.

He watched Bruce—no, Batman—moving like a ghost between the Batcomputer and the array of monitors that cast flickering light across the space. Bruce hadn’t looked at him once since he arrived.

“Bruce,” Dick began, keeping his tone soft but firm. “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Batman’s gruff reply came without pause, his back still turned.

“Nothing?” Dick’s voice rose slightly, the frustration seeping through. “Jason is dead. You’re shutting me out. You’re—”

“I’m handling it,” Bruce snapped, cutting him off. He finally turned, his jaw clenched, his eyes shadowed behind the mask. “I don’t need your help.”

“Handling it?” Dick gestured broadly at the empty cave. “You call this handling it? You’ve been running yourself ragged, Bruce. You won’t talk to anyone, not Alfred, not me. You’re barely even sleeping.”

Bruce turned back to the monitors. “I have work to do.”

Dick crossed the space between them, his boots scuffing against the platform. “Fine. Then let me help. Let me patrol with you tonight. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“No.”

The single word was final, a wall slamming down between them. Dick’s fists clenched at his sides.

“You can’t keep doing this, Bruce. Jason—”

“Jason is dead,” Bruce interrupted harshly, his voice cracking like a whip. “And it’s my fault. I won’t let anyone else pay for my mistakes.”

Dick flinched, the raw pain in Bruce’s voice hitting him like a blow. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less determined. “It was a mistake. But shutting everyone out isn’t going to fix it. Jason wouldn’t want this.”

Bruce said nothing. He simply turned away again, his cape swishing behind him as he walked toward the Batmobile.

“I’m going on patrol. Stay here.”

Dick watched him go, his chest tight with frustration and worry. But he wasn’t about to let Bruce self-destruct out there.

“Yeah, right,” Dick muttered to himself. “Like I’ve ever been good at following orders.”

****

[Dick Grayson’s POV]

The streets of Gotham were slick with rain, the city’s ever-present gloom amplified by the storm clouds overhead.

Batman moved like a shadow through the alleys, his cape billowing behind him as he pursued his targets for the night. A drug gang that had been expanding its territory into the Narrows.

Unbeknownst to him, Nightwing followed at a careful distance, keeping to the rooftops.

It didn’t take long for Batman to locate the gang’s hideout, a decrepit warehouse near the docks. He scaled the building silently, his grappling hook securing his ascent. From his perch on the roof, he peered through a cracked skylight, his sharp eyes scanning the scene below.

A dozen gang members were gathered around a table piled high with bricks of cocaine and stacks of cash. Guns were strewn about carelessly, their owners laughing and shouting as they celebrated their latest score.

“Subtle as always,” Dick whispered from the shadows, perched on a neighboring rooftop.

Batman dropped silently onto a catwalk inside the warehouse, his movements precise and calculated. He activated a device on his belt, jamming all outgoing communications in the area. The gang wouldn’t be calling for backup.

“Alright, big guy, how about a little help,” Dick murmured to himself with a smirk.

As Batman prepared to strike, a sudden creak echoed through the warehouse.

One of the gang members looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“Hey! Did you hear that?”

Batman cursed silently. He hadn’t accounted for the warped metal on the catwalk. The element of surprise was gone.

“Surprise!” Nightwing’s cheerful voice rang out as he swung in through a window, landing gracefully on the floor below.

The gang members froze in confusion, their attention split between the blue-clad vigilante and the shadowy figure looming above them.

“Who the hell are you?” one of them demanded, raising his gun.

“Nightwing,” Dick said with a grin, spinning his escrima sticks. “And you’re about to have a very bad night.”

Chaos ensued.

Batman dropped from the catwalk, his fists finding their mark with brutal efficiency. He moved like a force of nature, every strike precise and devastating.

Meanwhile, Dick darted through the fray with the agility of an acrobat, his quips flying as fast as his punches.

“Hey, nice jacket,” he called to one thug, dodging a wild swing. “Is that real leather? Hope you kept the receipt, it’s about to get scuffed.”

He flipped over another attacker, landing a solid kick to the man’s back.

“Seriously, you guys should unionize. Better benefits, maybe dental. That guy’s missing three teeth, at least.”

Batman growled as he disarmed a particularly large gang member, tossing the man’s gun across the room.

“Focus, Nightwing.”

“I am focusing,” Dick shot back, deflecting a pipe with his escrima sticks. “Multitasking is a thing, you know.”

Despite his annoyance, Bruce couldn’t deny that Dick’s presence was making a difference.

The younger man’s agility and relentless energy kept the gang off balance, giving Batman the openings he needed to take them down efficiently.

As the last thug fell to the ground, groaning, Batman turned to Dick with a glare.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“You’re welcome,” Dick said, twirling his sticks before holstering them. “You’re seriously telling me you’d rather get shot at alone than accept a little help?”

“This isn’t a game, Dick.”

“I know that,” Dick replied, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “But you don’t have to do it alone, either.”

Batman was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl.

“Jason—”

“Jason would’ve wanted us to stick together,” Dick interrupted gently. “He wouldn’t want you to push everyone away.”

Bruce looked away, his fists clenching at his sides.

“I can’t lose anyone else,” he said quietly.

“And you won’t,” Dick said firmly. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry all of this by yourself. Let me help you, Bruce. We’re a team. We always have been.”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain outside. Finally, Bruce nodded, just once.

“Let’s get back to the Cave.”

Dick smiled, a hint of relief in his expression.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Bruce shot him a look.

“Don’t push it.”

“Too late,” Dick said with a grin as they headed out into the night.

For the first time in weeks, Bruce felt a small weight lift from his shoulders. He wasn’t alone. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be.

****

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The training courtyard buzzed with the faint sounds of sparring soldiers, but Jason Todd’s focus was drawn to the unfolding match in the center.

Damian stood there, small but fierce, facing an opponent nearly three times his size. Jason tilted his head toward Ra’s al Ghul, who stood beside him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, observing the fight with his usual cool detachment.

“So, what’s this exercise all about?” Jason asked, his voice laced with curiosity as he watched Damian take his stance. “The kid doesn’t seem nervous.

He looks… intense.”

Ra’s stroked his beard, eyes never leaving the combatants. “This exercise is more advanced than the ones you’ve been through,” he began.

“In your previous matches, Talia and I acted as the referee, intervening when necessary and declaring a winner. Here, there are no mediators. Victory is determined only when one opponent is rendered incapable of continuing.”

Jason hummed in acknowledgment, shifting his gaze back to the sparring match as Damian swiftly dodged a massive punch.

Despite his opponent’s towering frame, the boy moved with fluid precision, his small stature an advantage rather than a hindrance.

“Go all out until someone’s down for the count, huh?” Jason mused, watching Damian leap into the air. The boy twisted mid-flight, aiming a kick at his opponent’s face. It was blocked, but Damian used the man’s arm as leverage, vaulting backward to create space.

Ra’s allowed himself a faint smile. “He is gifted, isn’t he? A prodigy, unmatched in skill among his peers. Like you, Jason, he’s a diamond in the rough.”

Jason raised a skeptical brow, glancing sideways at the Demon’s Head. “Why does he push himself so hard? He’s got centuries to train, doesn’t he? You know, thanks to the Lazarus Pit and all.”

Ra’s finally turned to meet Jason’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “Damian is my legacy. I am forging him into a weapon capable of inheriting my mantle, one who will lead humanity into a new era.

He trains harder than anyone because he must. Just as you have great potential, so does he. Perhaps more.” His tone carried a note of finality, but Jason couldn’t help noticing the subtle pride in his voice.

In the ring, Damian executed a flawless takedown, wrapping his legs around his opponent’s neck in a crushing grip. The larger man flailed, his masked face turning an alarming shade of red as his airflow was cut off. Despite the brutal hold, Damian’s expression remained calm, almost cold.

Jason watched with a mix of unease and admiration. “Kid’s got skills, I’ll give him that. Guess that explains the ego.”

Ra’s inclined his head, his eyes gleaming. “Indeed. He is stubborn, like his father. But also relentless, like me.”

The opponent finally tapped out, his hand weakly slapping the ground as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

Damian released him without hesitation, standing over the defeated man like a predator surveying its prey.

“Your turn,” Ra’s said, his tone a challenge as silence resonated across the courtyard.

Jason stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he sized up his opponent, a seasoned League warrior whose cold, calculating eyes betrayed his eagerness to dismantle the newcomer.

Chapter Text

The match started violently. Jason’s opponent closed the distance in an instant, delivering a spinning kick aimed at Jason’s head.

He barely raised his guard in time, but the force sent him stumbling. A follow-up punch to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him, dropping him to his knees.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jason muttered through gritted teeth, clutching his abdomen. He could feel Damian’s judging stare from the sidelines. The kid didn’t even bother to hide his irritation.

Shaking off the pain, Jason pushed himself back to his feet. This time, he held his ground, waiting for his opponent to make the next move.

The man lunged forward with a ferocious punch, but Jason sidestepped just in time. Wielding his intuitive sense of muscle memory, he landed a sharp elbow to his opponent’s ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain.

For a brief moment, Jason felt a surge of pride. But his opponent was relentless. A brutal knee struck Jason’s side, followed by a punch that connected squarely with his jaw. Blood sprayed from his split lip as he hit the ground hard.

Flashes of memory assaulted him—blurry images of a clown, his manic laughter, and the crowbar that shattered his body. Rage ignited within Jason, primal and all-consuming. His vision blurred, but his movements became sharper, faster.

As his opponent leaned in to deliver another blow, Jason caught the man’s fist mid-air. The spectators gasped as Jason twisted the arm with a sickening crack, bone shards piercing through the skin. The man screamed in agony, but Jason wasn’t done.

Standing at the center, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with unbridled rage. His opponent lay sprawled on the ground beneath him, coughing up blood as Jason drove a savage knee into his ribs.

The sickening crack of bone echoed through the courtyard, and the man let out a guttural scream that was cut short as Jason pounced on him.

Jason’s fists were a blur, slamming down with relentless fury. Each punch was accompanied by the wet, sickening sound of breaking cartilage and splattering blood.

His lips twisted into a feral grin, the adrenaline coursing through his veins fueling his every strike. The victim’s face was already a ruined mess, swollen beyond recognition, yet Jason didn’t stop.

In the haze of his rage, a voice—low and gravelly—echoed in the back of his mind. It was a voice he hadn’t consciously thought of in weeks but one he couldn’t shake.

“We do not have to go that far to stop them, otherwise we wouldn’t know when we cross the line. And then nothing will differentiate us from them."

It was Bruce’s voice, calm yet firm, but Jason couldn’t place it in his current state. His arm froze mid-punch for the briefest moment, as though his body hesitated to obey his bloodlust.

The voice faded just as quickly as it came, drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the hunger for violence.

Jason’s hesitation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He let out a guttural roar and slammed his fist down again, crushing what little remained of the man’s face.

Blood splattered across Jason’s hands, his arms, even his face. His breathing was ragged, and his body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the sheer intensity of his bloodlust.

“Enough!”

The sharp command cut through the chaos, but Jason didn’t register it. Ra’s al Ghul’s voice carried authority, but Jason’s primal rage drowned out everything else.

The surrounding soldiers exchanged uneasy glances but remained silent.

He raised his fist again, preparing to bring it down one more time, but the League soldiers were already moving.

Two of them rushed in, grabbing Jason by the arms and yanking him off the unconscious man. Jason thrashed violently in their grip, his muscles straining as he fought to break free.

His wild eyes darted around, seeking another target, his mind still caught in the haze of the Lazarus-induced bloodlust.

“Jason.”

Ra’s voice rang out again, calm but commanding. It wasn’t a yell this time, but the tone carried more weight than the sharpest blade.

Jason froze, his chest heaving as his body began to register the carnage around him. The two soldiers holding him loosened their grip, sensing the shift in his demeanor.

Jason’s gaze flicked to Ra’s, standing tall on the edge of the circle. His emerald eyes burned with something akin to both disappointment and intrigue.

The courtyard fell into silence, save for Jason’s labored breathing and the faint groans of his victim. The man’s blood pooled on the ground, seeping into the cracks between the stones.

“Dismiss.” Ra’s announced, ending the training exercise as the soldiers dispersed in various directions, while others prepared to take the unconscious soldier to the infirmary.

Ra’s stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression calm but unreadable.

“What was that?” Ra’s asked, his voice as smooth as silk but carrying an undeniable edge.

Jason swallowed hard, his fists still clenched at his sides. “He wasn’t backing down,” Jason muttered, his voice rough. “I did what I had to do.”

Ra’s raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “What you had to do? Look around you, boy. This is not a battlefield; this is training. He was already defeated, yet you continued.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the blood staining his hands. “I… I don’t know what happened,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “It was like something took over. I couldn’t stop.”

Ra’s studied him for a long moment, his piercing gaze seeming to cut straight through Jason’s defenses.

“The Lazarus Pit is a gift, but it is not without its price,” he said, his tone measured. “It amplifies everything within you—your strength, your instincts… and your rage.”

Jason looked up, his eyes blazing. “Then why the hell did you bring me back with it?!”

The question hung in the air, raw and charged.

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, his expression unchanging. “Because you are valuable, boy. You are a diamond in the rough. You are a force of nature—a force I intend to shape and refine.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “A force of nature? You mean a monster.”

Ra’s stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “A monster? No. You are something far greater. But only if you learn to master yourself.”

Jason’s gaze hardened, the fire in his eyes refusing to waver. “And if I don’t?”

Ra’s smiled faintly, the expression cold and calculating. “Then you will destroy yourself—and everything around you.”

The words sent a chill down Jason’s spine, but he refused to show weakness. He straightened, clenching his jaw. “I won’t let that happen.”

Ra’s nodded approvingly. “Good. Then let today be a lesson. Restraint is not weakness, Jason. It is strength—strength that separates the predator from the beast.”

Jason didn’t respond, his thoughts swirling as he glanced back at the unconscious man being placed into a stretcher. The sight of the blood made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to look.

Ra’s turned away, addressing the soldiers. “Take him to the infirmary. Ensure he is tended to.”

The soldiers moved quickly, lifting the broken man with care and carrying him out of the courtyard. Jason stood alone in the center, his fists still stained red.

Ra’s paused at the edge of the training grounds, glancing back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we continue your training. You will learn to control the darkness within you, Jason. Or it will consume you.”

Jason didn’t respond as Ra’s disappeared into the shadows, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the cold, unyielding weight of his actions.

****

The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of the mountain, casting the League of Assassins’ fortress in hues of gold and crimson.

The cold wind whistled through the stone corridors, but Damian barely noticed. He had grown habituated to the chill, accustomed to the relentless demands of life within the League.

His body ached from his daily climb to the summit and back, a grueling exercise meant to sharpen both his physical and mental discipline. Yet, despite his exhaustion, his mind refused to rest.

Jason face kept surfacing in his thoughts. Damian couldn’t shake the memory of the young teenager’s wild, unrelenting fury as he mercilessly beat his opponent into unconsciousness earlier that day.

It wasn’t fear that gripped Damian—he wasn’t afraid of Jason. But there was something about the raw, untamed anger Jason wielded that left him unsettled. It was a kind of rage that felt almost animalistic, primal, and unrestrained.

Damian’s frown deepened as he trudged through the dimly lit corridor toward his quarters, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor.

Every few steps, flashes of Jason’s unhinged expression filled his mind—his clenched jaw, his wide, feral eyes. Damian shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about it?”

As he turned a corner, the hallway leading to his mother’s chambers came into view. The ornate double doors, carved with intricate designs, were faintly illuminated by flickering torches. Damian slowed his pace, an idea forming in his mind.

‘Mother must be back from her mission by now, he thought, glancing toward the door. Maybe she’ll have some insight about him. She always knows more than she lets on.’

Without hesitation, Damian veered off course, quickening his steps as he approached her chambers.

The faint scent of jasmine drifted through the cracks of the door, a scent he had long associated with her. Raising his hand, he knocked twice, firm and deliberate.

“Enter,” Talia al Ghul’s smooth, composed voice called from within.

Damian pushed the door open and stepped inside without uttering a word. Warmth greeted him immediately, a stark contrast to the cold stone corridors outside.

A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Near a tall window, Talia stood with her back to him, gazing out at the fading sunset. She was still dressed in her mission attire, her long black cloak draped elegantly over her shoulders.

“Damian,” she greeted softly without turning. “I was expecting you.”

Damian frowned slightly, shutting the door behind him. “You always say that.

One of these days, I’ll surprise you.”

Talia turned to face him, a faint smile gracing her lips. “You are my son. There is little you do that surprises me.”

Leaning against the doorframe, Damian studied her. She looked tired, though her sharp eyes still held their usual intensity. “How was your mission?” he asked.

She waved a hand dismissively, crossing the room to pour herself a glass of wine from a nearby decanter.

“Routine,” she said, her tone casual. “Nothing worth discussing.” She paused, glancing at him with a knowing look. “But I suspect you didn’t come here to ask about my mission.”

Damian hesitated, dropping his gaze briefly before meeting her eyes. “It’s about Jason,” he admitted, his tone more serious now.

Talia’s expression remained composed, though her eyes sharpened with interest. She took a sip of her wine, gesturing for him to continue.

“I can’t get the image of him out of my head,” Damian said, pushing off the doorframe to pace the room. “During training today, the way he grinned while violently bashing the face of his opponent—it wasn’t just bloodlust, Mother. It was something darker.”

Setting her glass down, Talia folded her arms and watched him closely. “Jason died in an unfortunate accident and in an attempt to rectify his mistake, your grandfather resurrected him with help of the Lazarus pit.”

This came as a huge shock to Damian as he halted his pacing and turned to her with a confused expression, but she ignored and continued.

“The prowess of the Lazarus Pit is a total mystery, even to your grandfather.” She said after a moment as Damian continued to pace back and forth, trying to process the reveal.

“What’s happening to Jason are side-effects of his resurrection through the pit.” She added.

Damian stopped pacing, turning to face her once more. “You’re saying the Pit did this to him?”

She nodded slowly. “Partially. But the Pit only amplifies what is already there. Jason’s anger, his pain, even the overwhelming bloodlust—all of it has been magnified. He is fighting a battle within himself, one that will not be easily won.”

Her words made sense, but they didn’t ease Damian’s unease. He saw Jason as a danger to everyone around him and most of all... to himself.

“And what if he can’t win that battle?” he asked quietly. “What if he loses himself completely and goes on a killing spree while we sleep at night?”

Talia stepped toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting.

“Then it will be up to us to guide him,” she said resolutely. “Your grandfather sees potential in Jason, and so do I. But he must be taught to master his violent impulses, or it will consume him.”

Damian searched her face, her calm certainty both reassuring and maddening. “You really think he can be saved?”

Her expression softened, and for a moment, Damian thought he saw a flicker of hope for Jason who he saw as a lost cause. “I do,” she said. “But it will not be easy. Jason’s path is his own to walk, and he must choose to fight for his humanity.”

Damian nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in the back of his mind as he recalled how much Jason seemed to enjoy his earlier act of insane violence.

To him Jason was an enigma, a storm barely held together by force of will. But if his mother and grandfather believed in him, perhaps there was a chance of redemption for that lost cause.

“Thank you, Mother,” Damian said, stepping back toward the door.

Talia returned to her place by the window, her gaze drifting back to the darkening horizon. “Goodnight, Damian,” she said softly.

As Damian left her chambers and made his way back to his own, he couldn’t shake the questions swirling in his mind. Could Jason truly overcome the darkness within him? Or get consumed by it. The thought stayed with him long into the night.

Chapter Text

A month passed. The fortress courtyard was alive with the clashing of swords, the grunts of soldiers, and the rhythmic hum of disciplined training.

The air was thick with sweat and tension as the League’s warriors honed their skills under the watchful eyes of their commanders. But Jason Todd was absent from the crowd this morning.

Instead, he was with Ra’s al Ghul in a secluded chamber, its walls lined with ancient weapons and scrolls depicting the League’s philosophy.

The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single skylight that bathed the center of the room in an ethereal glow. Jason stood in its center, his shirt discarded, his chest heaving as fresh cuts oozed blood. Ra’s loomed over him, his sword poised at Jason’s throat.

“That is enough for today,” Ra’s said, his voice calm but authoritative.

Jason grinned despite the pain, spitting out blood as he struggled to rise. “Not done yet, old man,” he rasped, his tone defiant. His body ached, every muscle screaming for rest, but the adrenaline coursing through him drowned out the pain.

Ra’s arched an eyebrow, intrigued by the boy’s resilience. “As I said, enough,” he repeated, sheathing his sword with a decisive click.

Jason scowled but reluctantly sank back to the floor, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

Despite his disappointment, a small part of him was relieved. The relentless training was exhilarating, but it pushed him to his limits—and sometimes beyond them.

“You continue to show improvement,” Ra’s remarked, pacing slowly around Jason. “Your movements grow sharper with each session.”

Jason wiped blood from his lip, smirking. “Yeah, it gets easier after a few fights. But here’s the kicker—how come I can pull off moves I don’t even remember learning?”

Ra’s stopped, his piercing gaze meeting Jason’s. “The mind may forget,” he said, “but the body remembers.”

Jason’s eyes flicked toward the courtyard, where soldiers sparred with mechanical precision. “Weird. It’s like instinct takes over sometimes,” he muttered. “Almost like I’m watching someone else fight through me.”

Ra’s nodded, pleased by the observation. “Your subconscious mind is blending what it once knew with what I am teaching you now.”

Jason tilted his head, considering this. Deep down, fragments of his past nagged at him—blurry images of a shadowy figure, a sinister laugh, and a crowbar flashing in the dark. But he kept those memories to himself.

“What if I never get my memories back?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Ra’s paused, his expression unreadable. “Should that happen, you will still have a home here. You are one of us now, Jason—a warrior, a member of the League.”

Jason glanced down at his bloodied hands, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He didn’t fully trust Ra’s—not yet. But the man’s words planted a seed of belonging, a dangerous comfort that Jason couldn’t ignore.

“Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet with a wince.

Ra’s allowed himself a faint smile. “Rest now. Tomorrow, we take your training to the field, we are going to work on your stealth.”

As Jason left the chamber, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Ra’s lips. The boy was strong, cunning, and driven by a fire that could either destroy him—or make him invincible. Either way, Ra’s intended to wield that fire for his own ends.

****

[Jason Todd’s POV]

Jason found himself tied to a chair and unable to move. The vivid image of a clown in a purple suit appeared in front of him as a maniacal laughter with a strong hint of lunacy filled the air.

The clown was about to strike him across the face when he suddenly jolted from his sleep, covered in sweat and panting as he began to gasp for air.

“It was only a nightmare.” He muttered, still struggling to breath. ‘But why a clown of all things, and why this overwhelming feeling of both fear and something I can only describe as pure hatred.’ He thought.

After a short while, his breath became calm and steady. He then laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling in hopes of at least getting some rest that night.

He needed to be well rested for his next training to commence in a couple hours. He shut his eyes and tried to catch some sleep but unfortunately for him, he was wide awake and still tormented by the recurring images of the mad clown.

The League of Assassins’ fortress was quiet in the early hours, the halls bathed in the dim glow of torches.

Jason stood at the edge of the main training hall, his muscles tense as he listened to Ra’s al Ghul’s steady voice. The man had an unnerving ability to command silence without raising his tone, and Jason couldn’t help but focus entirely on him.

“You’ve proven yourself capable in direct combat,” Ra’s began, pacing slowly. His silhouette moved like a phantom against the flickering torchlight.

“But brute strength and skill with a blade will only take you so far. True power lies in the ability to move unseen, to infiltrate the very heart of your enemy’s sanctum without leaving a trace.”

Jason straightened, his sharp eyes narrowing.

“Stealth, boy,” Ra’s continued, his tone like a blade slicing through the air.

“Stealth?” Jason asked with confusion in his tone. “I know nothing about that, you haven’t taught me anything about that.”

“Stealth is an art which comes to most naturally, but they also undergo training to perfect this art. Tonight, we will see if you have the potential to grasp it.”

Jason clenched his fists, nodding silently.

“If you feel backed against a wall or come against an obstacle you can’t seem to get by, then think on your feet and take the best course of action your guts tell you to.”

Again, he gave no response, just a nod. He didn’t need words to prove himself, his actions would speak louder. And hopefully he doesn’t screw up and get beaten like a literal thief by those guys.

****

The first part of the lesson was grueling. Ra’s led Jason to a secluded part of the fortress—a maze-like area designed specifically for stealth training.

The space was dimly lit, the air damp with the scent of moss and old stone. The walls were lined with narrow ledges and hidden alcoves, while the floor was covered in uneven tiles that creaked if too much weight was applied.

“You are to retrieve an item from the vault at the center of this maze,” Ra’s instructed, gesturing to a map he had laid out before them. “There will be guards patrolling. They will not go easy on you.” His green eyes glinted. “If they catch you, they are instructed to treat you as an intruder.”

Jason smirked, the corner of his mouth curling into a cocky grin. “So what’s the challenge, old man? Avoid them, grab the thing, and get out?”

Ra’s stared at him, unamused. “The challenge, boy, is not to let your arrogance get you killed. Now, go.”

Jason’s grin faded as he stepped into the maze, the heavy door shutting behind him with a resounding clang.

The silence was oppressive. Jason crouched low, his footsteps feather-light as he moved through the winding corridors.

Every sound, every creak of the floor or drip of water, seemed amplified in the stillness. His senses were on high alert, his breathing slow and measured as he scanned the area for movement.

Ra’s had been right: there were guards. They moved in pairs, their footsteps echoing faintly. Jason pressed himself into the shadows, his black tunic blending seamlessly with the darkness.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve done stuff like this before.”

Had he? The thought gnawed at him, a flicker of frustration bubbling up. His memory was still a fragmented puzzle, with pieces that didn’t quite fit together.

He knew he had skills—muscle memory that kicked in when he fought or moved—but the origin of those skills was a mystery.

The Lazarus Pit had stolen so much from him, leaving behind a volatile mix of rage and confusion. He clenched his fists, forcing the anger down. Now wasn’t the time to lose control.

After navigating several corridors, Jason reached a narrow passageway illuminated by a single torch. A pair of guards stood at the far end, their swords glinting in the light. Jason crouched low, calculating his next move.

Equipped with certain tools Ra’s viewed as necessities for the job, he reached into the pouch at his belt, pulling out a small smoke pellet.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent it rolling across the floor. The pellet exploded into a cloud of thick, choking smoke, and the guards coughed, momentarily blinded.

Jason moved swiftly, his steps silent as a whisper. He slipped past them, his heart pounding as he reached the next corridor. He didn’t look back.

The vault was ahead. Jason could see the heavy iron door, flanked by two more guards. But this time, there was no cover, no dark areas to hide in, no corners to slip around.

He crouched behind a stone pillar, his mind racing. How was he going to get past them?

The bloodlust stirred, a dark voice in the back of his mind. ‘Take them out. They’re in your way. Just a quick strike, silent and clean.’

Jason clenched his jaw, gripping the pillar so hard his knuckles turned white. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Not like that.”

But the urge was overwhelming. The Lazarus Pit had left him with a hunger for violence, a need that clawed at him in moments like this. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Focus,” he whispered. “You’re not a killer.”

The tension in his chest eased as he formulated a plan. He reached into his pouch again, pulling out a vial of sleeping powder—a gift from Talia.

With careful precision, he uncorked the vial and blew the powder toward the guards. The fine dust spread quickly, carried by an almost imperceptible draft. Within moments, the guards swayed, their movements sluggish before they crumpled to the ground.

Jason moved swiftly, his heart hammering as he reached the vault door. He examined the lock—a complex mechanism with multiple tumblers.

“Of course it’s not simple,” he muttered, pulling out the lock-picking tools as his mind flashes to when Ra’s had included them in his pouch.

“I don’t have the faintest idea on how to pick a lock.” He had protested, but was shut down with a single reply from Ra’s.

“Figure it out.”

“Like hell am I supposed to figure this out?” He muttered, drawn back to his current situation as he began sticking a tool into the look.

The process was painstaking, every click of the tumblers echoing in the silent corridor. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he worked, his hands steady despite the pressure. Finally, with a soft click, the lock gave way.

The door creaked open, revealing a small, ornate chest on a pedestal. Jason stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room for traps. Satisfied it was safe, he lifted the chest and opened it, revealing the scroll Ra’s had sent him to retrieve.

The journey back was just as tense. Jason retraced his steps, careful to avoid the guards who were still patrolling. By the time he reached the entrance, his body was aching, his leg muscles screaming for rest from crouching all night long.

Ra’s was waiting for him, his expression unreadable. He held out a hand, and Jason placed the scroll into his palm.

“You succeeded,” Ra’s said, his tone neutral. “But you were sloppy.”

Jason scowled. “Sloppy? I got the job done, didn’t I?”

Ra’s raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You relied too heavily on tools and tricks. A true master of stealth becomes the shadow itself, needing nothing but their own skill.”

Jason bit back a retort, his frustration simmering. “I’ll do better next time.”

“You will,” Ra’s said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “For now, rest. Tomorrow, we will refine your technique.”

Jason nodded, turning to leave. As he walked away, the bloodlust stirred again, whispering dark promises in the back of his mind. He clenched his fists, determined to keep it at bay.

‘One step at a time.’ He thought. One step at a time.

Chapter Text

The chamber was dimly lit, it's only illumination coming from torches mounted along the cold, stone walls.

The faint scent of aged parchment and sandalwood hung in the air, mingling with the occasional metallic tang of blood from the training grounds below. In the center of the room stood a large sand table, its surface intricately designed to resemble a battlefield.

Miniature structures, trees, and soldiers were carefully placed to simulate the terrain of a besieged fortress.

Ra’s al Ghul stood at the head of the table, his posture as commanding as ever. His long, dark cloak swept the floor, and his hands were clasped behind his back as he studied the scene before him.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce through the very walls of the room. Across from him stood Jason, his stance less composed but no less determined. Jason’s arms were crossed, and his brow furrowed as he examined the sand table with intense focus.

“To conquer an enemy,” Ra’s began, his voice low and measured, “you must first conquer your own impatience.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to Ra’s, and he tilted his head slightly. “Impatience isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s hesitation that gets people killed.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Ra’s mouth. “Spoken like a warrior, not a leader,” he replied. “Hesitation has its place, Jason. The key is knowing when to act and when to wait.”

Ra’s gestured toward the sand table. “Now,” he said, his tone shifting into one of instruction, “imagine this: You are the commander of a small force tasked with taking this fortress.” He pointed to the miniature stronghold in the center of the table. “Your resources are limited, your men are weary, and the enemy is fortified. Tell me, how would you proceed?”

Jason leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the table as he studied the layout. The fortress was surrounded by steep cliffs on three sides, with a narrow valley leading to the main gate. Small figurines representing enemy forces were positioned strategically along the walls and surrounding terrain.

He traced the valley with his finger, then tapped the gate. “The valley is a death trap,” he said. “If we try a frontal assault, we’ll be picked off before we even get close.”

Ra’s nodded approvingly. “Good. You recognize the obvious. Now, look deeper. What is the enemy’s greatest strength?”

Jason’s eyes flicked over the scene, taking in the placement of the soldiers, the height of the walls, and the natural barriers. “Their position,” he said. “They don’t need to move; we have to come to them.”

“Correct,” Ra’s said. “And their greatest weakness?”

Jason frowned, his mind racing. After a moment, he pointed to the fortress itself. “Their reliance on this position. They think it makes them untouchable, which means they won’t expect an attack from an unexpected angle.”

Ra’s smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly. “Now you’re thinking like a tactician.” He motioned for Jason to continue.

Jason straightened, his voice gaining confidence. “We’ll send a small diversionary force to the valley—just enough to keep their attention focused on the main gate. Meanwhile, we’ll scale the cliffs under cover of night, hitting them from behind when they least expect it.”

Ra’s raised an eyebrow. “A bold strategy. And what of your men? Scaling those cliffs will cost lives.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “I know. But we’ll lose more if we take the valley head-on. Sacrifices have to be made.”

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the crackling of the torches. Ra’s studied Jason intently, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.

“And there lies the essence of leadership,” he said. “The willingness to sacrifice for the greater good.”

Jason met Ra’s gaze, his blue eyes steady but shadowed. “What if you’re wrong? What if the sacrifices you make aren’t worth it in the end?”

Ra’s stepped around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. “Leadership is not about certainty, Jason. It is about conviction. The path you choose will not always be the right one, but it must be the one you believe in.”

He paused, standing beside Jason now. “To lead is to carry the weight of every life lost under your command. It is a burden that will never leave you, but it is also what will strengthen your resolve.”

Jason’s gaze dropped to the sand table, his mind replaying the scenario. He could see the bodies of the imaginary soldiers in his head, hear their screams as they fell from the cliffs or were cut down in the valley. He clenched his fists, the weight of Ra’s words settling heavily on his shoulders.

“Conviction,” Jason murmured, almost to himself.

Ra’s placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder, his grip firm. “You have the potential to be a great leader, Jason. But potential means nothing without discipline and foresight. Continue to hone your mind as you do your body, and you will surpass even the greatest of warriors.”

Jason looked up at Ra’s, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty. “And if I fail?”

Ra’s smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with something that could almost be mistaken for pride. “Then you will learn. Failure is the crucible through which greatness is forged. Never fear it, but never accept it.”

Jason nodded slowly, the words sinking in. “Understood.”

Ra’s stepped back, his gaze returning to the sand table. “Good. Now, let us discuss the finer points of your strategy. The cliffs are a viable approach, but have you considered the possibility of undermining the fortress walls?”

Jason’s head tilted, intrigued. “Undermining? Like digging?”

“Precisely,” Ra’s said, a faint smile playing at his lips. “A patient assault can be far deadlier than a hasty one. Let me show you how.”

For hours, they worked together, refining strategies and discussing the delicate balance of sacrifice and success. Ra’s spoke of historical battles, of leaders who had risen and fallen, each story laced with philosophical musings on the nature of power and responsibility.

The torches burned low, and the chill of night seeped into the room, but neither man noticed. For Jason, this was more than a lesson in tactics, it was a lesson in who he was becoming. And though the path before him was uncertain, one thing was clear: he would not walk it blindly.

The chill in the chamber deepened, but Jason barely felt it. The intensity of Ra’s lectures and the sheer weight of the scenarios they analyzed consumed every ounce of his focus.

Ra’s moved around the sand table with an almost predatory grace, his hands gesturing fluidly as he spoke of deception, patience, and the art of turning an enemy’s strength into their greatest weakness.

“Digging under the fortress walls could take weeks,” Jason said, his voice laced with skepticism as he traced the perimeter of the sand-table fortress with his finger. “What if the enemy catches on? What if they counter with an ambush?”

Ra’s smiled knowingly, his green eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “That, my dear pupil, is the beauty of misdirection. While they focus their attention on the valley or the cliffs, they will not suspect what lies beneath their very feet. But the success of such a plan depends on one thing.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

Ra’s leaned closer, his tone almost conspiratorial. “Time. You must master the ability to bide your time, to manipulate your enemy into giving you the space you need to execute your plans.”

Jason frowned, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

Ra’s chuckled softly, a sound that was both amused and faintly condescending. “Yes, I’ve noticed. But patience is not merely waiting, boy. It is action restrained.

It is knowing when to strike and when to hold back, even if every fiber of your being screams for immediate action.”

Jason’s jaw clenched as he mulled over Ra’s words. They struck a nerve, a reminder of all the times his impulsiveness had led him astray.

But there was something else beneath the surface, a hunger to prove himself, to master not just his physical skills but the mental fortitude Ra’s spoke of so often.

“Alright,” Jason said finally, his voice firm. “Let’s say we go with the digging plan. How do we keep the enemy distracted for long enough?”

Ra’s gestured to a small cluster of figurines positioned near the valley. “You create chaos where they least expect it. Perhaps a decoy force raids their supply lines or sets fire to their farmlands. These small acts of aggression will force them to divide their attention and their forces. The more distracted they become, the less likely they are to notice what is truly happening.”

Jason nodded slowly, his mind already spinning with possibilities. “So we keep them busy, whittle them down, and then hit them when they’re weakest.”

“Precisely,” Ra’s said, his tone approving. “And when the moment comes to strike, you must do so with absolute conviction. A half-hearted attack is a failure before it even begins.”

The two fell into a rhythm, exchanging ideas and refining the strategy further. Jason found himself drawn to the intricacies of planning, the way every piece of the puzzle had to fit together perfectly to ensure victory. It was like a deadly game of chess, and for the first time, he felt like he was beginning to understand the rules.

As the hours wore on, Jason leaned back from the table, his arms crossed over his chest. “So that’s it, then. Keep them distracted, dig under the walls, and hit them when they least expect it.”

Ra’s inclined his head. “In theory, yes. But theory and practice are two very different things. Which is why your next task will be to implement this strategy in the field.”

Jason straightened, his interest piqued. “You mean... a real mission?”

“Indeed,” Ra’s said, his gaze piercing. “There is a village to the east, currently occupied by a rival faction. They have fortified their position and taken the local populace hostage. Your task will be to liberate the village using the tactics we’ve discussed tonight.”

Jason’s pulse quickened. This was no mere exercise, this was a chance to prove himself, to show that he was more than just the zombie–boy fighter. “When do I leave?”

Ra’s smiled faintly. “At dawn. You will have a small force at your disposal, and I expect a full report upon your return.”

Jason nodded, determination burning in his eyes. “I won’t let you down.”

Ra’s stepped closer, placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Remember, boy—this is not just about winning. It is about understanding the cost of victory. Every decision you make will shape the lives of those who follow you. Lead wisely.”

Jason met Ra’s gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As Jason turned to leave, Ra’s watched him go, a flicker of something resembling pride crossing his face. The boy was raw, untamed, but there was greatness in him—a potential that, if properly cultivated, could positively influence the course of the League’s destiny.

The torches cast long shadows across the chamber as Ra’s returned to the sand table, his mind already turning to the future. Jason was more than just a pupil. He was a weapon in the making, one that could one day rival even the greatest warriors of the League. But for now, the boy still had much to learn.

And Ra’s al Ghul would ensure he learned it well.

Chapter Text

The early morning light stretched over the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow over the distant mountains. Jason stood atop a rocky outcrop, his eyes scanning the barren landscape below.

A chill lingered in the air, but the anticipation of the mission ahead, kept him grounded. Behind him, the rest of his small, hand-picked team of League soldiers waited in silence, their faces unreadable beneath their hoods.

The village to the east, nestled at the base of a series of jagged hills, was the target. A strategically significant outpost held by a rival faction of the League—one that had long been a thorn in Ra’s side.

It was said to be heavily fortified, with soldiers occupying the central stronghold and watchmen posted around the perimeter. Civilians had been taken hostage, a key leverage point in this conflict.

Jason’s task was clear: liberate the village, but do so in a way that didn’t just rely on brute force. Ra’s had made that perfectly clear in their training session the night before.

This wasn’t about charging in and slaughtering everyone in sight; this was about tactics, and careful execution. His training was about to be tested in the most brutal way possible.

The air smelled faintly of dust, and the wind carried with it the distant sound of a river rushing over rocks.

To the west, a series of craggy hills created a natural barrier, making it nearly impossible to approach the village from that side without being spotted.

The terrain to the east, on the other hand, was more open but still rife with potential dangers. Jason’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the landscape, mentally calculating the best approach.

Ra’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Boy.”

He turned to face his mentor, who stood beside him, his usual calm demeanor belying the intensity of the situation. Ra’s was a master of patience, but he had an unspoken expectation that Jason would succeed.

The mission wasn’t just a test of physical strength; it was a test of leadership, decision-making, and the ability to act under pressure.

“The village is held by the Caliphate faction,” Ra’s continued, his tone steady. “You will find that they are not as strong as they appear. Use that to your advantage. And remember, the key to victory lies not in overwhelming force, but in how you use your resources.”

Jason nodded, his gaze never leaving the village below. He could feel the weight of the task bearing down on him. This was more than just a mission; this was his proving ground. A chance to show that he was ready to take on a greater role within the League. That he wasn’t just some schizophrenic zombie brat, but a leader in his own right.

“What is the plan?” Jason asked, his voice steady but eager.

Ra’s studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You have the strategy from last night. You are to approach from the eastern side. There is a narrow ravine that runs along the outer perimeter of the village.

Use that to move undetected, but be cautious—the enemy has set traps along that route. Once you reach the edge of the village, you will need to neutralize their perimeter guards before you can enter. Then, you will have to assess the situation inside. Remember, not every life is worth saving.”

Jason clenched his jaw, his mind working. This wouldn’t be easy. His instincts told him to rush in, to strike fast and hard, but Ra’s words echoed in his mind. “Not every life is worth saving.”

He didn’t like that, but he knew it was a necessary part of this world. A soldier didn’t have the luxury of sentimentality. It was about completing the mission, no matter the cost.

Ra’s gave him one final glance before turning and walking toward the others. “You have your orders. I will be monitoring from here.”

With that, Jason nodded to his team and began the descent down the rocky outcrop. The soldiers fell in line behind him, their movements swift and synchronized.

The ravine was just ahead, and the faint rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound breaking the silence. Jason’s mind was focused, calculating every step he took.

As they approached the ravine, Jason motioned for the team to halt. He crouched low, his body pressed against the ground as he peered over the lip of the ravine.

The village was still several miles away, but already Jason could see the fortified perimeter. Watchtowers rose above the rooftops, and the occasional flash of sunlight caught on the armor of the guards stationed at the gates.

The perimeter was heavily patrolled, but there were gaps in the rotation, small windows of opportunity that Jason was trained to exploit. He could see the soldiers moving in predictable patterns, their footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent air.

They were well-disciplined, but they lacked the instincts that came with true combat experience. That was where Jason had the advantage.

“Move out,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The team moved in tandem, weaving through the ravine with the skill and precision of trained assassins. Jason led the way, his eyes constantly scanning for signs of danger.

He could feel the bloodlust stirring inside him, a dark hunger that was never far from the surface. The Lazarus Pit’s influence lingered, sharpening his senses but also clouding his judgment. It was a constant battle to keep it in check, to stay focused on the mission rather than the thrill of violence.

As they neared the outer edge of the village, Jason signaled for the team to halt once more. They were within striking distance of the first perimeter guard, a lone sentry standing watch near a crumbling stone wall.

Jason’s heart rate quickened as he assessed the situation. The guard had his back to them, oblivious to the approaching assassins.

Jason motioned for two of the soldiers to flank the guard while he moved in closer, his steps silent on the rocky ground. He could hear the man’s breath, shallow and slow, a sign of complacency. Jason smiled darkly. This would be easy.

He moved quickly, his body a blur of motion as he approached the guard from behind. With one swift motion, he reached out and covered the man’s mouth, stifling the surprised gasp before twisting his neck. The guard collapsed to the ground, dead before he had a chance to cry out.

Jason straightened, wiping blood from his hands as the other soldiers moved in to secure the body. “One down,” he muttered, his voice low. “Let’s keep moving.”

They continued their advance, taking down guards one by one with ruthless efficiency. Jason’s mind was in the zone, his every move calculated and precise.

Adrenaline coursed through him, but he kept his focus, resisting the pull of the bloodlust that threatened to consume him.

By the time they reached the inner walls of the village, the team had taken out the majority of the perimeter guards. Jason’s heart was still racing, but the thrill of the hunt had dulled. He could feel Ra’s watching him from afar, his presence a constant reminder of the expectations placed on him.

“This is it,” Jason whispered. “We breach the inner gates, neutralize the rest of the guards, and free the hostages.”

The team nodded in unison, ready for the final phase of the mission. Jason gave the signal, and they moved as one, approaching the heavily guarded gates. It was time to put everything they had learned to the test.

They struck quickly, their movements fluid and lethal. The guards at the gates were no match for the speed and precision of the League’s assassins. Jason led the charge, his sword flashing in the sunlight as he cut down the first soldier in his path. The others followed suit, each soldier taking out their target with ruthless efficiency.

Jason’s blood pumped faster as the fight escalated, his senses heightened by the thrill of combat. But this time, he was more in control. His movements were measured, calculated. He had learned to fight with purpose, not out of rage. It was a difficult balance, but one that he was starting to master.

As the last of the guards fell, Jason turned to face the village’s central stronghold. The hostages were inside, waiting for him to free them. But he couldn’t afford to be reckless now. He had to think, to plan. The mission wasn’t over yet.

“Clear the building,” Jason commanded, his voice steady. “We move in together, stay sharp.”

The soldiers nodded, their faces masked with determination. They advanced on the stronghold, ready for whatever lay ahead. Jason’s mind raced as he considered the next steps. They had succeeded so far, but the real test was still to come.

Would he be able to keep his cool when the stakes were at their highest? Would he make the right call when the lives of the hostages depended on him?

The final phase of the mission had just begun.

Jason’s eyes locked onto the stronghold ahead, the looming structure casting long shadows as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon. The weight of the mission settled over him as his pulse quickened. He could hear the faint sounds of movement within the stronghold, the muffled chatter of the guards who still lingered within. Time was of the essence.

He motioned for his team to fall into a formation, each of them instinctively aligning themselves behind him as they crept closer to the entrance of the building.

The air was thick with tension, the cool breeze now carrying the faint scent of smoke from nearby fires. Jason’s instincts hummed with anticipation, every step he took quiet and calculated.

The moment they entered this stronghold, they were no longer in control. The enemy would be, and he had to be ready for whatever came next.

“Stay sharp,” Jason whispered, his voice barely audible.

The soldiers nodded in unison, their expressions masked by the hoods of their cloaks. Jason took the lead, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, every inch of the path ahead mapped in his mind.

His blood surged, the pull of the Lazarus Pit a constant reminder of the rage that lay beneath his skin, but he pushed it down, focusing on the mission at hand.

Chapter Text

They reached the stronghold’s entrance: an ancient, arched doorway reinforced with heavy wooden beams. Jason gestured for the team to spread out along the walls, their bodies melting into the darkness, as they moved like phantoms through the shadows. The tension was palpable.

Jason crouched next to the door, glancing over his shoulder to ensure everyone was in position. He signaled to one of the soldiers, who silently approached, carrying a set of lockpicking tools.

The soldier worked swiftly, expertly manipulating the lock mechanism. A soft click echoed in the silence, and the door slowly creaked open.

Jason’s breath was steady, despite the rising pressure. His mind was focused, each step calculated as he led the way inside.

The entry hall was dimly lit, the stone walls adorned with faded tapestries and the remnants of past grandeur. The atmosphere felt ancient, heavy with history and the faint smell of mildew.

Jason’s boots barely made a sound on the cold stone floor as he moved deeper into the stronghold, the rest of the team following his lead.

They reached the first corridor, a narrow passageway that wound through the heart of the stronghold. The walls were lined with old armor and weapons, and the air felt thick with the weight of centuries-old secrets.

Jason motioned for his team to stop and listen. The faint sound of footsteps echoed from ahead, signaling that guards were still patrolling the area.

Jason’s heart began to beat faster, but not with fear. It was the rush of anticipation, the thrill of being on the edge, where every decision mattered.

He was acutely aware of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he didn’t let it consume him. Instead, he used it, channeling it into focus.

He signaled for two of the soldiers to flank the passage while he and the remaining team member moved forward. They reached the next corner, peering around it just enough to spot the two guards stationed near the door leading deeper into the stronghold.

Jason studied the guards. One was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, while the other was walking the perimeter, his eyes scanning the area lazily. Jason had a brief moment to assess. This would be a clean take-down if done correctly.

With a subtle motion, he signaled the team. They moved as one, silently and fluidly. In the blink of an eye, the guard nearest to them collapsed without a sound, his throat slit before he could even react. The second guard barely had time to turn around before Jason was on him, a blade flashing across his throat.

He caught the guard’s body before it hit the ground, lowering it gently to avoid noise. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady, though his heart beat with the rush of the kill. The bloodlust was still there, swirling beneath the surface, but he didn’t let it take over. He focused on the task. One step at a time.

They moved through the stronghold with lethal efficiency, eliminating guards one by one. Each encounter was swift, silent, and calculated. Jason was in his element.

The world felt clearer, his mind sharp and focused as he relied on his training. This was no longer about for the thrill of violence. This was about control—about mastering his surroundings and using them to his advantage.

Eventually, they reached the inner sanctum of the stronghold. The main chamber was large, its walls adorned with more ornate tapestries and shelves filled with ancient books and scrolls.

There was a large table in the center of the room, scattered with maps and documents. It looked like a command center, and he knew that the leader of the faction would have to be somewhere inside.

As they entered, the soldiers spread out, taking up strategic positions around the room. Jason stepped forward, his eyes scanning the dark for any signs of movement.

And then, he saw it, a silhouette of movement in the far corner. A figure, cloaked in within the dark, watching them.

Ra’s had been right. The leader was here.

Jason’s breath steadied as he sized up his opponent. The figure stepped into the dim light, revealing the leader’s face—a sharp, calculating gaze, framed by a greying beard and a hooded cloak. The man didn’t seem surprised by their arrival; in fact, he appeared almost expecting it.

“So, the League sends their most promising assassin,” the leader said, his voice smooth, almost amused. “So now the League send’s kids to do their biding.”

“That’s to show the League needs just one kid to end the likes of you, big guy.” His voice steady but tinged with the weight of what was at stake, sizing up the leader’s every move.

The man had an air of calm confidence, but Jason knew better than to underestimate anyone in this line of work. He then signalled for the others to get inside.

The leader’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Perhaps. But it’s not always that simple, is it? You’ve been trained well, but there’s one thing you’ve yet to learn.”

Jason’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s that?”

“That not all battles are fought with swords, Jason.” The leader’s voice was laced with an eerie calmness. “Sometimes, the greatest weapon is the mind.”

Jason’s senses flared as he immediately felt the air shift around him. The door slammed shut behind him, locking them inside.

“Fuck!” He cursed under his breath, realizing too late that this had all been a trap.

“What’s the play now?” one of the soldiers whispered.

Jason’s mind raced. He had to act quickly. They’d been led into a position of vulnerability, and the leader wasn’t alone.

He heard the sound of doors opening on either side, and he turned just in time to see several more guards emerging from hidden compartments in the walls. They were surrounded.

“Kill them all,” Jason said with cold certainty. His voice was low, but his command was final. The mission wasn’t over yet—not by a long shot.

The battle erupted In the confines of the chamber, swords clashing, blades singing through the air. Jason’s mind slowed, calculating his every move.

The bloodlust surged within him, but he kept it in check. His body moved like a machine, each strike, each maneuver calculated with brutal precision.

He fought through the enemy forces, his body fluid and relentless. But as they took down the last of the guards, the true test began. He stood, breathing heavily, his eyes locked onto the leader, who was still watching from across the room.

“You’re stronger than I expected,” the leader said, his smile faltering. “But you are much too naive.”

Jason’s grip tightened on his blade. He was done the chit-chat.

With a single, powerful leap, he charged toward the leader, ready to end this once and for all.

“This ends now,” Jason growled.

The leader didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a small vial, uncorking it with a quick flick of his wrist. He tossed it toward Jason, the liquid inside shimmering in the dim light.

Jason’s instincts screamed at him to dodge, but it was too late. The vial shattered in the air, releasing a cloud of toxic gas that hit him square in the chest.

His vision blurred, and his body began to feel heavy. He fought against the poison, but his limbs grew weaker with each passing second.

The bloodlust that had been simmering in him boiled over, but in this moment of weakness, it consumed him fully.

He staggered, falling to his knees, his breath ragged and shallow.

“You’ve lost,” the leader said softly, walking toward him.

With disoriented thoughts, Jason struggled against the effects from the poison. He hadn’t lost. Not yet.

With a final, desperate push, he lunged forward, taking the leader by surprise. The two collided, and Jason’s blade found its mark.

The mission was over.

****

[Jason Todd’s POV]

I trudged through the corridors of the fortress, each step feeling like an eternity after the chaos of the mission. The poison from that damn vial was still crawling through my veins, sluggish but persistent, trying to drag me under.

I could feel the burning in my chest, the thirst for violence that the Lazarus Pit had embedded deep within me. That familiar, maddening pull—the bloodlust that never quite let me go.

But I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not here. Not now.

I wiped my blood-soaked hands on my cloak and pushed the door to Ra’s study open with a quiet grunt. The room inside was just as sterile and imposing as always.

Massive bookshelves lined the walls, filled with dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. The desk in the center was impeccably neat, as if Ra’s had never seen a moment of disarray in his life.

I hated it. Everything about this place felt like a mausoleum—cold, precise, and lifeless.

Ra’s sat behind the desk, one of his many unreadable expressions fixed on his face. Without looking up from whatever nonsense he was studying, he spoke.

“You’ve returned.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, as if he had been expecting me the entire time. “Report.”

I stood there for a moment, watching him, as if he was some distant relative I didn’t particularly care for. This was the man who had taken me in, the man who had resurrected me and trained me, but I didn’t feel much of anything for him. It wasn’t hate, nor was it gratitude. It was just… indifference.

“Your little trap nearly worked,” I said dryly, walking over to the table. I leaned against the corner, staring at the dark lines on the map he was studying. “Almost got me with that toxic gas, but I managed to finish the job. One less stronghold to worry about.”

Ra’s looked up at me then, his dark eyes flicking over me with a calculated, almost amused glance. “I never expected you to fail, Jason. But your ability to recover from mistakes is impressive.”

I raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “So, you planned it all along? To test my reaction or something?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead choosing to study me like a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope. It didn’t bother me. Nothing ever did when it came to him.

“Yes, and no. The test was not for you, but for your instincts,” Ra’s said, folding his hands in front of him.

“You are learning to think, to act beyond impulse. But the bloodlust, Jason—your rage. It remains your greatest enemy and yet it could be your greatest weapon if you learn to wield it.”

I felt the familiar surge of anger and frustration. It was always the same with him, wasn’t it? The same damn speech, every time.

That part of me I couldn’t control—the part that wanted to rip everything to shreds. I clenched my fists, pushing down the growing heat in my chest, trying to ignore it.

“I know,” I muttered, trying to focus. “I’ll get it under control. You don’t need to remind me.”

Ra’s didn’t respond to that, instead taking a long pause before speaking again.

“Perhaps not. But that is why I’ve arranged something for you.”

I frowned. “Something?”

Before I could even register what he meant, the heavy wooden door behind me creaked open.

A presence—cold, sharp, and utterly controlled—cut through the room like a drawn blade. The soft click of boots against the polished floor followed, each step measured, confident.

The air itself seemed to shift in deference as she entered. Her long, dark trench coat flared slightly with her movement before settling back against her frame, a deliberate kind of fluidity that spoke of someone who never made an unnecessary motion.

I turned just as she stopped a few feet away, my gaze immediately locking onto the figure who had entered.

She was tall—too tall for most women, with a grace that somehow felt lethal even in the stillness of the room. Her posture effortless yet exuding a quiet, lethal authority. And the moment she spoke, I knew this wasn’t just any League assassin.

Ra’s, ever composed, gestured slightly in her direction, his voice smooth with a hint of amusement.

“You most likely do not know whom our guest might be,” he said, his words carrying an unspoken weight.

He paused for a fraction of a second before continuing, letting the moment stretch just enough.

“This,” he finally announced, his tone carrying a note of reverence, “is Lady Shiva.”

Chapter Text

My eyes flicked to the woman standing before me. The name Lady Shiva rang in my ears, and even before Ra’s spoke it, something in me had already recognized her as someone different, someone above the rest of the League’s assassins.

She didn’t need to announce herself. Her presence alone did that.

She stood with effortless stillness, the kind that only came from absolute control of her body, of the space around her, of the danger she carried like an unspoken promise.

Her gaze was cool and unwavering, studying me with the detached curiosity of a predator assessing a new opponent.

I had seen skilled fighters before, but she was something else entirely. No wasted movement, no unnecessary tension in her frame. Just quiet, waiting power. The kind that didn’t need to be flaunted because it was simply fact.

Her black outfit hugged her figure like a second skin, but it was her eyes that caught my attention.

“Lady Shiva…” I repeated under my breath, more to myself than anyone else. I’d heard the name before—whispers, rumors, stories of a woman who could dismantle an army with her bare hands.

Now, she was standing in front of me. But why was she?

“Impressive,” Shiva said at last, her voice smooth, unhurried. A single word, but it carried weight.

I wasn’t sure if it was praise or merely an observation.

Ra’s, watching the exchange with quiet amusement, finally spoke again.

“I thought it only fitting that you meet.” His gaze flicked between the two of us, as though he was placing pieces on a board. “After all, if you wish to be the best… you must learn from the best.”

My jaw tightened slightly. I had trained under some of the League’s most brutal instructors, pushing my body beyond limits I thought possible. And yet, something told me this was about to be different.

Lady Shiva. The world’s deadliest assassin, as I’ve heard in random whispered conversations among the others at the training ground.

I couldn’t help the sarcastic smirk that curled on my lips as I stood up straighter, eyeing her with more interest than I cared to admit. “Great. Just what I needed. Another ‘professional’ to show me the ropes.”

Ra’s, sitting there so composed, didn’t even flinch at my sarcasm. Instead, his lips curled slightly. “She will be in charge of your combat training. She will help you wield and channel the overwhelming feeling of bloodlust you struggle with.”

I snorted. “Right. Like that’s gonna work. I’m a lost cause.”

Ra’s raised an eyebrow, his gaze hardening slightly. “Do not mistake me, boy. You may believe your rage is your ally, but it will consume you. It will destroy everything you could become.”

Lady Shiva’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she took a step forward, her movements like water, fluid and graceful. She wasn’t looking at me like I was an annoying brat. No, she was sizing me up, evaluating me, her sharp eyes flicking over me like a hawk assessing its prey.

“You think you can control it?” Shiva’s voice was smooth, almost taunting. “That it’s a matter of will? Of desire? You are wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, the sarcasm returning in full force. “You sure know how to make a guy feel confident about his future.”

Shiva didn’t flinch. Instead, her lips twitched into something like a smile—only colder, deadlier. “I am not here to stroke your ego, boy. I am here because Ra’s asked for a favour.”

She stepped closer, her gaze never leaving mine. “Ra’s is right. Your rage is your weapon, but it is also your weakness. What you think of as strength is nothing more than a blind impulse. You have no control. And that’s where I come in.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the table, still skeptical. “And how exactly are you going to do that? Teach me to meditate, chant some matras?”

Shiva didn’t smile at that, but I could see a flicker of something dark in her eyes. “I’ll teach you to fight with purpose. I’ll show you how to channel that violence, because you will never be rid of it. You can only learn to master it.”

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck in a way that suggested I wasn’t convinced. “Right. And what makes you think you can teach me something I haven’t already figured out?”

I taunted, trying to make it seem like I wasn’t all that desperate for her help. After all, Ra’s asked a favour from her with little to no regard of my thought on the matter.

Shiva took a long pause, then replied, her voice low and certain, “Because you’ve been fighting the wrong way, Jason. You’ve been using your rage as a crutch. But if you learn to fight without it controlling you, you will become unstoppable.”

I paused at that. Something in her words struck a chord deep within me. It wasn’t just the way she spoke. It was the certainty in her voice. The promise of something more.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it, but I was damn sure curious.

“Fine,” I said, pushing off from the table and walking toward her. “But don’t expect me to make this easy.”

Shiva’s cold smile returned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The room fell silent for a moment, and even Ra’s didn’t break the tension between us. His eyes flicked between me and Shiva, a subtle approval in his gaze.

I could feel the weight of what I was about to undertake settling over me. This wouldn’t be easy. In fact, it would be hell. But I had survived worse, and if there was anyone who could teach me to control the beast within, it was her.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself for what was to come.

“Alright then,” I muttered, my voice laced with determination. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Lady Shiva’s expression remained unreadable, but I could see the slightest flicker of a challenge in her eyes.

And that was all the invitation I needed.

The next morning, the fortress felt even colder than usual. I was already awake, sitting cross-legged in the center of my room, trying to find some semblance of peace.

I rubbed my palms against my face, trying to shake off the remnants of last night’s field training.

The poison was still in my bloodstream, but it wasn’t the physical exhaustion that was messing with my head. No, it was the hunger for hostility that I couldn’t escape. The more I tried to push it down, the more it clawed at me.

Today, Lady Shiva was going to break me, or teach me how to control it. And I had no idea which one was worse.

I forced myself to my feet and walked down the cold, echoing hallways of the fortress. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, suffocating me with their silent, oppressive air.

My mind wandered to the brief conversation I had with Ra’s yesterday. He didn’t care about how much pain I went through. For him, it was always about the end goal, the grand design. But Lady Shiva...

She had a different look in her eyes when she spoke to me. Something about her made me feel like she saw the chaos inside me and recognized it, not as something to control, but as something to shape.

I arrived at the training grounds, the courtyard just beyond a set of thick stone doors. The faint morning sunlight cast long shadows across the cracked stone ground, illuminating the space where I was supposed to fight today.

Lady Shiva stood there already, waiting, her presence so still it felt like she was carved from stone, with a piercing gaze in her eyes.

I took a deep breath as I stepped out into the courtyard. “I’m here,” I said, my voice rough from the lingering effects of the poison.

Without a word, Shiva nodded, her gaze never leaving me. She was studying me, sizing me up in a way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Good,” she finally said, her voice as cold as the air around us. “Let’s begin.”

She moved faster than I could react, her hand darting out, aiming for my throat. I barely managed to sidestep, my instincts kicking in just in time. But she was relentless. Each strike was precise and calculated, there was no wasted motion in her attacks.

I countered, slamming my fist into her side, but she absorbed the blow like it was nothing. She was fast, and more importantly, she was controlled.

I could feel my blood surging, aggression building. It was like a fire igniting inside me, and all I wanted was to unleash it. I wanted to tear her apart.

But Shiva saw it before I did. She blocked my next punch with ease, twisting my arm behind my back with a fluid motion that sent a sharp pain through my shoulder.

“Control it,” she hissed in my ear, her grip unrelenting. “You can’t fight like this.”

Her words were like a slap across the face. She wasn’t just talking about technique. She was talking about the rage that I was too weak to control, the rage that I had relied on for over a month. I struggled, my blood roaring in my veins as I tried to break free, but she held me in place with ease.

“Fight,” she instructed, twisting my arm further. “But do it without pugnacity.”

I gritted my teeth, trying to force my mind to focus. But it wasn’t easy. I could feel the rage clawing at the back of my mind, drowning out everything else.

I snapped my head back and threw an elbow into her stomach, pushing her away. She staggered back for half a second before regaining her stance.

She didn’t seem surprised by my outburst. In fact, she seemed almost pleased.

“Good,” she said. “You’re learning. But you need to learn to fight through the rage, not with it. Your power comes from your mind, not your anger.”

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. The bloodlust still bubbled beneath the surface, but I wasn’t sure how to control it. I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to continuously smash my fist into her face until it was nothing but pieces on meat, blood and bone on the floor.

But Shiva had already moved again. This time, her leg swept under mine, knocking me off my feet. I landed hard on the ground, the air leaving my lungs in a rush. She stood above me, her eyes gleaming, her stance relaxed.

“You cannot win by either giving in or trying to fight your aggressive instinct alone,” she said, her voice calm but carrying a weight to it. “Anger is a weakness. A distraction. It clouds your judgment.”

I blinked up at her, my chest rising and falling rapidly. She wasn’t wrong. It felt like every fight was a struggle to maintain control, to keep my temper in check long enough to finish what I started.

Shiva extended her hand to me, her expression serious. “Get up.”

I grabbed her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. My muscles burned from the exertion, but it was a different kind of exhaustion now. It wasn’t the physical fatigue no more, it was something deeper, something in my mind that I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Show me what you can do without the rage,” Shiva challenged, stepping back. “When you can fight from a place of calm, you’ll be unstoppable.”

I didn’t know if I was capable of that. I had always fought with rage, immersing myself in the barely resistible thrill for violence. But as I squared up against her again, I realized something: she was right.

Chapter Text

There was no future for me if I kept fighting like this. No matter how strong I got, I would always be a slave to my own emotions.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to find some clarity, some calm. I could still feel the bloodlust gnawing at me, but now I had to learn how to control it. I had to use it—not let it use me.

When I opened my eyes again, Shiva was watching me, waiting. “Well?”

I exhaled slowly, trying to clear my head of all the noise. The anger still lurked at the edges of my thoughts, but I focused on my breathing, on the stillness.

I threw a punch, but this time, it wasn’t wild. It wasn’t desperate. It was clean, controlled. Shiva blocked it, but I could see the slight surprise in her eyes. I followed up with a swift kick, using my body’s momentum, not relying on the surge of hostility inside me.

She stepped back, nodding in approval. “Better. But it’s only the beginning.”

We continued sparring, and as we fought, I felt a little less tethered to the rage. It was still there, but now I could see it for what it was—a tool, not a master, not a crutch.

With every move, I grew more aware of the power I was harnessing. And with every punch, I knew Shiva was testing me, pushing me to my limits.

After what felt like hours of grueling training, I was panting, sweat slicking my skin. I could feel the bloodlust gnawing at me, but now it felt like I had a leash on it, something to keep it in check.

Shiva stepped back, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead. “That’s enough for today.”

I dropped to my knees, my body aching from the exertion. But it was a good kind of pain, the kind that made me feel like I had actually learned something.

Shiva’s voice broke through my exhaustion. “You’re not there yet. But you’re getting closer.”

I grinned despite myself, the first real smile I’d allowed myself in days. “Yeah? Well, I’m not done yet.”

She gave a small, approving nod before turning to leave. But before she stepped away, she turned back to me, her voice cold and direct.

“Remember, Jason. Your anger could be a driving tool. But only when you control it.”

I nodded, already feeling the weight of her words sinking in. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could see a way forward. Maybe, just maybe, I could control the overwhelming urges inside me.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of it.

***

The training ground felt even more brutal today—like the air itself was charged with anticipation.

The vast stone courtyard, surrounded by high walls, was empty except for Lady Shiva and us. The floor was slick with morning dew, the stones cold beneath my feet. The scent of moss and dampness lingered in the air.

The harsh sunlight cast long shadows as the sky slowly brightened. It had been three days since Lady Shiva started training me, and while my body still ached from the previous sessions, there was a new sense of control brewing within me.

Control… the kind that kept the bloodlust chained down just long enough for me to focus.

Today, I was supposed to face off against Damian, who was also training under Shiva. Damian, Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson, had been a constant thorn in my side since I first arrived at the League’s fortress.

There was an unspoken rivalry between us, a kid who always wanted to prove who was stronger, faster, more skilled.

Lady Shiva stood in front of us, arms crossed, as usual, her gaze cold and calculating. She didn’t speak a word as she observed us.

“Damian,” she finally said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Jason, today you two will engage in a practice match. Show me what you’ve learned.”

I could hear the smugness in Damian’s voice as he responded. “I hope you’ve improved, Jase. I’ll make sure to go easy on you.” He was clearly enjoying this, his confidence bordering on arrogance.

“Oh, please. Don’t hold back on my account, little prince. I wouldn’t want to ruin your ego.” I shot back, a smirk tugging at my lips. The sarcasm practically dripped from my voice.

He might have been Ra’s al Ghul’s heir, but there was something about his cocky attitude that made me want to knock it down a few pegs.

Damian narrowed his eyes at me, clearly not appreciating my words, but he didn’t say anything else. His eyes were sharp, calculating. He was waiting for the moment of his get-back.

We both stood opposite each other in the center of the courtyard, the morning sun casting an orange glow on the stone beneath our feet.

It was eerily quiet, the air tense with anticipation. I could feel the lust for blood beneath my skin, clawing, scraping at the edges of my mind. But I didn’t give in. Not yet.

Lady Shiva gestured for us to begin. Without hesitation, Damian lunged at me, his movements sharp and precise, his small but well-toned frame moving like a snake.

He aimed a swift kick at my midsection, one of those moves that felt like it would break a rib if it landed. I dodged easily, shifting my weight to the side and spinning out of range, but I was impressed. The kid was fast. Too fast.

“Not bad, brat,” I muttered under my breath, barely dodging another quick swipe of his katana.

Damian’s movements were quick, fluid, and calculated—exactly how I expected that geezer’s offspring to fight. His strikes were relentless, each one designed to wear me down, to find an opening.

He didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. Each time I deflected or dodged his attacks, I could feel the frustration building in him. But I couldn’t afford to underestimate him, this kid might be smaller than me, but he was still deadly.

I evaded another strike, narrowly missing the edge of his blade as it sliced through the air. “Keep it up, Damian,” I called, trying to keep my tone light. “You’ll need more than that to tag me.”

He growled under his breath, his eyes narrowing with each failed strike. Damian pressed forward, trying to force me into a corner with a series of well-timed attacks.

A flurry of attacks came at me—slashes, punches, low sweeps. I blocked and dodged, each move calculating, deliberate. I could feel the power of the attacks behind his strikes, but they were predictable. And I knew that was his weakness.

As the fight progressed, my body began to settle into a rhythm. I began to slow my movements, concentrating on my breathing.

A subtle breathwork exercise that Lady Shiva had taught me to keep my overwhelming surges in check. In through the nose, hold, then out through the mouth. It was helping, a little. But not nearly enough.

Damian’s movements grew more frantic as he pressed harder. He launched a spinning kick at me, aiming for my head.

I stepped back just in time, and his foot missed by a hair’s breadth. But I could see the frustration building in his eyes. He was getting desperate, and that was exactly what I wanted.

“You’re starting to lose it, kid,” I teased, leaning back just enough to dodge another wild swing. “Come on, focus. Where’s that ass whooping I was promised?”

Damian gritted his teeth, his eyes flashing with anger. “Shut up.”

With a growl, he launched himself forward, his katana aimed directly at my throat. This time, I couldn’t dodge. But I didn’t need to.

I sidestepped the strike at the last moment, grabbing his wrist and using his own momentum to throw him off balance. He stumbled, and before he could recover, I twisted his arm behind his back, pinning him to the ground.

“I told you, kid. You need more than speed,” I said, my voice light, almost casual. I wasn’t even winded. But I could feel the slight rush of adrenaline coursing through me as maintain a calm demeanor.

Lady Shiva stepped forward, her gaze impassive as she watched us. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she was pleased with the way I’d controlled the fight.

Damian, however, was having none of it. He yanked his arm free and scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. “You got lucky. That’s all.”

I raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. “Sure, kid. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Damian’s glare could have burned through steel, but I didn’t care. The match was over, and I had won. No contest.

Lady Shiva finally spoke up, her voice cool. “Enough. You both showed improvement, but there is much more to be done. Damian, you must learn to control your anger as well.”

She glanced at me, a small glint of approval in her eyes. “Jason, well done. You’ve learned to fight without the bloodlust overwhelming you. But you still have much to learn about control.”

Damian huffed and crossed his arms, obviously frustrated, but I could see the respect in his eyes now.

He might not have admitted it, but I knew he was beginning to recognize my skill. And I wasn’t about to let him forget it anytime soon.

“Next time, you’ll be the one on the ground,” Damian muttered, gritting his teeth in frustration.

I shrugged. “We’ll see, kid. We’ll see.”

***

Damian stormed out of the training courtyard, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. The cool morning air did nothing to soothe the fire burning in his chest.

His pride, his honor, had been wounded, and the sting of defeat was unbearable. Jason’s smug grin and casual tone replayed in his mind like a taunting echo. *“We’ll see, kid. We’ll see.”* The words grated on him, fueling his anger.

He didn’t look back as he marched through the fortress, his boots echoing sharply against the stone floors. Servants and League members scattered out of his path, sensing the storm brewing in his demeanor.

Damian didn’t care. Let them see his fury. Let them know that Damian al Ghul, heir to the Demon’s Head, was not to be trifled with.

By the time he reached his chamber, his breathing was ragged, his mind racing. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room.

The chamber was sparsely decorated, a reflection of his disciplined upbringing—a bed, a desk, a weapons rack, and a single window overlooking the mountains. But Damian barely noticed any of it. His focus was inward, on the humiliation he had just endured.

He paced the room, his mind replaying the fight over and over. Jason’s movements, his taunts, the way he had effortlessly countered Damian’s attacks. It was infuriating.

He had trained his entire life under the tutelage of the League of Assassins, honed his skills to near perfection, and yet Jason—a rookie in the League—had bested him.

“No,” Damian muttered under his breath, his voice low and venomous. “This isn’t over.”

He stopped pacing and turned to the weapons rack, his eyes locking onto the katana resting there. The blade gleamed in the dim light, a symbol of his heritage, his skill, his ‘right’ to dominance.

He grabbed it, unsheathing it with a swift motion, and held it before him. The steel reflected his face, his eyes burning with determination.

“I will not be humiliated,” he said aloud, his voice steady now, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. “Not by him. Not by anyone.”

Damian’s mind raced with strategies, techniques, and training regimens. He would push himself harder, train longer, and refine his skills until they were flawless.

He would study Jason’s weaknesses, exploit his overconfidence, and turn his own arrogance against him.

Damian had been taught from birth that victory was not just about strength but about cunning, patience, and precision. And he would use every tool at his disposal to ensure that the next time they crossed blades, Jason would be the one on the ground.

“This is not the end,” Damian declared, his voice cutting through the silence of the chamber. “This is only the beginning.”

He sheathed the katana and placed it back on the rack, his movements deliberate and controlled. The anger was still there, but it was no longer a wildfire. It was a controlled burn, a fuel for his resolve. Damian al Ghul does not lose. He shall conquer.

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The compound was eerily quiet today, which was unusual for the League of Assassins. Normally, the halls echoed with the sounds of clashing swords, grunts of exertion, and the occasional barked order from Ra’s al Ghul. But today? Silence.

Even Ra’s himself had left for some mysterious business, leaving the rest of us to our own devices. For once, I had nothing to do but lounge around in my room, sprawled out on my bed like a cat soaking up the sun. It was a rare moment of peace, and I wasn’t about to waste it.

My room was sparse, almost sterile. The walls were bare stone, cold and uninviting, with a single narrow window that let in a sliver of pale light.

The bed was simple—a thin mattress on a wooden frame—and the only other furniture was a rickety chair and a small table cluttered with a few books on combat techniques and a half-empty water bottle. It wasn’t exactly homey, but then again, I wasn’t here for the décor.

I’d been training nonstop for weeks, pushing my body to its limits, trying to unlock whatever secrets my fractured mind was hiding.

Ra’s had been drilling me in meditation, combat, and strategy, but none of it seemed to help with the one thing I couldn’t control: the rage.

It bubbled up without warning, a seething, violent urge that made my hands tremble and my vision blur. During sparring matches, I’d lose myself completely, driven by a bloodlust that left my opponents battered and broken. The others had started to avoid me, their eyes filled with a mix of fear and disgust. Even Ra’s, with his infinite patience, seemed wary of me at times.

The worst part was the blackouts. I’d come to mid-fight, my opponent on the ground, barely conscious, and no memory of how I’d gotten there. It was like something inside me took over, something primal and uncontrollable.

Ra’s said my body was remembering, that my instincts were resurfacing, but that didn’t explain who I was before all this. Who had I been? What had I done to make violence feel so… natural?

I sighed, rolling onto my stomach and burying my face in the pillow. The questions were endless, and the answers were nowhere to be found. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe ignorance was better than whatever truth was waiting for me.

The sound of a heavy thud against my door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could even sit up, the door swung open, revealing Damian al Ghul, the self-proclaimed “world’s deadliest assassin.” He stood there with his arms crossed, his usual smug expression plastered across his face.

“Hey, skunk hair… You up?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I groaned, not bothering to lift my head. “With all your training, weren’t you taught how to knock, baby face?”

Damian’s eyebrow shot up, and he stepped further into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Baby face? Really?” he said, his voice laced with mock offense. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

I rolled over onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “As you can tell, I wasn’t trying. Now get out of my room.”

He Ignored me, of course, striding over to the far corner of the room and grabbing the rickety chair. He dragged it across the stone floor, the legs screeching loudly, and plopped it down next to my bed.

Sitting backward on it like some wannabe rebel, he rested his chin on his arms and fixed me with a piercing stare.

“So,” he began, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity, “what’s your story?”

I turned my head to glare at him. “What do I look like, your babysitter?”

His expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought I’d struck a nerve. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Never had one, never will.”

I shrugged, unimpressed. “Go spar with someone if you’re bored. Leave me alone. I need a nap.”

Damian smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Oh, please. Even with one arm tied behind my back, I could take down two guys in a sparring match.”

I raised an eyebrow, propping myself up on one elbow. “Then go do it blindfolded. Throw in an extra guy if you’re feeling cocky enough.”

He paused, considering my words for a moment before brushing them off. “I meant, why are you here? Training with the League, under the direct supervision of both my mother and grandfather? The only one who’s ever had that kind of attention is me, and there’s a good reason for that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. So, Ra’s and Talia had kept my resurrection a secret, even from their golden boy. No wonder Damian was so curious. He probably thought I was some kind of rival, a threat to his precious legacy.

“That’s for me to know and for you to zip it,” I said, lying back down. “Mind your own business, or you might catch a fist to the face one of these days.”

Damian’s smirk widened, and I knew I was in trouble. “How about this?” he said, leaning forward. “A real fight between us.

A spar to complete domination. If I win, you tell me everything—how you ended up here, your relationship with my grandfather, and why you’re such a quick study. If you win, I’ll drop the subject. Forever.”

I groaned, shoving my face into the pillow. Of course, he’d come up with something like this. The little brat knew how to push my buttons. But the idea of wiping that smug grin off his face was too tempting to resist.

“A hand-to-hand combat?” I asked, peeking out from the pillow.

“No,” he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Swords. We put our lives on the line.”

I sat up, staring at him. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

I hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks. Damian was a prodigy with a sword, and I was… well, I was still figuring things out. But the thought of finally putting him in his place was too good to pass up.

“You’ve got a deal,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “But don’t come crying to me when I hand your ass over to you—painfully.”

Damian stood, his smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “Good. Be at the sparring ground in ten minutes.” He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Oh, and Jase? Prepare to lose.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving me alone in the cold, empty room. I sighed, running a hand through my hair. This was either going to be the best decision I’d made in weeks or the worst. Either way, it was too late to back out now.

****

The sparring ground was a large, open courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. The floor was covered in a thin layer of sand, which crunched underfoot as I stepped into the arena.

Damian was already there, twirling a practice sword in his hand with the kind of effortless grace that made me want to punch him even more.

“Took you long enough,” he said, tossing me a sword. I caught it mid-air, testing the weight in my hand. It felt… familiar, like an old friend.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, taking my stance. “I’ve got a nap to get back to.”

Damian smirked, raising his sword. “Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

The first clash of blades echoed through the courtyard, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was going to be fun.

****

[General POV]

The sparring ground buzzed with quiet tension as Jason strode onto the field, his boots crunching softly against the stone floor.

The cool night air flowed in from the open archways, carrying with it the faint hum of distant wind. Torches flickered along the perimeter, casting long shadows that danced across the walls.

At the center of the arena, Damian was already waiting, a wicked grin tugging at his lips as he twirled a short sword in his hand with practiced ease.

The boy stood poised, his small frame deceptively relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with the sharp focus of a predator.

Jason stopped a few feet away, rolling his shoulders as he took in the scene. The swords were identical—straight blades with leather-bound hilts, designed for speed and precision rather than brute force.

He bent down, grabbed his weapon from the rack, and gave it a few experimental swings, the blade cutting through the air with a satisfying hiss.

“Ready to lose, old man?” Damian taunted with reference to Jason’s streak of white hair, his voice dripping with arrogance.

Jason smirked, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder. “Old man? You’ve got jokes, baby face. Let’s see if you can back them up.”

The two circled each other, their movements slow and deliberate, each sizing up the other.

Damian struck first, lunging forward with a precise thrust aimed at Jason’s chest. Jason sidestepped with ease, his own blade darting up to deflect the strike.

The clang of steel against steel echoed across the arena as the fight began in earnest. Damian moved like a whirlwind, his strikes fast and calculated, forcing Jason to stay on the defensive.

The boy’s small size gave him an edge in speed and agility, and he used it to full advantage, darting in and out of Jason’s reach like an annoying fly that refused to be swatted.

Jason, on the other hand, fought with a mix of brute strength and calculated patience. He parried Damian’s relentless strikes with practiced efficiency, his larger frame giving him the ability to absorb the impact of the blows without losing his footing.

Damian’s smirk grew wider with each passing moment. “Not bad, old man,” he taunted between strikes, “but you’re moving slower than I expected. What’s the matter? Too much lounging around?”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Keep talking, kid. It’s gonna make beating you all the more satisfying.”

Damian pressed the attack, driving Jason back with a rapid flurry of strikes aimed at his torso and shoulders. For a moment, it seemed like the boy had the upper hand, his blade coming dangerously close to landing a hit.

But Jason wasn’t about to let a little brat show him up.

Biding his time, Jason spotted an opening as Damian overextended on a particularly aggressive strike.

In a single, fluid motion, Jason pivoted to the side, hooking Damian’s sword arm with his free hand while sweeping his own blade up to knock the weapon clean out of the boy’s grasp.

The sword clattered to the ground, but Jason didn’t stop there. He spun around, disarming himself by tossing his own sword far out of reach.

Damian barely had time to react before Jason’s fist connected with his jaw, sending the boy stumbling back.

“No more swords,” Jason growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Let’s see how you do when it’s just fists.”

Damian scowled, wiping a small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll regret that,” he spat, charging forward with a feral determination.

What followed was a brutal exchange of punches, kicks, and grapples. Damian was quick, his strikes sharp and precise, aiming for weak points in Jason’s defenses.

But Jason’s sheer size and strength gave him an undeniable edge. Every hit he landed sent Damian reeling, the boy’s smaller frame struggling to withstand the impact.

Damian managed to land a solid kick to Jason’s ribs, earning a grunt of pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop the older fighter. Jason grabbed the boy’s leg mid-kick, yanking him off balance and slamming him to the ground with a thunderous thud.

“You’re fast, I’ll give you that,” Jason said, his voice steady despite the exertion. “But speed doesn’t mean much when you can’t hit hard enough to put me down.”

Damian growled in frustration, flipping back onto his feet with a skillful maneuver.

He rushed Jason again, throwing a series of rapid punches aimed at his face and chest. Jason dodged most of them, blocking the rest with ease, before catching Damian’s wrist mid-strike.

With a sharp twist, Jason spun the boy around and pinned him in a chokehold, locking his arms firmly around Damian’s neck.

“Give it up, kid,” Jason said, his voice calm but firm. “You’re good, but you’re not ‘that’ good.”

Damian struggled against the hold, his movements becoming more frantic as the seconds ticked by. Jason loosened his grip just enough to avoid seriously injuring the boy, but he didn’t let go.

Damian struggled, his pride refusing to let him yield, but Jason’s grip was unyielding. With a final, brutal punch to the back of Damian’s head, Jason knocked him unconscious. Damian’s body went limp, his face pressed into the cold floor of the arena.

Jason stood, breathing heavily, his knuckles bruised and bloodied. He looked down at Damian’s still form, his expression unreadable. There was no triumph in his eyes, only a grim satisfaction of whooping the kid.

He had won, but the cost of victory was etched into the silence that followed. The arena was quiet now, the only sound the faint echo of Jason’s footsteps as he walked away, leaving Damian behind.

Chapter Text

Jason carried Damian’s unconscious form through the stone halls of the League’s fortress. His boots echoed loudly against the floor, the weight of the boy on his shoulder barely registering. A few League members passed by, their curious glances flickering between Jason and the limp body draped over him.

“What?” Jason barked at one particularly bold assassin who stopped mid-step to stare. The man quickly averted his gaze and continued on his way.

Jason smirked to himself. The League members feared him—not that he cared. Most of them whispered behind his back, calling him a savage or a monster. And honestly? They weren’t entirely wrong.

The Infirmary was a small, sterile room tucked away in one corner of the fortress. Jason shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, unceremoniously dumping Damian onto one of the beds.

The sound of the boy groaning made Jason grin. “Welcome back, little brat,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.

Damian’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the harsh light of the room. He groaned again, sitting up slowly and rubbing the back of his neck. “You… cheated,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Cheated? Really? You’re the one who suggested swords, kid. You didn’t exactly specify that I couldn’t throw them out of the fight.”

Damian glared at him, though the effect was dampened by the bruise already forming on his jaw. “You didn’t have to hit so hard,” he grumbled.

Jason smirked, walking over to grab a chair and sitting backward on it, mimicking Damian’s earlier stance. “I went easy on you,” he said, leaning forward. “Trust me, if I wanted to really hurt you, you wouldn’t have woken up so fast.”

Damian opened his mouth to retort, but a new voice interrupted them.

“What is going on here?”

Both of them turned to see Talia standing in the doorway, her sharp eyes scanning the scene with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. She was dressed in her usual black assassin’s attire, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

“Nothing much,” Jason said casually, leaning into his chair. “Just teaching your kid a lesson in humility.”

Talia’s gaze flicked to Damian, who was still sitting on the infirmary bed, glaring daggers at Jason. Her expression softened slightly as she took in her son’s battered state.

“Damian,” she said, her voice stern but not unkind, “what have I told you about challenging opponents without fully understanding their capabilities?”

“I can handle myself,” Damian replied stubbornly, his arms crossed.

“Clearly,” Jason said, smirking.

Talia shot him a warning look, but Jason just shrugged, unapologetic.

“You underestimated him,” Talia said, turning back to Damian. “And you paid the price for your arrogance. Let this be a lesson to you.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“And you,” Talia said, her gaze shifting to Jason. “Did you really need to go so far? He is still a child.”

Jason stood, his smirk fading slightly. “He challenged me,” he said evenly. “I warned him. If you don’t want him getting his ass handed to him, maybe you should teach him to pick his fights more carefully.”

Talia’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she crossed the room and placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“Rest,” she said softly to her son. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow’s training.”

Damian nodded reluctantly, lying back down on the bed.

Jason turned to leave, but Talia’s voice stopped him at the door.

“Jason.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“My father will hear about this,” she said, her tone neutral but laced with meaning.

Jason smirked. “Looking forward to it.”

With that, he walked out, leaving Talia and Damian alone.

Jason made his way back to his quarters, his mind still replaying the fight. As much as he hated to admit it, the kid wasn’t bad. He had potential—raw, untamed, and frustratingly arrogant potential.

By the time Jason reached his room, the torches in the halls had burned low, casting the stone walls in a dim, flickering light. He pushed open the door to his plain, sparse chamber and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

The fight had been satisfying, sure, but it left a strange taste in his mouth, like a word at the tip of his tongue but is unable to recall it.

Damian’s relentless determination unknowingly reminded him of… well, himself. The kid had that same stubborn fire Jason used to have, back before everything went to shit.

Jason closed his eyes, the faint sound of the wind outside lulling him into a restless sleep.

Tomorrow would bring another day of training, and violence. But for now, at least, he could rest—if only for a little while.

*****

The morning sun barely peeked over the horizon when Jason was summoned to the Ra’s al Ghul’s chamber. The fortress was unusually quiet, the usual bustle of training exercises and assassins moving through the halls absent at this early hour.

Jason had a bad feeling about this, but he kept his face blank as he approached the towering double doors of Ra’s al Ghul’s study.

Two guards opened the doors silently, their expressions stoic as they stepped aside to let him in. Jason entered, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the faint glow of the morning sun filtering through the narrow windows.

Ra’s sat at the far end of the room, his hands folded neatly on the ornate desk in front of him. He was as composed as ever, his piercing green eyes fixed on Jason with an unsettling intensity.

“Ah, Jason,” Ra’s said, his voice calm and measured. “Do take a seat.”

Jason hesitated for a moment before complying, dropping into the chair across from the Demon’s Head. He slouched slightly, his body language casual but his muscles tense, ready for whatever this meeting was about.

His initial thought was that he was summoned due to the tomfoolery between him and Damian, and of which hand landed the Demon’d head grandson at the infirmary.

“I understand,” Ra’s began, “that you and my grandson engaged in a rather… spirited sparring session last night.” His prior thoughts were spot on.

Jason smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Spirited is one way to put it. The kid asked for it.”

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Indeed. Damian is brash, overconfident, and far too eager to prove himself. Traits I have attempted to temper, though clearly with limited success.”

Jason shrugged. “Sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

Ra’s ignored the comment, leaning forward slightly. “And you, boy—what do you think you proved by defeating a kid?”

Jason’s smirk faded. He hadn’t expected that question. “Look, the kid needs to learn when to back off. He’s not invincible, no matter how much he wants to believe it.”

Ra’s studied him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. “You misunderstand me. I am not questioning your actions—I am questioning your motivations.”

Jason frowned, his hands curling into fists on his lap. “Motivations? What are you getting at?”

“You hold yourself apart from the League,” Ra’s said, his tone almost gentle. “You train, you fight, but you do not belong. Not truly. You cling to the remnants of a life you cannot even remember, and yet you reject the path we offer you. Why is that?”

Jason’s jaw tightened. He hated the way Ra’s could get under his skin with just a few well-chosen words. “Maybe I don’t want to belong,” he said, his voice cold. “Maybe I’m just here to figure out who the hell I am and then get the hell out.”

Ra’s leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “You seek answers, yet you resist the very tools that could provide them. Your body remembers, Jason. Your instincts, your skills—they are fragments of the man you were. The League can help you rebuild yourself, piece by piece. But only if you embrace what we offer.”

Jason’s fists clenched tighter, his knuckles turning white. “And what’s the catch, huh? Swear loyalty to you?”

Ra’s allowed a small smile. “Loyalty is earned, not demanded. But you would do well to remember that the League saved you—gave you a second chance at life when you had none. Perhaps it is time to consider what you owe in return.”

Jason shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I don’t owe you anything,” he growled. “You brought me back, sure, but you didn’t do it out of the goodness of your heart. So spare me the speech about gratitude.”

Ra’s remained seated, unruffled by Jason’s outburst. “As you wish,” he said calmly. “But consider this, Jason: the path you are choosing to walk now is a lonely one. You may reject the League, but in doing so, you reject the only family you have left.”

Jason’s chest tightened at those words, but he didn’t let it show. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Ra’s deliberately chose his words with precision to implant the notion of a lonely, purposeless life in his mind. If he desired a life filled with meaning, he would willingly join the League of Assassins.

****

Back in his quarters, Jason paced restlessly, Ra’s words echoing in his mind. ‘The only family you have left.’ The phrase grated on him, stirring up a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name.

He glanced at the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection staring back at him with a mix of frustration and confusion. Who the hell was he? What kind of life had he lived before all of this? The blurry flashes of memory that haunted him—fights in dark alleys, the sound of laughter that felt achingly familiar—only added to his frustration.

Jason punched the wall beside the mirror, the impact sending a dull ache up his arm. “Screw this,” he muttered, grabbing his gear and heading for the training grounds.

If he couldn’t figure out who he was, he’d settle for what he was. And right now, what he was—what he’d always been—was a fighter.

***

[The next day]

The training grounds were as inhospitable as the League itself, tucked deep within the shadow of an ancient mountain, veiled by thick mists that hung like a perpetual fog. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and sharpened steel, the ground covered in loose gravel and dirt, worn smooth by years of constant use.

Towering structures of black stone loomed in the distance, like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long over the field. Above them, the sky was a brooding expanse of grey, heavy with the promise of rain.

A series of wooden practice dummies, their faces carved into grimacing masks, stood in various positions across the grounds, a testament to countless hours of training and sacrifice.

Nearby, a large open space stretched for hundreds of feet, the perfect setting for combat drills, where warriors honed their skills beneath the watchful eyes of the League’s most feared masters.

Today, it was Lady Shiva who commanded the field.

Chapter Text

Jason stood tall at the center of the training ground, his muscles coiled, his mind bracing itself for the inevitable onslaught. His chest heaved with the exertion of his previous drills, the sting in his knuckles a reminder of his relentless focus. But now, he was being tested against something far more dangerous.

Lady Shiva stepped out, her movements fluid and silent, like the whisper of wind through the trees. Her attire was simple—a tight, form-fitting suit that allowed for the freedom of movement. Her black hair cascaded down her back, the only color in the otherwise monochromatic landscape. She approached him, her eyes gleaming with sharp intent.

She closed the distance between them in a blink, her speed a blur, and before he could react, her hand was at his throat, just inches from choking him. He barely managed to catch her wrist, the pressure already building. But Jason was quick—he twisted, using his knee to knock her off balance, and in that moment, he managed to push her back.

Shiva stepped away, eyes glowing with approval.

“Impressive. But not enough.”

Jason’s pulse raced, his body on high alert. “Not enough?” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I just knocked you off your feet.”

She tilted her head, almost curious. “Yes. But you failed to make it count. You lack patience. Control. You strike when you should wait.”

Jason’s jaw clenched from a strangely familiar feeling. He wasn’t used to hearing this from someone who wasn’t Bruce, nor does he remember. And there was no mistaking it, Shiva wasn’t a teacher who offered compliments.

“You’ve trained in combat for two months now, yet you seem to lack composure in your movements,” Shiva continued, circling him. “Unrefined. Reckless.”

She struck then, faster than he could follow.

‘Fuck, she’s good.’ Jason thought to himself as he made multiple attempts to try and parry her attacks.

In between blocking—dodging, parrying her attacks and with occasional counter attacks of his own, he managed to create a bit of space between them so he could catch his breath and hoped to neutralize the momentum of their fight.

With deep inhale and a long exhale, he calmed his nerves but immediate had to deal with an incoming strike.

Her fist connected with his ribs, a blow that would have broken most men’s bones, but Jason gritted his teeth and withstood it, retaliating with a swift kick to her stomach. She absorbed it with ease, stepping back to give him space.

“That was better,” she acknowledged, her tone unchanging. “But still unrefined. You act on instinct, not consciously thought out attack patterns.”

Jason, now panting slightly, straightened. He was used to this. Used to being over powered by stronger individuals like he wasn’t good enough to even fight them. But something in Shiva’s gaze—it wasn’t pity. It was the quiet acknowledgment that he had the potential to be better.

“What’s your point?”

“You have a very long way to go in your training,” Shiva said flatly. “And until you understand how to move not just with your body, but with your mind, you will always fall short. You are too emotional, too quick to react.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I should think more during combat? Or that I should just let my opponent strike first and give them the advantage?”

Her lips quirked In the smallest of smirks. “You think too much. It’s not about waiting for the right moment or attacking where feels like an opening. Create it yourself. You should already know how your enemy will react to certain attacks the moment you engage it. Read their reaction and control it.”

Jason shook his head. “Yeah? And how am I supposed to do that?”

Shiva’s smile was cold, calculating. “By practicing patience. By learning that every movement, every action has a purpose. You cannot afford to let your emotions during combat cloud your judgment.”

Jason clenched his fists at his sides, the sting of her words more painful than any physical blow.

“You never said anything about being calm,” Jason muttered, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness. “How do I just shut it off? Everything that’s stirs inside me?”

Shiva looked at him, her gaze piercing. “You don’t. But you learn to control it. Rage is a weapon. But only when you can wield it without losing yourself to it.”

Jason stood still, trying not to let those words strike a nerve. ‘I swear if I hear that same line one more time, I’ll fucking…’

(Low grunt)

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice quieter, more controlled. “Show me.”

Shiva nodded, stepping back into position. “This time, you’ll fight me with clarity.”

As they squared off again, Jason’s heart still beat with intensity, but now, it was tempered.

Inside, he could feel the overwhelming urge to instantly close the space between them and just slit her throat with the pocket knife he had hidden in his sleeves, but he managed to get a better handle on it and not let that feeling of blood lust overwhelm him or tell him what to do.

Instead, he tried channeling that feeling and projecting it as an anchor so he doesn’t loose sight of himself between combat.

He’d listened. He was listening, despite the anger that still churned beneath his skin. Shiva’s teachings were harsh, but they were necessary.

This was never about conquering his chaotic impulses in an instant, a concept he had misunderstood from the very start, even with Ra’s teachings. It was about harnessing them—giving them direction.

Taking deep inhales and look exhales, he clenched his fists and rose his guard. There was a strange and sudden change in the atmosphere as Jason let out the last long breath.

His presence became so dominant that it had the skin of others around the area, crawling with goosebumps.

And Shiva recognized the change in the atmosphere.

The tensed air thickened as Jason’s focus sharpened, the noise of his heartbeat fading into the background.

Shiva moved first—a flash of speed, her fist cutting through the air, aimed squarely at his face. He reacted instantly, dropping his hips and raising his left arm to block. His stance was steady, his core tight, and without hesitation, he launched a counterattack with his right fist.

Though caught off guard by his sudden shift in demeanor and the sharp precision of his movements, Shiva twisted her body just in time, evading the strike. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, her eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and challenge.

“Good,” she murmured, impressed. “Now you are thinking while evading, not relying on your instinct and unfamiliar muscle memories. But you still lack follow-through.”

“You see?” Shiva said, her voice a cold whisper in his ear as she circled around him like a predator. “You can predict movements, but you need to anticipate them. It’s not enough to block. You must read your opponent and their every intention.

By reading how muscle’s relax and contract, it could tell you how it’s going to move.”

Jason gritted his teeth, his breathing steady despite the sting in his side. “I’m not some psychic. I don’t know what they’re going to do until they move.”

She tilted her head, amused by his response. “If you are thinking that, then you are already behind.”

She advanced, but this time, Jason didn’t wait. He launched himself at her, his strike swift and calculated. He no longer executed primitive movements or attacked brainlessly.

This time, it was controlled, measured. His fist aimed for her throat, but Shiva blocked it with a casual flick of her wrist, a sharp crack ringing through the air.

Jason recoiled, his thoughts scrambling, but Shiva was already there, her knee aimed at his chest. He barely managed to twist out of the way, the rush of her speed overwhelming him.

“You’re still thinking like a brawler,” she scolded, as if disappointed. “When you move, your mind must flow with your body. Not the other way around. You try to compensate for your weaknesses, but you ignore your strengths.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, the faintest hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t mean to ruin the moment or anything, but my mind isn’t the safest place right now.” He said flatly as he steadied himself, remembering the words she’d painfully drilled into him so far. ‘Anticipate. Control. Own the moment and execute at my own pace.’

This time, he didn’t charge. He waited. He watched. Shiva, expecting his unrefined pattern of attack, hesitated, just for a moment. And that was all he needed.

He launched forward with calculated precision, this time aiming for a strike to her left shoulder—a weak point he’d noticed during their previous sparring sessions. His fist connected with the exact spot, the impact sending a jolt through his arm.

Shiva stumbled back, her eyes narrowing, impressed but not surprised. “That was a good hit. You’re learning.”

Jason’s chest heaved as he caught his breath, adrenaline still pulsing through him. “Not good enough,” he muttered, still feeling the sting of the earlier blows. “I need to do better.”

She studied him, her gaze piercing and intense. “You will. But remember this—strength is not just in the strike. It’s in knowing when not to strike. Knowing when to wait. When to move.”

Jason swallowed, a strange realization settling over him. Patience—it wasn’t just about holding back. It was about knowing the right moment to act, to not let the rage cloud his judgment. To create that moment.

She stepped back, nodding approvingly. “Again,” she commanded.

Jason didn’t hesitate this time. He squared up with her, his stance more fluid than before. He didn’t know exactly what would happen next, but he could feel it—he was ready for whatever she threw at him. His fists, once a wild storm of emotion, were now weapons of control.

And when they clashed again, Jason didn’t just react—he anticipated. He moved with purpose, and the fight became more of a dance than a battle. For the first time since he’d stepped foot into the League, he felt something else—something that felt strange to him. Control.

Fighting brought him a strange sense of control and thirst for purpose.

Shiva’s eyes glinted with approval as they broke apart, both of them breathing hard from the exertion. “Well done,” she said quietly. “Not many get to this point.”

Jason smirked, though his chest still burned. “Yeah? Well, I’m not many.”

She smiled, just barely. “No. You’re not.”

For a brief moment, there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—something almost like pride. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“You’ve come a long way,” Shiva said, stepping back. “But remember this, Jase, the journey is never over. You are only as good as your last fight.”

He nodded, feeling the weight of her words, but now, it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a challenge—a challenge he'd like to rise to, no matter the cost.

“Then let’s make the next fight count,” he replied, his voice steady, his mind sharp.

Lady Shiva nodded once, her lips curling into the slightest of smiles. “It will.”

Chapter Text

He currently battled Lady Shiva, a follow up from their last training session which was three days ago.

Lady Shiva stepped back, eyes piercing through the darkness of the training field as Jason stood before her, sweat slick on his body, muscles still aching from their earlier battle. She tilted her head, assessing him with a quiet intensity.

“You’ve made progress,” she said, her voice soft but with a firm undertone. “But now, we test your true limits.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, still catching his breath, his mind racing with thoughts of what else she could possibly throw at him. “What, you gonna make me fight blindfolded next?”

Shiva’s lips curled into a small, approving smile. “Exactly.”

Before Jason could respond, she moved with terrifying speed, closing the distance between them. In the blink of an eye, she had slipped a black cloth over his eyes, binding it firmly behind his head, blocking his vision completely. The world around him plunged into a suffocating darkness.

“Relax, Jase.” She tried to help him calm his nerves. “You just lost your sight, what do you have left?” She rhetorically asked him.

He exhaled sharply, his heart rate quickening. His senses were immediately heightened as they were all he had left, the loss of sight forcing him to become acutely aware of every other sound, every subtle shift in the air felt strange since he was genuinely new to this.

The rustling of her movements, the faintest shift of gravel beneath her boots, the whisper of her breath—it all became louder, clearer.

“Focus,” Shiva commanded, her voice now barely above a whisper, as if she were speaking from within the very darkness that surrounded him mentally. “Your vision is gone. But you still have your other senses. Use them.”

Jason’s hands clenched into fists, the familiar weight of the training field pressing against his body. He felt the tension in his muscles, the beat of his heart, the rush of air against his skin.

He couldn’t see, but he could feel. He could hear. His mind raced, pushing past the instinctive panic that rose within him. “Stay calm. Stay focused.” He muttered to himself.

Shiva’s voice broke through. “I will move. You will react. You must feel the shift in the air, listen to the sound of my footsteps. Let your body respond. Feel the subtle shifts in the air and use those instinct of yours without replying on visual images.”

He took of his footwear and stood still, holding his breath, trying to concentrate. ‘Feel the space around you. Trust your senses. Trust the very senses she previously taught you not to rely fully on.’ He thought, humoring himself to her teaching that seem to contradict his last lesson.

A faint sound, like the whisper of silk cutting through the air.

Clearing his mind, Jason snapped into motion, bringing his elbow up just as a fist grazed his ribs. He felt the disturbance, the shift in the air pressure, just moments before Shiva’s attack connected.

Shiva took a step back, impressed, though her expression remained as stoic as ever. “Well done. But that was only the beginning.”

She moved again, faster this time. Beneath his feet, he could feel mild levels of vibrations made with each step of hers as she closed in on him.

Jason’s senses were on high alert now—he could almost hear her calmly regulated breathing, the subtle thud of her feet as they moved across the gravel. But this time, there was no warning.

She came at him from a different angle, from behind. It was a trap, motion signals she feed him as sensed information of her behavior.

Jason’s heart pounded, his mind racing as he she really did throw him off guard with that faint. ‘Listen. Feel.’

He spun on his heel, twisting his body just in time to feel the sharp brush of Shiva’s leg as it came sweeping toward him.

With instinctive precision, he caught it mid-air and forced her off-balance, but it wasn’t enough. Shiva’s free hand caught his shoulder, twisting him into a controlled fall.

He hit the ground with a thud, the gravel scraping against his skin. A breath escaped his lips, but he didn’t let panic creep in. Instead, he pushed himself up with a swift roll, his legs snapping out to meet her as she attempted to regain control.

Shiva was already moving again, but this time, Jason didn’t wait for her to strike. He reacted before she even completed her move, the sound of her body’s motion almost as clear as a spoken command. He brought his knee up and struck—he didn’t see it, but he felt it. The impact was solid.

Shiva’s body jerked, a soft grunt escaping her lips as she stumbled back. This time, there was no hiding the slight flicker of approval in her eyes. “Good. Now, again.”

Jason nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow, his breath coming fast but steady. He became even more conscious of his immediate surroundings beyond what he thought was possible.

****

The rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching the labyrinthine streets of Gotham City. The gothic architecture loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long and jagged under the dim glow of flickering streetlights.

Somewhere deep within this urban maze, two of Penguin’s henchmen sprinted through the slick, rain-soaked alleys, their breaths ragged and panicked.

The night was alive with the sound of pounding rain and their own frantic footsteps, each splash in the puddles echoing like a drumbeat of dread.

They weren’t running for their lives—not exactly. But the fear of what—or who—was chasing them was enough to make their hearts race. A broken bone or two was the least of their worries if their pursuer caught up.

“Where is he?” one of them gasped, his voice barely audible over the downpour. His boots splashed through a puddle as he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with terror.

The other henchman, equally breathless, kept throwing nervous glances behind them. The streets were empty, save for the rain and the occasional flicker of a distant neon sign. “I don’t see him,” he replied, his voice trembling. “Maybe… maybe he’s gone?”

They skidded to a halt in the middle of the alley, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath.

The rain soaked through their coats, clinging to their skin like a cold, unwelcome embrace. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic patter of rain hitting the pavement.

“Think he gave up?” the first henchman asked, his voice tinged with desperate hope.

“Think again,” a voice growled from above, low and menacing, like thunder rolling in the distance.

Before they could react, the Dark Knight descended from the shadows, his cape billowing like the wings of a vengeful specter.

His boots struck the ground with a force that sent both men sprawling into the wet pavement. They scrambled to their knees, hands raised in immediate surrender, their faces pale with fear.

“Wise choice,” Batman said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He loomed over them, his cowl casting dark shadows over his piercing eyes. “Give it to me.”

One of the henchmen, his hands shaking uncontrollably, reached into his jacket pocket. He fumbled for a moment before pulling out a small, gleaming object—a gold ring adorned with a blood-red diamond. The stone seemed to glint ominously in the dim light, as if it carried a curse of its own.

Batman took the ring, his gloved hand closing around it with a firm grip. “You two will wait here,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. In one swift motion, he cuffed both men to a nearby steel pipe, the cold metal biting into their wrists.

“But the police…” one of the henchmen stammered, his voice cracking.

“Will be here soon,” Batman interrupted, his voice cutting through the rain with a stern tone. “You stole a rare and valuable artifact from Gotham City’s Museum. Hope you get comfortable in jail—you’ll be there for a while.”

With that, he turned and fired his grapple gun. The sharp clang of metal echoed through the alley as the line shot upward, anchoring to a rooftop. In an instant, he was gone, disappearing into the night as quickly as he had arrived.

The two henchmen sat In stunned silence, the rain washing over them as the reality of their situation sank in.

“Thank God,” one of them muttered, exhaling a deep breath of relief. “I can’t believe we’re still in one piece.”

His companion nodded shakily. “That’s why we didn’t fight. You’ve heard the stories, right? Anyone who resists him ends up in the hospital—or worse.”

From the distance, the faint wail of sirens grew louder, cutting through the rain like a warning.

The flashing lights of police cars soon illuminated the alley, painting the walls in alternating shades of red and blue. The officers stepped out, their expressions grim as they approached the cuffed men.

Batman had done his part. The heavy lifting was over. Now, it was up to Gotham’s finest to clean up the mess. As the henchmen were hauled into the back of a squad car, the rain continued to fall, washing away the traces of the night’s chaos.

But in Gotham, the shadows always remained, and somewhere among them, the Dark Knight watched, ever vigilant, ready to strike again. Either sending criminals to jail, or putting them in a wheel chair.

***

It had been over a week since Jason Todd began his intensive training under the legendary Lady Shiva. The arrangement was temporary, a favor she owed to Ra’s al Ghul, but it was an opportunity Jason couldn’t afford to waste.

He had put all his League activities and other training on hold, dedicating himself entirely to her teachings. Lady Shiva was a force of nature, a martial artist whose reputation was built on precision, lethality, and an almost supernatural understanding of combat.

Talia had told him this was his chance to learn from one of the best, even if it meant enduring her relentless and often brutal methods.

To her surprise, Jason proved to be an unusually quick study. His natural talent for combat, honed through years of street brawls and League training, allowed him to pick up techniques with remarkable speed.

However, his progress was uneven. While he excelled in physical combat—hitting, blocking, and countering with precision—he struggled to master the mental discipline required to control his chaotic impulses.

Lady Shiva observed this with a mix of amusement and frustration. He was a storm, unpredictable and raw, but she could see the potential beneath the turbulence.

At the very least, he hadn’t sent anyone to the infirmary since she arrived. That was a small victory, though it might have been because she was the only one he’d been sparring with lately.

Their sessions were intense, often pushing Jason to his limits, but he never backed down. He was determined to prove himself, to show her—and himself—that he could rise above his own limitations.

On this particular day, they were deep into another training session. Jason stood in the center of the training ground, blindfolded, his senses heightened as he focused on the world around him.

Lady Shiva circled him like a predator, her movements silent and fluid, betraying no hint of her next attack. She was a shadow, moving like a whisper, her presence felt more than seen. Jason’s body was tense, his muscles coiled like springs, ready to react at the slightest provocation.

When she lunged, he didn’t just react—he moved with her. His body twisted and ducked in a fluid dance, his movements guided not by sight but by sound, by the subtle shifts in the air, by the vibrations beneath his bare feet.

Lady Shiva struck again, this time with a flurry of rapid blows, each one aimed to take him down.

But Jason didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. He moved with the rhythm of her attack, his body a reflection of the space between them, anticipating her every motion before she even made it.

Although going easy on him, each strike was blocked or redirected, each step taken in perfect harmony with the chaos of the fight.

Shiva’s voice cut through the air, low and measured, carrying a note of satisfaction. “Better. You’re learning to listen to your surroundings, not just with your ears, but with subtle shifts in the air.”

Jason, still moving in tandem with her, felt a strange sense of calm at the moment. For the first time, it wasn’t about overpowering his opponent. It wasn’t about brute force or sheer will.

It was about understanding, about engaging a fight with a flow as if it were a dance. He was no longer a blind man stumbling through the dark. He was averagely aware of her movements, every shift in the air around him.

Lady Shiva shifted again, faster this time, as if testing him. But Jason was ready. He felt the force of her leg sweeping toward him and, with a fluid motion, stepped inside the arc of her attack.

His palm connected with her midsection, sending her back with a controlled force that was more about precision than power.

She stopped, her breath steady, her gaze locked onto him. For a long moment, she said nothing. The quiet of the training ground stretched out between them like a chasm, filled with unspoken respect and acknowledgement.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low but rich with approval. “You’ve done it. You’ve learned to fight without relying solely on your vision. In doing so, you’ve engaged your other senses in a way that few ever master.”

Jason stood there, breathing heavily as he removed his blindfold. His senses felt sharper, more attuned to the world around him. A new clarity washed over him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of accomplishment. “I get it now,” he said, his voice steady, a familiar smirk creeping back onto his lips.

Lady Shiva’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles—so subtle it barely counted as a smile. But it was there, a rare acknowledgment of his progress. She believed she had done her part. The rest was up to him.

“As much as you enjoy spending time with me,” she said, running a hand through her hair, which had been tousled by the intensity of their sparring and the mountain breeze, “this concludes our training together.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?!” he responded, his voice tinged with confusion. “I barely have a grasp on your teachings. I’m not ready to just move on. There’s still so much I need to learn.”

She fixed him with a cool, unyielding gaze. “I only came here because I owed the Demon’s Head a favor. I am not obligated to be your instructor.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue but found he couldn’t. She was right. This had always been temporary, a brief interlude in his journey. He nodded, swallowing his frustration.

“Good,” she said, seeing his acceptance. Without another word, she turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Jason called after her, his voice sincere. “For everything you’ve done. Hopefully, our paths will cross again.”

She paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “I’m sure they will,” she replied. “Keep on your path of self-discovery, and don’t slack off with your training. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

With that, she walked away, her figure disappearing into the building across the courtyard. Jason stood there, watching her go, a mix of gratitude and determination burning in his chest.

Chapter Text

[Right Before Noon]

The air was thick with tension as Lady Shiva stood at the edge of the League of Assassins’ base, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The faint hum of an approaching helicopter echoed in the distance, but her attention was momentarily drawn back to Ra’s al Ghul, who stood beside her, his presence as commanding as ever.

“Must you leave so soon?” Ra’s asked, his voice smooth but laced with a subtle edge. “I would prefer you stayed a few more days. Your presence here is… invaluable.”

Lady Shiva raised a brow, her expression unreadable. “I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain. I trained your protégé. Now, it’s time I return to my own affairs.”

Ra’s tilted his head, his piercing gaze studying her. “And what do you think of him? The boy.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “If I didn’t see potential in him, I wouldn’t have wasted a week of my time. He’s raw, but he has talent. And hunger. That’s rare.”

Ra’s allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. “I’m glad you see what I see in him.”

The roar of the helicopter grew louder, its blades slicing through the air as it descended toward the base. Lady Shiva slung a bag over her shoulder, her movements fluid and deliberate. She turned to Ra’s one last time, her voice carrying over the noise.

“Jason has room to grow. He’s a project worth your attention. But don’t underestimate him. That hunger of his? It could either make him your greatest weapon… or your undoing.”

With that, she grabbed hold of a zip line dropped from the hovering aircraft. The line pulled her up swiftly, her figure disappearing into the cabin. Ra’s watched as the helicopter ascended, its silhouette shrinking against the vast blue sky.

“Goodbye, Shiva,” he murmured, though his words were lost in the wind.

***

[On the Training Grounds]

Jason Todd moved with a ferocity that was almost inhuman. His fists struck the training dummy with brutal precision, each blow echoing through the courtyard. Sweat poured down his face, his muscles burning with exertion, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The assassins who had gathered to watch him train stood in silence, their usual stoicism replaced by a rare unease. There was something about the way Jason fought—something wild, untamed, and utterly relentless. It was as if he were exorcising his demons with every strike.

When he finally stopped, his chest heaved, and his knuckles were raw and bleeding. The training dummy hung in tatters, its stuffing spilling out like the guts of a fallen enemy.

Jason leaned against the wall, his breath ragged, his mind momentarily quiet.

In the distance, perched on an upper level, Damian watched with an unreadable expression. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes burned with a quiet intensity. Jason caught his gaze and smirked, a silent challenge passing between them.

Damian didn’t move, but the glint in his eyes spoke volumes. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Jason pushed himself off the wall, his smirk fading as he turned back to the training dummy. He knew Damian was watching. He knew the boy was calculating, waiting for the right moment for his get—back. But Jason wasn’t bothered. He welcomed it.

The storm Inside him was far from over, and he was ready to unleash it on anyone who dared to stand in his way.

***

[Later That Night]

The fortress was silent, save for the soft hum of the wind outside and the distant murmur of guards patrolling the halls.

Jason sat on the edge of his bed, the dim light of a single lantern casting long shadows across the plain walls of his chamber. His knuckles were still bruised from the earlier training, and his muscles ached.

His previous fight with Damian had been satisfying in its own way, a chance to vent some of the pent-up aggression he carried like a second skin. But the aftermath… Ra’s words… Damian’s defiance… it all left Jason unsettled.

He clenched his fists, staring down at the faint scars crisscrossing his hands. They told a story he couldn’t remember—one he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

And then it came again. That familiar, haunting flicker of blurred memories.

A flash of red. A laugh—cruel and mocking. His chest tightening with fear. Pain—blinding, overwhelming pain. The nightmares that keep him up most nights.

Jason sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the edge of the bed as the fragmented memory slipped away, leaving him trembling.

“Who the hell am I?” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking slightly.

The door creaked open, pulling him out of his thoughts. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“Kid, if you’re here to gloat, you’re wasting your time,” Jason said, his tone flat.

Damian stepped into the room, his expression unreadable as he closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a simple black tunic and pants, his posture rigid, like he was bracing himself for a fight.

“I’m not here to gloat,” Damian said, his voice quieter than usual. “I came to… talk.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, turning to face him fully. “Talk, huh? That’s a new one for you. What, no smug remarks? No challenges to a rematch?”

Damian ignored the jab, walking over to the small table in the corner of the room and sitting down. He rested his hands on his knees, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Damian asked after a long moment of silence.

Jason tensed. “What are you talking about?”

“Your past,” Damian said, looking up to meet Jason’s eyes. “Your life before the League. You don’t remember it.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because I am more observant than most might think,” Damian said, his voice steady. “I’ve seen the way you hesitate when someone calls you by name at times.

The way you stare off Into space, like you’re chasing ghosts. You fight like someone who’s been trained, but it’s more than that. You fight like someone who’s been through hell.”

Jason felt a lump form in his throat, but he swallowed it down, his jaw tightening. “What’s your point, pip-squeak?”

“My point,” Damian said, standing up and walking closer, “is that you’re not as different from me as you think.”

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You’re the Demon’s heir, kid. Born and bred to be perfect. Me? I’m just some…broken experiment in progress that your grandfather dragged out of the grave.”

Damian flinched at the harshness in Jason’s voice, but he didn’t back down. “You’re wrong,” he said firmly. “You’re not broken. You’re angry. And scared. You’re afraid of what you might find if you dig too deep into who you were.”

Jason stared at him, wondering what the kid’s angle might be. The kid’s words hit too close to home, and he hated it.

“Get out,” Jason said, his voice low and dangerous.

Damian hesitated, his eyes searching Jason’s face for something—some sign that his words had reached him. But Jason didn’t give him the satisfaction.

With a small nod, Damian turned and walked to the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and glanced back over his shoulder.

“We all have our demons, but they can only be conquered when we dare face them and not let them overwhelm us.” He said with a stern voice. “Whatever it is you’re afraid of, if you do not face it before it destroys you from the inside out, then you are nothing but a pathetic weakling.”

Jason didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the floor. After a moment, Damian left, the door clicking shut behind him.

A couple of hours went by and Jason was still unable to get some sleep, so he decided to step out.

He stood on one of the balconies of the fortress, the cold night air biting at his skin. The stars above were sharp and clear

Damian’s words lingered in his mind, cutting deeper than he cared to admit.

‘You’re afraid of what you might find.’

Jason clenched his fists, his breath visible in the chill of the air. He hated the kid for being right. Hated the way those words dug into the part of him that felt like a stranger in his own skin.

But more than that, he hated the fear that kept him from facing the truth whenever he had flashes of his blurred memories.

He closed his eyes, the fragmented images swirling in his mind. The clown’s laughter. The excruciating pain that makes his body quiver. The overwhelming sense of regret.

He didn’t know who he used to be. But one thing was certain.

He wasn’t ready to find out.

Not yet.

***

Jason found himself summoned again, this time to the grand sparring hall where the League’s elites trained. The room was massive, its vaulted ceilings and stone walls echoing with every movement.

Sunlight filtered through narrow slits high above, casting long beams of light across the floor. Despite the cavernous space, it felt suffocating as Jason walked in, the weight of what awaited him pressing heavily on his chest.

Ra’s al Ghul stood at the center of the hall, his hands clasped behind his back. His presence was commanding, as always, and his sharp green eyes followed Jason’s every step with an air of detached curiosity.

To his right stood Talia, her expression unreadable, though there was a slight lift to her chin that made Jason feel like he was already being judged.

And then there was Damian, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, his face set in a scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his features. Jason could feel the boy’s glare burning into him, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the man who had brought him here.

“You wanted to see me?” Jason asked, his tone carefully neutral as he came to a stop a few feet away from Ra’s.

“I did,” Ra’s replied, his voice smooth and authoritative. “I trust you’ve had time to reflect on our conversation yesterday.”

Jason tensed but didn’t let it show. “Yeah, I’ve had time,” he said, crossing his arms. “What about it?”

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, studying him with that piercing gaze that seemed to see right through him. “Your actions from a week ago—defeating Damian in combat—have raised questions among the League. Questions about your purpose, and your loyalty.”

Jason bristled at the word “loyalty.” He hated how often it came up in his conversations with Ra’s, like the man was always trying to subtly remind him of what he owed.

“I don’t see how beating the kid in a fight has anything to do with loyalty,” Jason said, his voice sharp.

Damian scoffed loudly from his corner, and Jason shot him a glare. “Got something to say, pip-squeak?”

“Plenty,” Damian snapped, stepping forward before Ra’s raised a hand to stop him.

“Enough, Damian,” Ra’s said, his tone calm but firm. “This is not the time for your petty grievances.”

Damian huffed but backed off, muttering something under his breath that Jason chose to ignore.

Ra’s turned his attention back to Jason. “Your skill, Jason, is undeniable. Your instincts, your adaptability—it is clear that you were a formidable warrior even before you came to us. But what you lack is discipline. Focus. Direction.”

Jason clenched his fists at his sides, struggling to keep his temper in check. “And I suppose you’re here to offer me all three?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Talia stepped forward then, her movements graceful and deliberate. “What my father is trying to say,” she said, her tone softer but no less commanding, “is that we see potential in you, Jason. Potential that you either refuse or are too scared to embrace.”

Jason turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “And what if I don’t want to embrace it? What if I’m not interested in becoming a foot soldier?”

Talia’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “You can deny it all you want, but you crave purpose, Jason. You wouldn’t train as hard as you do if you didn’t. You may not remember your past, but it’s clear that fighting, surviving—that’s who you are. Why not use that to you’re advantage?”

Jason opened his mouth to retort, but he hesitated, her words striking a nerve he hadn’t expected.

Ra’s stepped closer, his hands still clasped behind his back. “You are at a crossroads, Jason,” he said. “You can continue to flounder in search of answers you may never find, or you can accept the guidance we offer and forge a new path for yourself.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking between Ra’s, Talia, and Damian. He hated how convincing they sounded, how much their words seemed to echo the thoughts that had been circling his mind for weeks.

“What’s the catch?” he asked finally, his voice low.

Ra’s smiled faintly, as if he’d been expecting the question. “There is no catch,” he said. “Only the opportunity to become more than you are now. To rise above the chaos of your past and find clarity in the present. This would help you pave a way for a visible future.”

Jason scoffed, shaking his head. “Clarity, huh? Funny coming from a guy whose entire organization thrives on chaos.”

Ra’s didn’t react to the jab, his expression calm and unyielding. “The choice is yours, boy. But I urge you to consider it carefully. The League is not merely a tool of destruction—it is a force for balance. And you, more than anyone, understand the importance of balance.”

Jason frowned, the words lingering in his mind longer than he’d like. Balance. It was a concept he couldn’t quite grasp, not with the storm of anger and confusion that constantly churned inside him.

He glanced at Damian, who was watching him with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. The kid still pissed him off, but there was something about the way he carried himself—so confident, so sure of who he was—that Jason couldn’t help but envy.

Talia stepped closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “But know this, the League sees you as more than just a fighter. You have the potential to lead, to shape the world in ways few can. All you have to do is let go of the past.”

Jason stared at her, his chest tightening. Let go of the past. It sounded so simple, yet it felt impossible because of the occasional bombardment of blurred memories.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, his voice begrudging.

Ra’s inclined his head slightly, as if satisfied with that answer. “That is all I ask.”

As Jason turned to leave, Damian’s voice stopped him.

“You’re stronger than you look,” the boy said, his tone grudgingly respectful. “But don’t think for a second that means I’ll stop trying to beat you.”

Jason smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Good. I’d hate for you to get lazy, whippersnapper.”

Damian glared at him, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

As Jason walked away, he couldn’t help but feel a small, unfamiliar spark of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He felt a nostalgic sense of belonging wash over him, being genuinely wanted at a place despite his flaws and imperfections was a feeling he had yarned for almost his whole life.

He mistook this nostalgic feeling as a sign he belonged with the League of Assassins. Although unable to remember, the first and only time he had felt that feeling was when Bruce took him in.

He subconsciously sought his missing father figure, which was currently misplaced upon Ra’s al Ghul instead of Bruce Wayne.

Whatever feeling that made him question if being at the League was the right choice— considering their moral ethics and all, slowly faded off and replaced by an intoxicating drive of becoming an assassin Ra’s al Ghul could rely on. He wanted to support him in any way possible.

This was his new found purpose.

Chapter Text

[The mountainside at an unholy hour of the morning]

The air grew thin as Jason Todd scaled the rugged mountain path, his muscles burning with every step. The icy wind whipped against his face, carrying the scent of pine and distant snowfall.

He could feel the weight of exhaustion settle into his limbs, but he pushed forward, fueled by the single-minded determination Ra’s al Ghul had instilled in him during these grueling weeks of training.

The League of Assassins believed in resilience, both physical and mental, and Ra’s was relentless in ensuring Jason embodied their principles. This wasn’t just about strength; it was about survival.

His legs trembled with exhaustion as he reached the summit of the towering mountain, the path behind him a grueling climb of jagged rocks and sheer inclines. The cold bit at his exposed skin, the sun dipping low, painting the horizon in streaks of gold and crimson.

At the very top, amidst a small, clear plateau, a figure sat cross-legged. Ra’s al Ghul, serene as ever, tended to a small flame he had conjured within a neat circle of stones. A simple iron pot rested atop it, steam curling upward as the faint scent of herbal tea reached Jason’s nose.

Ra’s glanced up at him, his green eyes calm but keen. “You’re late,” he said, his voice even, unhurried.

Jason dropped to his knees, panting, and let his head hang for a moment. “You didn’t tell me this was timed.”

Ra’s chuckled, pouring tea into two small, delicate cups. “Every challenge is timed, boy, whether you are aware of it or not. Sit.”

Jason dragged himself forward, lowering onto a patch of frost-laden grass opposite Ra’s. The warmth of the fire was a welcome balm, and the fragrant tea felt almost too refined for the harshness of his journey.

“Here.” Ra’s handed him a cup, his movements deliberate and practiced. “Drink. It’ll replenish your strength.”

Jason eyed the tea skeptically but took it, the cup warm against his calloused fingers. He sipped, the taste earthy and grounding.

“You endure much,” Ra’s began, his tone thoughtful, “more than most would. The mountain tests your body, but what of your spirit? How do you fare, boy?”

Jason hesitated, his gaze falling to the tea swirling in his cup. “I don’t know. Some days, I feel like I’m… no one. Just a shadow. A shell.” He gritted his teeth. “I don’t even know who I was before you found me. How am I supposed to keep climbing if I don’t even know where I’m going?”

Ra’s watched him, his expression inscrutable but not unkind. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a gentler register.

“Memory loss is not merely the absence of recollection—it is the loss of one’s own identity. I know the pain of that void, Jason. I have seen it in others, and I have walked its dark path myself.”

Jason looked up sharply, searching the older man’s face for any sign of falsehood. Ra’s continued, his gaze steady.

“But,” Ra’s said, his voice gaining a subtle steel, “identity is not merely given—it is forged. And that, my boy, is what I offer you. Not just the restoration of what was lost, but the tools to shape who you will become.”

Jason frowned, his fingers tightening around the cup. “And who am I supposed to become?”

“I see in you the makings of a man who could bring nations to their knees, a man whose very name will make his enemies tremble. But you must trust me. Trust in my training. Let me guide you, and in time, you will surpass even your own expectations.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Trust doesn’t come easy to me,” he admitted.

“I do not expect it to,” Ra’s replied. “But trust is earned, not demanded. And you will find that I am not without patience.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind the only sounds between them.

Jason stared into the flames, his mind a tumult of doubts and questions, but there was something steadying in Ra’s words, a promise that felt like a lifeline.

Ra’s set his cup aside, standing gracefully. He looked down at Jason, his expression softened with something almost paternal. “Rest here for a moment, boy. And when you are ready, descend the mountain. You climbed it once today, and you will climb it again tomorrow. Each step you take is another toward the man you are becoming.”

Jason looked up at him, weary but resolute. “And if I fall?”

Ra’s smiled, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Then you will rise, as you have always done. That is what sets you apart, Jason. You rise.”

Jason watched as Ra’s turned and walked toward the edge of the summit, his form blending into the deepening twilight. Once again for the first time in a long while, Jason felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. Perhaps trust. Or perhaps the first stirrings of belief in himself.

***

Jason stood in the sparring hall, the clash of steel echoing around him as he worked through a kata. Sweat trickled down his back, his breathing steady but labored as he pushed his body to the limit. Every movement was precise, calculated—muscle memory kicking in even when his mind faltered.

Ra’s was watching from a sidelines. Jason could feel the old man’s pretense like a weight pressing on him, always assessing, always judging. Talia stood beside him, her arms crossed, her sharp gaze following Jason’s every move.

He hated It. The way they looked at him like a puzzle to be solved, a tool to be sharpened and used. And yet, a small part of him—the part he hated even more—craved their approval. It wasn’t the League he cared about; it was the idea that someone, anyone, might see something in him worth saving.

“Enough,” Ra’s said finally, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Jason halted mid-motion, lowering his sword as he turned to face the man. “What, no applause?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ra’s stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back. “I can see the fruit of training with Shiva. You’ve improved,” he said simply.

Jason snorted. “Gee, thanks, Dad.”

Talia shot him a warning look, but Ra’s remained unfazed. “Your progress is undeniable, Jason. But progress without purpose is meaningless. Have you given thought to what I proposed?”

Jason stiffened, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “You mean joining your little cult of balance and chaos? Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

Jason hesitated, his eyes darting to Talia and then back to Ra’s. “And I’m still not convinced. You talk a big game about balance, but all I see is a bunch of assassins playing god.” He was willing to play the long game so he could actually earn Ra’s al Ghul’s trust before he joins the League.

Ra’s smiled faintly, as if amused by Jason’s defiance. “Balance is not always easily understood by those who are lost,” he said. “But I am patient. You will come to see the truth in time.”

Jason gritted his teeth, anger bubbling beneath the surface. “And what if I don’t? What if I decide this whole ‘League of assassins thing isn’t for me?”

Talia stepped forward then, her voice calm but laced with warning. “You’re free to leave, Jason. But you know as well as I do that you won’t find what you’re looking for out there.”

Jason turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “And what is it you think I’m looking for?”

“Answers,” she said simply. “To the questions you’re too afraid to ask yourself.”

Jason opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Because she was right. He hated how easily she saw through him, how effortlessly she peeled back the layers of anger and bravado to expose the raw, fractured pieces underneath.

Ra’s stepped closer, his voice soft but commanding. “You cannot run from yourself forever, boy. The answers you seek are within you, but they will only reveal themselves when you are ready to face them. And I can help you.”

***

[That Night]

Jason stood on the balcony of his chamber, staring out at the moonlit mountains that surrounded the fortress. The air was cold and crisp, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of the wind through the trees below.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t shut off the endless loop of thoughts in his head.

He leaned against the railing, his fingers gripping the cold stone as he replayed Ra’s and Talia’s words over and over again. ‘What if they’re right? What if I am afraid to face the truth?’

The door creaked open behind him, and Jason didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“What do you want, shrimp?” he asked, his voice tired.

Damian stepped out onto the balcony, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. “You’ve been avoiding everyone,” he said bluntly.

Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, maybe I just don’t feel like being around a bunch of self-righteous assassins right now.”

Damian smirked faintly. “Careful, Jase. Someone might think you’re starting to grow a conscience.”

Jason turned to glare at him, but there was no real heat behind it. “What do you want, Damian? Seriously.”

The boy shrugged, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. “I wanted to see if you were okay and not planning to go on a psychotic killing spree when everyone goes to bed.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in Damian’s voice. “Since when do you care?”

“I don’t,” Damian said quickly, though the slight pink tint to his cheeks betrayed him. “But Mother and Grandfather seem to think you’re important, so… I figured I’d make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar, kid.”

Damian scowled. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure you’re not.”

The two of them fell into a tense silence, the only sound the soft whistle of the wind.

After a moment, Damian spoke again. “Do you ever wonder who you were before all this?”

Jason hesitated. “Every damn day,” he admitted quietly.

Damian glanced at him, his expression softer than usual. “Maybe you should stop running from it.”

Jason looked at him, surprised by the wisdom in the boy’s words. For all his arrogance and bravado, Damian had a way of cutting through the bullshit and getting to the heart of the matter.

“I’ll think about it,” Jason said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damian nodded, satisfied with that answer. “Good. Because if you keep sulking like this, I might actually start to feel sorry for you. And neither of us wants that.”

Jason couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as Damian turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, Jason stared out at the horizon, the good thing about having no memories was the absence of the past garbage and self loath. It was only logical to focus on the present and work towards a future he would like to create for himself.

Chapter Text

Jason awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The dream was vivid and disjointed—a flash of a city skyline at night, the overwhelming scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and a voice, deep and warm but laced with an edge.

"You're not just some street kid anymore, Jason. You're Robin now."

His heart raced as the fragments began to slip away, dissolving into the fog of his subconscious. He gripped his head, groaning in frustration.

The voice—familiar and haunting—echoed in his mind. He didn't know who it belonged to, but something deep inside him stirred at the thought.

"Another nightmare, Jason?"

The voice snapped him back to reality. Standing in the doorway was Talia, her sharp gaze softening slightly when she noticed his state. She carried a tray of food, a rare gesture of care from someone usually so distant.

Jason rubbed his face and sighed. "Yeah, something like that."

Talia approached, setting the tray on the small table beside his bed. "Your mind is trying to tell you something," she said gently. "The Lazarus Pit does not simply heal the body—it alters the mind, dredging up what was buried. Memories, emotions… they're all there, do not force it and let them come to you."

Jason eyed her warily. "And what happens it doesn't? What if I'm better off not knowing?"

Talia studied him, her expression unreadable. "The past shapes who we are, Jason. Running from it will only make it harder to control what's inside you. That rage, that… bloodlust—it isn't just from the Pit. It's a part of you. And until you face it, it will control you."

He looked away. "You and your father love talking in riddles, don't you?"

Talia smirked faintly, but there was no malice in it. "We've had practice." She turned to leave but paused at the door. "If you ever wish to talk about your dreams… I'll listen."

Jason scoffed. "Thanks, but I don't think 'talking about my feelings' is going to fix what's broken."

Talia's voice was quiet, almost sad. "Perhaps not. But it's a start."

- - -

[Training with Ra's]

Every day, Jason went through the motions of training, each exercise designed to push him beyond his limits—mentally, physically, emotionally.

The repetitive routines gave him a sense of purpose, a reason to exist beyond the hazy fragments of a past he could not fully recall.

One morning, Jason found himself in the grand courtyard with Ra's al Ghul. The training session was more intense than usual, the geezer pushing him to his limits with a series of drills that seemed designed to frustrate him.

"Again!" Ra's barked as Jason struggled to land a proper counterstrike.

Jason growled under his breath, his muscles burning as he reset his stance. "You know, for a guy who preaches balance, you're really into grinding people into the ground."

Ra's smirked faintly, circling Jason like a predator. "Balance requires discipline, and discipline requires suffering. You cannot achieve one without the other."

Jason lunged, his blade slicing through the air, but Ra's sidestepped with ease. He retaliated with a sharp blow to Jason's ribs, sending him stumbling back.

"Your form is sloppy," Ra's said, his tone sharp. "It seems you are having a hard time applying Lady Shiva's lessons. You rely too heavily on brute strength. Combat is not about power—it is about precision and control."

Jason glared at him, wiping sweat from his brow as he contemplated the philosophy that was quite similar to that of Lady Shiva. "Funny, I thought combat was about winning."

Ra's chuckled, a rare sound that was almost fatherly. "And yet you lose, again and again. What does that tell you, my boy?"

Jason tightened his grip on his sword, the anger simmering in his chest. "It tells me you've had centuries to get good at this, old man."

Ra's raised an eyebrow, amused by Jason's defiance. "Perhaps. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a step, here is the initial point of your journey."

He got nothing an exasperated sign in response from Jason who just leaned over, arms rested upon his knees as he caught his breath.

- - -

[A Clash with Damian]

Later that day, Jason found himself back in the sparring hall, this time facing Damian. The boy was as arrogant as ever, his confidence radiating from him as they squared off.

"You've been distracted," Damian said, his wooden practice sword held at the ready. "I thought you were supposed to be this great prodigy Grandfather keeps talking about."

Jason smirked, rolling his shoulders. "And I thought you were supposed to be the 'perfect heir.' Guess we're both disappointments."

Damian's eyes narrowed, and he lunged without warning. Their swords clashed with a loud crack, the force of the impact reverberating up Jason's arm.

The fight was fast and brutal, both of them refusing to give an inch. Damian was quick, his strikes precise and calculated, but Jason had strength and on his side.

"You're slowing down, pip-squeak," Jason taunted as he parried a blow.

"And you're telegraphing your attacks," Damian shot back, ducking under Jason's swing and landing a quick strike to his side.

Jason grunted, the blow stinging but not enough to stop him. He retaliated with a powerful swing, knocking Damian off balance.

The fight escalated, the sound of wood clashing filling the hall. Damian's technique was nearly flawless, but Jason's unpredictable style kept him on edge.

Finally, Jason saw an opening. He feinted left, drawing Damian's guard, before sweeping his legs out from under him. Damian hit the ground with a thud, his sword skittering across the floor.

"Looks like I won. Again. Yield," Jason said, pointing his sword at Damian's throat.

Damian glared up at him, his pride clearly wounded. "Never."

Jason smirked. "Suit yourself." He tossed the practice sword aside and offered Damian a hand.

The boy hesitated before taking it, his grip firm as Jason pulled him to his feet.

"Good fight, pip-squeak," Jason said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Damian scowled. "You got lucky. Again"

"Maybe," Jason said with a shrug. "But I don't need luck to dominate you in a fight."

As Damian stalked off, muttering under his breath.

- - -

[Six months later]

Jason found himself in the expansive study that Ra's al Ghul often occupied—a room filled with ancient tomes, relics, and artifacts that told the story of a man who had lived lifetimes.

The scent of parchment and aged wood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint smell of incense that always seemed to linger wherever Ra's went.

Ra's sat at his desk, meticulously scribbling notes onto a scroll with a quill. His movements were fluid, deliberate, much like the way he fought. Jason watched him from the doorway for a moment before clearing his throat.

"You summoned me, old man?" Jason said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Ra's didn't look up. "I thought it was time we spoke, boy. Come."

Jason stepped into the room, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. He crossed his arms, waiting for Ra's to elaborate.

Ra's finally set the quill down and folded his hands on the desk. "Your progress has been… remarkable. It is no small feat to adapt to the techniques of the League as swiftly as you have."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have a choice. It was that or get left in the dust."

Ra's tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. "And yet, I see something more in you. Something beyond mere survival. There is a fire within you, Jason—a hunger that drives you, even if you do not yet understand it."

Jason shifted uncomfortably under Ra's scrutiny. "What's your point? You didn't call me here to stroke my ego."

A faint smile touched Ra's lips. "No, I did not. I called you here because I wish to prepare you for the path ahead. You have a strength that few possess, but it is unfocused. Wild. If left unchecked, it will consume you."

Jason clenched his fists, his voice edged with defiance. "Though I am not unworthy of such praises, I don't mind becoming a puppet if it means earning the League's trust." Jason's voice was thick with frustration, a mix of anger and uncertainty.

Ra's didn't flinch. His gaze remained steady, calm, as though he had expected this. "I never asked you to be a puppet, Jason. I asked you to be a leader. Someone who can rise above chaos and forge his own destiny. But for that to happen, you must learn discipline, restraint. A great warrior does not only conquer his enemies—he conquers himself."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "You really think I can live up to your expectations?"

Ra's leaned back in his chair, considering. "I do. And that is why I have invested my time and resources into your training. You remind me of myself, once. Headstrong, rebellious, but with potential to shape the future of the League."

Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. Ra's always had a way of speaking in circles, his words shrouded in meaning and intention. Was this another manipulation? A way to make him feel like he had no greater purpose but to follow in Ra's guidance?

Even if, he wouldn't mind following it.

Still, there was something about Ra's that felt different from the others. The old man was a master of power and control, yes, but when he spoke of Jason's potential, it didn't sound like an empty promise.

Jason had been given second chances—more than he deserved—and Ra's had never been one to waste resources on people who wouldn't contribute.

"You really see something in me?" Jason asked quietly, his skepticism and self doubt slipping into his voice.

Ra's looked him in the eye, his expression unreadable. "I see a future, Jason. A future in which you surpass all those who came before you by reaching heights they could only dream of."

Jason felt a stirring deep within him. Something long buried—his own ambition, perhaps? It was unsettling how Ra's made it sound like he had a place in this vision of the future. A place beyond just being a broken tool that needs fixing.

Before he could process his thoughts further, the door to the study opened. Talia entered, her presence as commanding as ever, though her gaze softened when she saw Jason.

"Am I interrupting something?" Talia asked, her voice light but carrying an edge of curiosity.

Ra's gave a small, approving nod. "Not at all, my daughter. I was just discussing Jason's progress."

Jason met Talia's eyes, surprised by the lack of judgment in her expression. Talia had been aloof, lately. Mainly because she has been off base a lot, doing top priority League stuff.

It was as if she existed in a different world. But today, there was a subtle warmth in her demeanor since her return.

"Progress, hmm?" she mused, walking over to Jason. "I'm curious to see just how far that 'progress' will take you. Father speaks highly of you, but the League is a place where only the strongest survive." She paused, as though considering something.

"You've managed to prove yourself in combat. But can you now handle the pull of your bloodthirsty nature and violent tendencies… when it resurfaces mid battle?"

Jason flinched, the question catching him off guard as he was unable to give any kind of response to that.

Ra's eyes gleamed with quiet approval. "She speaks the truth. The strength to control your chaotic mind is just as important as the strength to control your body."

Jason's gaze flicked between the two of them, his throat tightening. "You both want me to be this perfect… whatever. I'm not that guy, alright? I don't have the answers. Fuck it, I don't even have the memories of who I was." His voice softened. "So what the hell does that leave me with?"

Talia stepped closer, her tone softer than before. "It leaves you with the choice to rebuild, Jason. To carve out your own path—one that is not defined by your past mistakes or the people who tried to control you." Her eyes locked with his, and for a brief moment, there was something almost like… understanding.

Ra's spoke next, his voice low but firm. "We are not here to dictate who you should be, Jason. We are here to give you the tools to be who you could be. The question, as always, is whether you are willing to embrace them."

Jason stood there for a long moment, the weight of their words sinking in. His entire life had been a series of fractured moments—loss, violence, survival—but now, standing between Ra's and Talia, he felt a strange sense of belonging.

They weren't offering him answers or absolution. They trusted him enough and were offering him a chance to be part of their mission.

He finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. "I'm not sure I can be what you want me to be, but I'll do my best."

Talia's eyes softened even further, and Ra's gave him a knowing look, one that seemed to say he had expected this.

"Then let us help you discover what you can be," Talia said quietly.

Ra's nodded. "All in due time, boy. All in due time." With that, he dismissed Jason for the day.

Chapter Text

The compound was a fortress of stone and steel, nestled deep in the heart of a jungle that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to my skin like a second layer.

The scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation mixed with the acrid tang of burning wood from somewhere in the distance. The jungle was alive with the hum of insects and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush.

The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ground like specters.

The compound itself was a sprawling structure, its walls weathered and cracked, covered in creeping vines that seemed to claw their way up the stone as if trying to reclaim it for the earth.

I moved through the shadows like a wraith, every step calculated, my breathing steady despite the oppressive heat. My dark getup blended seamlessly with the night, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves beneath my boots.

The League had trained me well—taught me to become one with the darkness, to move unseen and unheard. I was becoming a predator, and this jungle was my current hunting ground.

As I approached the outer perimeter, the first guard came into view. The man was stationed near the treeline, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes scanned the darkness with a sharpness that betrayed his vigilance. I crouched low, my fingers brushing against the damp leaves beneath me. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. One step. Two. A flash of silver in the moonlight.

The guard crumpled without a sound, my blade slipping across his throat with the precision of a surgeon. Blood steamed in the cool night air, pooling silently in the earth as the man’s body hit the ground.

I didn’t pause. I moved forward, taking down sentries one by one. Quick. Efficient. No wasted movement. No mercy. Just like Ra’s and Lady Shiva had taught me.

By the time I reached the compound’s core, my heartbeat had settled into a steady rhythm. The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, eliminate, disappear. But then I saw it.

The room adjacent to Khalid’s quarters was small and dimly lit by a single, flickering lantern. The air inside was thick with the stench of sweat, filth, and fear.

Chains rattled against the walls as the occupants shifted—children, no older than twelve, gagged and bound, their eyes wide with terror. The oldest among them, a girl with matted hair and hollow eyes, flinched at the mere sight of me.

A cold rage seeped into my bones, tightening my grip on my knife until my knuckles turned white. I had heard Khalid was a monster, but this? This was something else entirely. This was rot, a cancer that needed to be cut out. My jaw clenched as I turned away, stepping back towards Khalid’s room.

Cautiously peeping through the window, I spotted a warlord, hunched over his desk, poring over maps and documents. He was alone. Vulnerable.

The window was wide open, so there wasn’t a need for the lock picking tools I had brought with me.

I moved soundlessly behind him, blade poised. This would be over in seconds.

But then—a noise.

A rustle behind me.

My instincts flared as I turned to see a cat jump out the window, but it was too late.

Khalid turned, his face contorting in shock. “Who are you?!” he barked, his voice sharp and panicked.

I didn’t waste words. I lunged, knife flashing toward Khalid’s throat. A clean kill.

Except it wasn’t.

Something massive intercepted my strike, blocking the blade with inhuman speed. The force of the impact jolted my wrist, sending a shockwave of pain up my arm. I staggered back, my knife clattering to the floor.

Then I saw him.

The bodyguard was a mountain of a man, his skin dark and almost stone-like, muscles straining beneath his flesh. His eyes glowed with a sickly, unnatural yellow. Not just a bodyguard.

Ra’s had told me about people with extraordinary abilities and the guy in front of me was one of them, a metahuman.

Khalid smirked from behind his monstrous protector. “Did you think assassinating me would be that easy?” he sneered, his voice dripping with amusement.

I barely had time to move before the brute’s fist slammed into my ribs. The force sent me crashing into a wooden cabinet, the air violently torn from my lungs. Pain exploded across my side as I rolled to avoid another crushing blow—one that shattered the wood behind me like brittle glass.

I scrambled to my feet, reaching for my backup blade. I slashed at the brute, but the steel barely left a scratch on the man’s thick hide.

The bodyguard snarled, backhanding me with enough force to send me flying across the room. I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring at the edges. My ribs burned, my skull throbbed, and the taste of copper filled my mouth.

The bodyguard loomed over me, his massive frame casting a hulking shadow. “You’re just another dead man who doesn’t know it yet,” the brute growled, his voice deep and guttural. “You should’ve never come here.”

I spat blood onto the floor, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah? Well, I’m here now, big guy. So let’s dance,” I shot back, my voice laced with sarcasm despite the pain.

The bodyguard moved, his fist screaming toward my face. I twisted, ducking at the last second. The air groaned as the fist missed me by inches, slamming into a stone pillar behind me. The entire column cracked on impact.

I used the moment to strike, lunging low with my knives. I aimed for the soft spots—the neck, the joints, the arteries. But the skin was like hardened steel. My blades barely made a dent.

The bodyguard snarled, backhanding me again. This time, I was ready, putting up my guard just before impact. The force still sent me flying, every fiber of my body screaming in protest. I hit the ground hard, my head swimming. The world blurred, darkening at the edges.

Above me, the bodyguard chuckled, his voice thick with amusement. “Not so tough now, are you?” he taunted, grabbing me by the throat and lifting me off the ground.

I choked, my vision swimming. My arms felt weightless, my legs dangling uselessly. Blood dripped down my forehead, blurring my sight as my body screamed in protest.

Khalid watched from the sidelines, a smirk playing on his lips. “You really thought you could take me down?” he sneered. “You’re nothing.”

The bodyguard threw me across the room, my body slamming into a wall with a sickening crunch. Pain lanced through my entire body as I dropped to the ground, my limbs refusing to move. My breaths came shallow, my mind racing.

I was losing.

The world around me flickered, the air growing still as if time itself had paused. Then—a voice.

“You are weak.”

My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. It was my own, but not quite. It came from behind me, dripping with malice.

A figure loomed in the shadows, chains dangling from his wrists and ankles. I didn’t need to turn around to see him. I knew exactly what he looked like.

“At this rate, you will end up dead. Permanently. And those children will be trafficked, raped by men five times their age,” the figure sneered, his voice a mix of certainty and malice.

My muscles tensed. I could feel the overwhelming presence of the figure pressing down on me, like I might suffocate from it.

“You won’t be able to protect anything, let alone save your own life,” the voice continued, the sound of shifting chains echoing as the figure stepped closer.

“Look at me.”

I clenched my jaw. “No.”

“You know very well that you need me.”

An arm reached toward me, the faint rustling of metal ringing in my ears. The figure leaned in, like a devil whispering into my ear.

“Hey… Just accept me.”

The voice turned into a manic chant. “Come on, come on, come on, come on—”

“SHUT UP!” I roared, snapping back to reality.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus. I had spent months training under the League, learning to control my mind, my body, my emotions. But there was a part of me—something deep, something feral—that refused to be tamed. And now, as I lay bleeding, my enemy looming above me, I felt it stir.

Khalid raised an amused brow. “Still alive?” he taunted.

I wiped the blood from my mouth, ignoring Khalid. The bodyguard launched himself into the air, fist raised, aiming to break me beyond repair.

I barely had time to roll away before the bodyguard’s fist slammed into the ground where I had just been. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor, shattering the tiles and sending dust and debris into the air.

A crater formed beneath the man’s knuckles, a stark reminder of just how much power was packed into those monstrous fists.

Khalid’s voice cut through the haze. “Finish him off.”

I felt the guard’s bloodlust in the air before I saw it. The bodyguard’s shadow loomed over me, a giant poised to bring down the killing blow. I forced myself to move.

My body screamed in protest as I rolled just as a foot came down, missing my skull by mere inches. The force of the stomp cracked the floor beneath me.

Faster than before, sharper. My muscles screamed in protest, but my mind was clear, my senses heightened. This was either a good sign, or a very bad one.

But I did not care, I needed to survive and complete my mission.

I twisted away from the brute’s reach and sprang to my feet. Before the guard could turn, I grabbed one of my fallen knives, but instead of aiming for flesh, I aimed for the man’s eyes.

With a brutal thrust, I buried the blade deep into the socket.

The bodyguard howled, stumbling back as blood poured from the wound. Without hesitation, I yanked out the knife and rammed it into the other eye. The screams that followed were deafening.

The brute flailed, blinded, his massive hands swiping wildly at the air. I ducked beneath one of the swings and moved fast, grabbing a fallen firearm from a dead guard nearby.

I didn’t hesitate. I emptied the entire clip into the man’s skull at point-blank range.

The first few bullets barely cracked the skin. But I knew better than to stop. I aimed for the same spot over and over, hammering lead into the metahuman’s skull until finally—finally—the bone caved.

With a sickening, wet crunch, the bodyguard’s massive frame wavered, then toppled. His head hit the ground with a dull thud.

Silence.

I stood over the corpse, chest heaving, blood coating my hands. The room smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and death. My ears rang from the gunfire.

Khalid was still at his desk, frozen in place, his face pale.

I turned to him, eyes dark, jaw clenched. I was exhausted, barely holding myself together. But I wasn’t done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Khalid bolted for the door.

I was on him in an instant.

The warlord barely made it three steps before I grabbed him from behind, dragging him back. I slammed Khalid face-first into the desk, knocking the breath from his lungs. The man gasped, struggling, but I held him firm.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I growled, my voice low and dangerous. “You’ve got a lot to answer for.”

Khalid’s eyes widened in fear as I tightened my grip, the cold steel of my blade pressing against the warlord’s throat.

“Any last words?” I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Khalid opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

He trembled, his bloodied face twisted in terror. “Please… I can pay you—”

I didn’t let him finish when I grabbed Khalid by the hair and yanked his head back. With a swift, merciless motion,

I slit his throat.

The warlord gurgled, eyes wide with shock. Blood spilled down his front, soaking his clothes, pooling onto the floor. I let go, watching as Khalid slumped forward onto his desk, twitching, until he finally went still.

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint drip of blood hitting the floor. I stood over Khalid’s lifeless body, my chest heaving.

And somewhere, deep within me, the voice of my darker self whispered, “You know you can’t escape me.”

Irritated by how overwhelming his presence was, I clenched my fists, pushing the voice aside. I had a job to do, and I wasn’t done yet. The children were still waiting, and I wasn’t about to let them down.

Not now. Not ever.

Chapter Text

I turned away from Khalid’s lifeless body, my boots squelching in the pool of blood that had spread across the floor. The metallic tang of it filled my nostrils, but I pushed the sensation aside.

There was no time to dwell on what I’d done. The children were still in the other room, bound and terrified.

I moved quickly, my body protesting every step. My ribs screamed with each breath, and my head throbbed where I’d hit the wall. But I ignored the pain. I’d endured worse. The League had made sure of that.

The door to the adjacent room creaked as I pushed it open. The children flinched at the sound, their wide eyes locking onto me.

The girl with the hollow stare—the oldest of them—shrank back, her chains rattling as she tried to press herself into the corner. I could see the fear in her eyes, the way her body trembled. She didn’t see me as a savior. She saw me as another monster.

This part wasn’t in my orders. I knew what Ra’s had tasked me with: eliminate the target, leave no survivors. The usual cold, efficient mission. But I don't give a damn about orders anymore. Not when I could help these girls in the process. Not when I could make a choice.

I approached the oldest of them, a girl no older than thirteen. Her chains were heavy around her neck, arms, and legs, the cold metal a harsh reminder of her captivity.

“It’s okay,” I said, my voice low and steady. I kept my movements slow, deliberate, as I approached her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She didn’t believe me. I didn’t blame her. After what she’d been through, trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford. I crouched down in front of her, careful not to get too close, and pulled a small lock pick from my belt.

The chains around her wrists were thick, but the lock was simple. It took only a few seconds to free her.

She stared at me, her eyes wide and unblinking, as I moved to the next child. One by one, I unlocked their chains, my hands steady despite the pain coursing through my body.

The younger ones whimpered, their cries soft and broken, but they didn’t resist. They were too exhausted, too broken, to fight.

When the last chain fell away, I stood and stepped back, giving them space. “We need to move,” I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. “This place isn’t safe. Can you walk?”

The oldest girl nodded hesitantly, her eyes never leaving mine. She helped the younger ones to their feet, her movements slow and careful.

They clung to her like she was their only lifeline, and maybe she was. I didn’t know how long they’d been here, how much they’d endured, but I could see the strength in her. She was a survivor.

I led them out of the room, my senses on high alert. The compound was quiet now, but I knew better than to let my guard down. Khalid’s men were dead, but there could still be stragglers, reinforcements, or worse. I wasn’t taking any chances.

We moved through the halls, the children following close behind me. I kept my pace slow, matching theirs, but my eyes never stopped scanning our surroundings. Every shadow, every sound, set my nerves on edge.

Ra’s mission might be over but mine wasn’t over yet. Not until the kids were safe.

The jungle outside was just as oppressive as before, the air thick with humidity and the scent of decay. The moonlight barely penetrated the dense canopy, casting the ground in a patchwork of light and shadow.

I paused at the edge of the treeline, listening for any signs of movement. The jungle was alive with the sounds of insects and distant animals, but there was no sign of human activity.

“Stay close,” I said, glancing back at the children. They nodded, their faces pale but determined. I could see the fear in their eyes, but there was something else too—a flicker of hope. They knew they were getting out.

We moved through the jungle, the underbrush crunching softly beneath our feet. I kept to the shadows, my eyes scanning the darkness for any threats.

The children followed silently, their small hands clutching at each other for support. The oldest girl stayed at the back, her eyes darting nervously over her shoulder. She was watching our six, whether she realized it or not. Smart kid.

The trek was slow, but we made progress. My body ached with every step, but I pushed through the pain. The kids needed me to be strong, to get them out of here. I couldn’t afford to falter.

After what felt like an eternity, we reached the extraction point—a small clearing where a helicopter was supposed to pick me. I activated the beacon on my wrist, the signal blinking softly in the darkness. The pilot would see it. He’d come.

The children huddled together in the clearing, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. I stood a few feet away, my back to them, my eyes scanning the treeline. The jungle was quiet now, too quiet. It set my teeth on edge.

“Is someone coming?” the oldest girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” I said, not looking at her. “They’ll be here soon.”

She didn’t say anything else, but I could feel her eyes on me. She was studying me, trying to figure me out. I didn’t blame her. I was a stranger, a shadow in the night who had appeared out of nowhere to save them. She had no reason to trust me, but she didn’t have a choice.

The sound of rotor blades cut through the silence, growing louder with each passing second. I glanced up, relief flooding through me as the helicopter came into view. It descended slowly, the downdraft whipping through the trees and sending leaves swirling through the air.

I turned to the children, gesturing for them to stay back until the helicopter touched down. They nodded, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. The oldest girl stepped forward, her hand gripping the arm of one of the younger kids.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“You’ll be taken to the nearest town. You and girls would go to the police, they would take you home.” I said, my voice firm. “You’re safe now.”

She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t even a good person. I was just a man who had done what needed to be done.

The helicopter landed, and I helped the children board, my movements quick but gentle.

“Drop them off at the nearest town, then come pick us up.” I said to the pilot, referring to the other who Ra’s had sent to supervise me on this mission.

The oldest girl was the last to climb in. She paused at the door, her eyes locking onto mine.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Jason,” I said finally.

She nodded, her expression unreadable. “Thank you, Jason.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stepped back, watching as the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the night sky. The sound of the rotor blades faded, leaving only the sounds of the jungle.

I stood there for a long moment, my body aching, my mind racing. The mission was over. The kids were safe. But the voice in my head—the one I’d been trying to silence—was still there, whispering in the back of my mind.

“You can’t escape me.”

I clenched my fists, my jaw tightening. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe that part of me—the darkness, the rage, the violence—would always be there. But for now, it didn’t matter. I’d done what I came to do.

- - -

[General POV]

As he returned into the main area of the compound, he came face to face with the League member who had led the mission. The man was standing over the bodies, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the carnage. His eyes flicked up to meet Jason’s.

There was a brief pause. The League member didn’t say anything at first, just gave Jason a small nod. A silent acknowledgment of what had been done. It wasn’t much, but Jason didn’t expect much from them.

“We are done here,” the League member said, his voice as calm as ever. “Time to regroup and head back to base.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately. He just nodded, his mind elsewhere. He followed the man out of the building, his thoughts churning as they walked. The mission had been successful, and now, the aftermath would follow. There would be questions, of course. But for now, he didn’t care.

The world was full of scum—people like Khalid, like his guards, the ones who thought they were untouchable, who thought they could break others without consequence. But Jason had just put two of them down. He’d removed them from the equation. He didn’t have a lot of respect for their kind, but he wasn’t about to let them die without serving a purpose.

At least now, they’d serve a better one. “Fertilizer for the earth,” he muttered to himself, a faint grim smile pulling at his lips. It wasn’t poetic, but it was fitting. They were dead, and they wouldn’t be forgotten. Not by him.

As they moved through the jungle, the humidity clinging to their skin, Jason couldn’t shake the image of the girls’ faces. The fear, the hope, the uncertainty. He knew he couldn’t save everyone, but tonight, he’d made a difference. And for now, that was enough.

The League member glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice low. “But remember, emotions have no place in our work.”

Jason didn’t respond. He just kept walking, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Emotions might not have a place in their work, but they had a place in him. And tonight, they’d driven him to do something more than just follow orders.

- - -

Jason’s body ached with every step as he made his way through the winding corridors of the League’s mountain stronghold. The mission had taken its toll—his ribs burned, his knuckles were raw, and every muscle screamed in protest.

Blood, dried and fresh, clung to his uniform like war paint, a grim reminder of the battle he had just survived. The wounds he had sustained weren’t just physical.

The voice. That—thing—he had seen, had felt, was still lingering in the back of his mind, like a shadow refusing to fade. But he shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of exhaustion and discipline. Whatever it was, it was his problem. Not Ra’s.

Not yet.

The grand hall of the stronghold was dimly lit, torches casting flickering light against the cold stone walls. The scent of incense and aged parchment filled the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of blood and steel.

The League was always in motion—figures moved in the shadows, whispers of assassins exchanging information, the clinking of weapons being sharpened. It was a place of discipline, of purpose. A place where weakness had no place.

Jason had learned that the hard way.

At the end of the hall, standing like a statue carved from marble, was Ra’s al Ghul. The Demon’s Head.

His piercing green eyes met Jason’s as soon as he stepped into the room, as if he had sensed his presence long before he arrived.

Ra’s stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture regal, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Talia watched in silence, her gaze sharp, assessing.

Jason strode forward, his movements precise despite the pain gnawing at his body. He stopped a few feet away, lowering to one knee in a practiced gesture of respect.

“It is done.” His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it.

Ra’s studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. “Rise, my boy.”

Jason did as he was told, straightening despite the dull ache in his ribs.

“Khalid?” Ra’s asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

“Dead.”

Ra’s nodded, pleased. “And the compound?”

“Erased. No trace of our involvement.”

Ra’s eyes flickered with approval, but Jason caught the subtle shift in his expression. He knows there’s more.

“And yet,” Ra’s continued, “you seem… troubled.”

Jason held his gaze. “I took some hits from his personal guard who possessed superhuman powers. Turned out to be a tougher fight than expected.”

Ra’s exhaled through his nose, stepping forward with the deliberate grace of a man who had lived far longer than his body suggested.

“You have endured much, my son. But your strength has not failed you. You have once again proven your worth to the League.”

He reached out, placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder, the gesture almost paternal. “You are shaping into something remarkable.”

Jason felt the weight of those words. Ra’s didn’t offer praise lightly.

But he also knew Ra’s was testing him.

The old man’s gaze lingered, studying him.

Jason forced himself to remain still, to keep his breathing even. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip—not the strange vision, not the voice, not the creeping feeling that something inside him was shifting, changing.

He was killed without hesitation. He had followed orders. He had done everything Ra’s expected of him.

And yet…

He had freed the captives.

It had not been in the mission parameters. It had not been necessary.

And he wasn’t sure what it meant that he had done it anyway.

Ra’s finally released his shoulder and took a step back. “Rest, my boy. You have earned it.”

Jason nodded, offering a small bow of his head before turning to leave.

As he walked away, he could feel Talia’s gaze boring into his back. She knew

something was off.

But Jason kept walking.

For now, his secret was still his own.

For now.

Chapter Text

The cold water cascaded over Jason’s body, washing away the blood, sweat, and grime of the mission.

The droplets stung as they hit the fresh cuts and bruises littering his skin, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

It grounded him, kept him tethered to the present. His muscles screamed in protest as he moved, every motion a reminder of the brutal fight he had just survived.

The metahuman’s fists had left their mark—his ribs ached with every breath, and his side was a patchwork of purple and black bruises.

He winced as he reached for the soap, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the tender flesh.

"I must have broken a rib or two," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain as he began to wash the blood from his skin.

The water ran red for a moment before clearing, the evidence of his violence swirling down the drain. "Might have to pay a visit to the infirmary later," he added, his tone dry, almost sarcastic, as if he were mocking his own injuries.

The shower was agonizing but necessary. It was a ritual, a way to cleanse not just his body but his mind.

The cold water helped numb the pain, both physical and mental, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and let the water drown out the world.

But the peace didn’t last. The memory of the mission—of the children, of the metahuman, of himself—crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome.

He stepped out of the shower, the cold air hitting his damp skin like a slap. He grabbed a towel and dried off quickly, his movements mechanical, almost robotic.

His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the night over and over again.

The fight.

The voice.

The figure in the shadows. It all felt so real, so vivid, like a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

He dropped onto his bed, the thin mattress offering little comfort. His body ached, his mind raced, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him.

"So much for my first mission," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling like a storm.

The mission had been a success—Khalid was dead, the compound was destroyed, and the League’s objectives had been met. But at what cost?

The image of the children chained to the walls flashed in his mind, their wide, terrified eyes haunting him. He had freed them, yes, but it didn’t feel like enough. It never felt like enough.

And then there was the other thing—the version of him he had seen, the version of himself that had emerged from the shadows of his consciousness while in a concussive state, whispering those dark, insidious words. "You know you can’t escape me."

Jason clenched his fist, his knuckles white as he fought to steady his trembling hand. The fear he had felt in that moment—the overwhelming, paralyzing fear—was still there, lingering just beneath the surface.

He tried to rationalize it, to convince himself it had been an illusion, a trick of his mind brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was a part of him, a part he had tried to bury, to ignore, to forget.

He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grew louder, more insistent. The voice, the figure, the chains—it all felt so real, so alive. He could still feel the weight of its presence, pressing down on him, suffocating him.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, to push the thoughts aside. He couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not now. Not when Ra’s watchful eyes are on him.

But as he lay there, the exhaustion finally overtaking him, the thoughts crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome. The voice whispered in the back of his mind, soft and insidious. "You know you need me."

Jason’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat up, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn’t escape it.

No matter how hard he tried, the voice was always there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for him to let down his guard.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t afford to lose control, not now. Not ever.

With a heavy sigh, he lay back down, his body sinking into the thin mattress. His eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, to escape the thoughts, if only for a little while.

But as he drifted off, the voice followed him into the darkness, whispering those same haunting words.

"You can’t escape me!!"

- - -

Deep in thoughts and standing at the large window of his office, Ra’s al Ghul stared over the mountains and into the night sky when a knock at his door disrupted his thoughts.

Giving the go ahead, the door opened and the League member tasked with leading the mission Jason went on, walked in, returning for a report different from the previous.

He was tasked with leading the extermination of the terrorist group but to not interfere with Jason who was tasked with claiming Khalid’s head, rather keep a watchful eye on him and observe from a rational distance.

While Jason battled the metahuman and eliminated his target, he watched the whole thing from the sidelines.

When Jason was near death and all hope seemed to be lost, he did not even flinch as he obeyed the order given to him by Ra’s al Ghul, and only observed without interference.

"My Lord." He greeted with a bow, then stood up straight in wait for questioning.

"So tell me, how did the boy fare on the mission?" He asked, walking over behind his desk as he took a seat.

Clearing his throat, he began. "He did well to eliminate the target but he ran into a bit of trouble while on it."

"What kind of trouble?" With a cocked brow and a hint of curiosity for detail in his tone, Ra’s asked the man.

"The target had a personal bodyguard who turned out to be a metahuman." He replied.

"Hmm...A metahuman. He did mention Khalid’s bodyguard was quite a foe." To Ra’s It couldn’t be helped, one was bound to encounter unaccounted variables during missions.

After a brief moment of pondering the thought, he reached for his chin as he stroked his beard. "What powers did he possess?"

The man briefed Ra’s on the enhanced characteristics he had observed from the fight. But to Ra's that sounded like a large man with superhuman strength and impenetrable skin, basically what he was.

"How did he fare against this person?"

"He fought quite well with little unnecessary movements, although he was overwhelmed and was so close to losing the fight." This made him even more curious as to how Jason managed to end this adversary of his.

Without a word from Ra’s, the man continued, giving him the final details.

"The eyes huh, that was good judgment." Ra’s remarked, Jason’s training appears to be quite effective as he seems to be even more of a quick study than he anticipated.

"He thinks fast on his feet." He muttered, ruminating on Jason’s battle IQ.

"That would be all." He said as he gestured a dismissive wave towards the man.

With a slight bow, he pivoted and proceeded towards the exit of the office but came to an abrupt pause.

He looked down for a second as if contemplating something. Ra’s noticed this and asked the man, “Anything else?”

"Yes, my Lord." He replied as he turned towards him. "I do not know if this is of enough importance to be included in the report. The target had a number of enslaved underaged children, most likely for trafficking. Jason freed the children after disposing of him."

"Hmm."

Without a definite response, he dismissed him. "You may leave." The man bowed once more and exited the office.

- - -

[Jason Todd’s POV]

Strolling down within the massive compound was something I find myself doing these days since I was unable to partake in training, which sucked by the way.

It’s been over a week since that mission and the geezer hasn’t asked me about any sort of detailed information from the mission. He’s just been making me do more meditation each passing day.

He only advised me to learn from the fight’s experience. Maybe the guy who gave the report never mentioned the children.

I leaned over the edge of the upper floor’s balcony, watching the various exercises below.

Ra’s may have suspended me from combat training, but he didn’t say anything about not watching others train so I could make mental notes of moves that catch my eye while I watch the others train.

I looked over to Damian who happened to be having his ass whooped by an opponent who wasn’t pulling their punches at all.

They might probably be sick of the kid’s arrogance and wanting to teach him a solid lesson like I do, not caring if he was the heir to the League or whatever.

They disarmed him with a swift manoeuvre and swept him off his feet. He landed on his butt and his own blade was pointed right up his face.

The look of frustration on his face was so priceless that I could not help the laugh of mockery which escaped me.

The pressure from my mockery must have been so intense that he looked up, gazing right at me with furrowed brows, wanting to channel his anger towards me in an attempt to mask his wounded pride.

Fuck!!

I coughed as I crouched a bit, leaning more upon the wooden edge as I reached for my ribs as my insides burned with excruciating pain. It hurt like hell to even laugh.

Before completing that thought, I let out another series of laughter, the pain was totally worth the sight of Damien’s walk of shame and embarrassment as he left the arena.

Due to the League’s custom of concealing their identities, I don’t know who his opponent was but they seemed quite interesting.

A person who is willing to humiliate that brat so well that I couldn’t help it but laugh through the pains from my ribcage, needs to share a drink with me while we discuss how much we enjoy tormenting the brats pompous spirit.

Yeah, call me a bully or whatever I don’t care. I know he is just a kid but that pest needs to be humbled big time before he gets any older. Who knows what he might turn into when he hits his rebellious teenage phase.

Taking deep breaths as I looked up at the sky, wondering if the universe had bestowed this role upon me. If so, I enthusiastically obliged.

Well, too bad there is no way of telling that guy apart from the rest. Still in thoughts as I looked over the training ground in search of some significant feature of Damian's opponent that could help me tell him apart from the rest, the geezer's voice came from behind me.

I was almost spooked by his sudden appearance but gave no reaction to confirm it, maintaining my nonchalant demeanour without even turning to look his way.

"You seem to be in good spirits ." He said, walking to my side as he joined me at the edge of the balcony.

"Well, I guess I woke up on the good side of bed this morning. Or would you prefer I let myself look as depressing as my insides feel?" I replied without averting my gaze from the on going training match below.

With the various training so far, I’ve developed senses so kin that I could sense the presence of anyone within my space, the air has some way of giving their presence away.

But this geezer concealed his presence so well that I didn't even notice him until he spoke.

"If I must say, it is quite good to see you in such a moo–"

Unable to hold back my curious thoughts, I blurted out one of the questions in my head, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. "Are you Dracula or something?"

For a brief second, his face had a confused expression. "What do you mean, boy?" He asked.

Since I woke up in this base, this my first time glimpsing an expression other than the usual stoic look I was beginning to think was hatched on his face.

"That came out wrong." Rephrasing my words by giving a more elaborate explanation, I continued. "I mean, you walked up from behind me and got to my side without the most minimalistic hint of your presence."

"Oh..." He let out an extremely brief laugh, probably still amused by me asking if he was Dracula just cause’ I couldn’t sense him.

"It’s an extremely advanced level of stealth. One I might teach you in due time." He replied.

"Clearly, I’m currently on an unavoidable and mandatory break from combat training. It wouldn’t hurt to get a few pointers for that level of stealth."

He mused on the topic for a while, while I prayed he wouldn't dismiss it and make me do more meditative exercise.

"That level of stealth requires a level of mental fortitude which you currently lack, boy."

"Then teach me how to build such mental fortitude." I pressed on.

"You currently undergo the basic level of such training." He replied with a raised brow, having on an expression like a teacher who expects his student to already know the answer to whatever the fuck they were talking about.

'For fuck sake!' I mentally exclaimed, the answer seemed to be the one practice I enjoyed the least.

"Meditation." I replied, earning a slight nod of approval from him.

"It is a practice that brings calm to one’s mind and being."

"Then why do I find it hard to grasp? Almost like I'm wasting my time just sitting with my eyes closed."

He did not give an immediate reply but stroked his grey beard in thought as he dug into his purse of wisdom before giving his response.

"Elaborate on your experience ." He asked as if seeking deeper insight before he concluded on my diagnosis.

"At times it feels like there is so much turmoil within my mind that it feels like a fractured and puzzled mess. Even when it gets calm during our practices, there’s an uproar which expels that state of bliss."

He was my mentor, it was only right I gave him a glimpse of my own struggles and roadblocks I experienced with his teachings.

"Come with me." He turned and I followed behind him.

We walked down one of the halls until we arrived at a dead end. At this point, with a side eye I looked at the geezer with the thought of maybe he was finally going senile but no one had noticed it until now.

He reached for the stone wall and pushed in a brick sized block. The stone wall did a rotation of one-eighty degrees, revealing a stairway which seemed so deep as if leading deep within the earth.

"Hmmm, a secret passage." For some reason I wasn’t surprised by that. In fact, I’d say it was to be expected that the geezer would have some secret passages or at least a false wall.

As we stepped in about three steps down, the entrance shut close behind our backs.

I turned to observe if I could spot the way to open it from this side but it was too dark to see anything, while he continued down, eyes forward without even turning for a glimpse over his shoulders.

We walked down the dark and creepy stairway for a couple of minutes when a glow of light came into sight.

It appeared to radiate from the curved corner to the right as it shine against the left wall. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel. Pun intended.

Chapter Text

We arrived at the opening where the light was coming from—a cavern deep beneath the earth with a glowing pool of green water radiating in the near distance.

We stopped about three meters from the pool. Questions buzzed in my head, but the geezer just stood there, staring at that ominously glowing water like it was his long-lost lover.

It looked like something out of a kid’s cartoon—one of those witch’s brews, all neon and swirling, except this wasn’t some muddy sludge. The liquid was clear, almost too clean.

Wait, is this his secret to not looking like a thousand-year-old mummy? Some fancy-ass well of longevity elixir?

I crossed my arms. "So. Why are we here?" I asked, unsure of his purpose for taking an injured kid down to a secret location with a mysterious pool of water.

With a sudden halt, a thought came to mind. “Don’t tell me you have an aquatic beast for a pet and it’s inside that green pool.”

Ra’s turned, his robes doing that dramatic sweep thing he probably practiced in a mirror. "This, my boy, is a restorative pool. Some call it the Fountain of Youth. But it is known as the Lazarus Pit."

"The Lazarus Pit?" I muttered. "You mean this is the magic bathtub that yanked me back from the dead?" It looked nothing like what I had imagined.

"Yes, it is." He crouched, dipping his fingers into the water like he was testing a damn bath.

I scoffed. "When you and Talia talked about the Lazarus Pit, I always imagined—well, an actual pit. Some murky, ancient hole filled with magic sludge that could heal the dying." My voice dripped with disappointment. "This looks more like a hunted jacuzzi.”

Ra’s ignored the jab. "Remove your clothes and enter." He adjured.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

“Of course I did.” I guess I’d just pretend that didn’t sound kinky at all.

I threw my hands up. "Oh, sure. Because obviously the next step in ‘mystical resurrection water’ protocol is stripping down. What’s next, a guided meditation? Do I get a cucumber slice for my eyes too?"

He didn’t even twitch. "The waters must touch your skin directly to work."

Grumbling, I peeled off my cloths, tossing it aside. "If this turns out to be some weird cult baptism, I’m setting something on fire."

As I stepped forward to dive in, the water shimmered ominously, reminding me of the eerie depths that might hide the Flying Dutchman—an image stuck in my mind since that strange afternoon at a roadside diner. Back then, during some relentless "reckon training" the old geezer had forced on me in that no-name town, I’d caught a bizarre underwater sponge show on the flickering TV, and the comparison now had a haunting image.

The water was warm as I stepped in—one foot, then the other—sinking deeper until I was fully submerged. The glow pulsed around me, casting eerie shadows on the cavern walls.

So… what now?

Then it hit.

Fire exploded through my veins, like my blood had been swapped with molten metal. My muscles locked, my lungs burned—

With a choked gasp, I burst out of the water, scrambling for the edge like the pit itself was trying to drag me under. Ra’s stood there, holding out a towel like this was all playing according to plan.

Not even gonna ask where the hell he pulled that from.

I snatched it, wiping my face. "What the hell was that?"

"The healing effects of the Lazarus Pit," he said, like that explained anything. "How are your wounds?"

"What about my wou—" I cut myself off.

I shouldn’t have been able to move like that. Not with the cracked ribs, the stitched-up gash on my side—

Slowly, I raised a hand, pressing against my bandaged torso. No pain.

I ripped off the wrappings. Nothing but smooth skin.

"Huh." I prodded the spot where a knife had gone in a week ago. "I feel… okay."

Ra’s just smirked.

"The location of this sacred pool is known to only a few," he said. "Merely being a member of the League does not grant you this privilege."

"Hmm, I see." I rolled my shoulders, testing my range of motion. "I gotta admit, it’s fascinating. But–why?

Why show me this sacred place and let me use the pit to heal my wounds?"

He studied me for a moment while stroking his beard, before answering.

“Think of it as a welcoming gift into the League.” He replied, clasping arms behind his back as he turned towards the pool.

“There are people who would kill and exhaust all sorts of resources, if they believe that it might give them access to the Lazarus pit.”

“Can’t say I am surprised by that, people would do anything for the power to sustain life. But that doesn’t answer my question, why me?” I pressed on.

The damp air of the cavern clung to my skin as I unwound the last of the bandages from my torso. The faint, eerie glow of the Lazarus Pit cast flickering reflections across the stone walls, painting the chamber in shades of emerald and shadow.

Ra’s al Ghul stood with his arms clasped behind his back, his silhouette framed against the luminous waters. His voice was smooth, almost amused, as he spoke.

"Welcome to the League, boy."

I flexed my shoulders, testing the absence of pain. The wounds that had plagued me for days were gone—vanished as if they had never existed. The Pit’s power was unsettling, intoxicating.

"There are also men who would burn cities to ash if they believed it would grant them a single drop from these waters," Ra’s continued, his gaze fixed on the swirling depths. "Power over life and death is a rare temptation—one few can resist."

I smirked, rolling my neck. "No one wants to die, especially when you are rich and powerful. People will do anything to cheat death."

“Thanks for healing me, Ra’s Now I can get back to training or at least sleep comfortably.” A hint of excitement mixed with my voice.

Ra’s turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory. His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"Oh, don’t thank me just yet, boy." His voice was a low purr, laced with dark amusement. "The real work begins now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounded more like a threat than a pep talk."

His chuckle was velvet and venom. "Call it what you will. You won’t be smiling for long."

I matched his tone with a grin of my own. "You miss training me, don’t you? Admit it—you’ve been bored without me around to keep you entertained with my daily dose of torture disguised under the term, training."

Ra’s exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Enjoy your humor while it lasts. You’ll need it." He stated as we approached the cavern' exit.

As we ascended the stairway. The air grew cooler as we neared the surface, the weight of secrecy pressing between us.

- - -

"As you must already know," he began, his tone like tempered steel, "The location of the Lazarus Pit is a secret that transcends life and death. You will guard it with your last breath. Should you ever betray this trust, the consequences will be...absolute."

The air thickened, pressing in like an unseen hand around Jason’s throat. This wasn’t a request—it was a decree. The Demon’s Head did not make idle threats.

Jason met Ra’s’ gaze without flinching, though the gravity of the moment settled deep in his bones. "I understand," he replied, his voice stripped of its usual defiance. "You have my word. No one will hear of it from me—not even under torture."

Ra’s studied him, his dark eyes unreadable. For a heartbeat, Jason wondered if the ancient warlord saw his resolve as ‘weak.’

But then, with a slow nod, Ra’s turned away, the helm of his robe whispering against the false wall as he repeated the previous process as their time of entry.

With practiced ease, Ra’s pressed his palm against an unremarkable section of the wall. A mechanism groaned, and the false panel swung open, revealing the training grounds beyond. Sunlight spilled in, harsh after the Pit’s eerie glow.

Outside, the clash of steel and the grunts of combat filled the air. Damian led the drills with lethal precision, his movements a mirror of his mother’s relentless grace. Talia observed from the sidelines, her sharp eyes missing nothing—until they landed on Ra’s and Jason emerging out of nowhere and unto the training ground.

"Father," she greeted, though her voice carried an edge of wariness. "I didn’t expect you to join us today." Her gaze flicked to Jason, lingering on the absence of bandages, the lack of a limp, or even a sight of a bruised skin or scar on his face.

"You’re healed."

Ra’s clasped his hands behind his back, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "The Pit’s waters work swiftly."

Talia’s breath hitched, barely perceptible. "You showed him the Pit?" The question was a blade wrapped in silk.

"He needed to be at full strength for what comes next."

Jason shifted, the weight of the unspoken tension pressing down. "Yeah, about that—where exactly are we going?"

Ra’s didn’t look at him. "Pack for a week. Wilderness survival gear. Weapons of your choice. Meet me here in fifteen minutes."

"You didn’t answer the question," Jason pointed out, crossing his arms.

"Consider it a test of adaptability," Ra’s replied, already walking away as Talia followed close behind.

- - -

Talia waited until Jason was out of earshot before stepping closer to her father, her voice a hushed whisper. "You’ve never entrusted the Pit’s location to an outsider. Not even to Bruce."

Ra’s exhaled, slow and measured. "Jason Todd is no longer an outsider, daughter. He is a weapon being forged by the League—one that must be honed without cracks."

"And Damian?" Talia’s gaze flicked to her son, who was now drilling two League assassins at once, his strikes fiercer than necessary. "He sees Jason as a rival. This will only stoke that fire."

"Good," Ra’s murmured. "Fire tempers steel. Let him chase Jason’s shadow. It will make him stronger."

A League operative approached, bowing as he presented a meticulously packed rucksack. Ra’s took it without acknowledgment, his attention fixed on the horizon.

Jason returned moments later, his own bag slung over his shoulder, a knife strapped to his thigh. "Alright, Sensei. Lead the way."

Ra’s arched a brow, tossing the heavy bag for Jason to carry. "This isn’t a vacation, boy. You will train until your muscles scream. Until your mind breaks. And then—you will train more."

Jason grinned, sharp and feral. "Yeah, yeah. Just try to keep up, old man."

As they strode toward the gates, Talia watched them go, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger.

"Be careful, Father," she murmured. "That one bites."

Ra’s didn’t look back. "So do I."

Chapter Text

The crisp air bit at my skin as I trudged through the dense woods, the weight of the camping backpack digging into my shoulders.

It had been over ninety minutes since we left the compound, and the old man—Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head himself—hadn’t said a word since we started this little nature hike. Typical. The guy loved his dramatic silences almost as much as he loved hearing himself talk.

The woods were alive with the sounds of nature—rustling leaves, chirping birds, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the fact that I was following a centuries-old megalomaniac into the middle of nowhere with no idea what he had planned.

The snow had stopped falling, thank God, but the ground was still a mess of slush and mud. My boots were caked with it, and my jeans were soaked up to the knees.

Ra’s moved ahead of me with that infuriating grace of his, his hands clasped behind his back like he was out for a leisurely stroll. Meanwhile, I was sweating under the weight of the backpack, my breath coming out in visible puffs in the freezing air.

We weren’t even dressed for this weather—just our normal clothes. No coats, no gloves, nothing. Because why would Ra’s al Ghul bother with something as mundane as warmth?

He stopped suddenly, and I nearly ran into him. He stood there, staring ahead like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

Then, without a word, he turned right, pushing through a thicket of waist-high bushes and towering trees. The canopy above was so dense that barely any sunlight filtered through, casting the area in an eerie, almost oppressive darkness.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Just the kind of place I’d pick for a picnic. If I were, you know, a serial killer.”

Ra’s didn’t respond. Of course he didn’t. He just kept walking, his movements smooth and deliberate, like he was gliding over the uneven terrain. I stumbled after him, cursing under my breath as branches snagged at my clothes and scratched my arms.

The muffled sound of running water grew louder as we pressed on, and eventually, we emerged into a small clearing.

Ra’s stopped at the edge of a shallow stream, his gaze fixed on the waterfall that cascaded down a rocky outcrop.

It was beautiful, in a secluded, untouched kind of way. The water sparkled in the faint sunlight, and the air was filled with the soothing sound of it rushing over the rocks.

“We’ve arrived,” Ra’s said, breaking the silence at last. His voice was calm, almost serene, like he hadn’t just dragged me through a mile of wilderness without explanation.

I caught up to him, dropping the backpack with a grunt. “Yeah, no kidding. Mind telling me where ‘here’ is exactly? Or is that part of the whole mysterious mentor shtick?”

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “This is where you will be training for the next three days to a week, depending on how long it takes you to grasp the lessons I will be teaching you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Training? In the middle of nowhere? With no food, no shelter, and probably a million bloodthirsty mosquitoes? Sounds like a blast.”

Ra’s ignored my sarcasm, gesturing for me to follow him again. We walked to a clearing near the riverbank, where he told me to drop the bag. He picked up his sword and a length of rope, then motioned for me to follow him deeper into the woods.

“What kind of training requires us to be in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere?” I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is this some kind of survivalist boot camp? Because I’ve heard about the whole ‘eat bugs and drink your own pee’ thing. Not a fan.”

Ra’s didn’t answer. He just kept walking, his silence as infuriating as ever. We stopped in front of a massive tree, its trunk so thick it would’ve taken an axe-wielding man hours to bring it down.

Ra’s drew his sword in one fluid motion, and before I could even blink, he delivered three precise horizontally patterned strikes. The tree fell with a loud crash, splitting into two large logs.

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. “Okay, that was… impressive. But also kind of overkill. You know we are literally surrounded by easily attainable firewood, right?”

He sheathed his sword and handed me the rope. “Use this to pull both of them back, together.”

I took the rope, glaring at him. “Oh, sure. No problem. I’ll just drag a couple of tree trunks through the woods like a pack mule. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away, leaving me to wrestle with the logs. I tied the rope around them as tightly as I could, then slung it over my shoulder and started pulling.

It was hell. The logs caught on every rock and root, and my muscles burned with the effort. Sweat dripped down my face, and my breath came in ragged gasps.

“This isn’t training,” I muttered under my breath. “This is punishment. Probably for asking too many questions. Note to self: stop prying into the life of the immortal ninja warlord. He doesn’t like it.”

By the time I dragged the logs back to the clearing, I was ready to collapse. Ra’s had set up a small fire pit, and he gestured for me to place the logs on either side of it. I dropped them with a groan, then sank to the ground, trying to catch my breath.

Ra’s sat across from me, his expression as calm as ever. “While you catch your breath, I believe it is best I keep to my word and give you answers to your questions earlier.”

I shot him a look. “Really? Now you’re feeling chatty? After you made me haul half a forest back here? Gee, thanks.”

He chuckled softly, stroking his beard. “I spent my years cultivating wisdom and accumulating knowledge, practicing and mastering all sorts of martial arts. My later years were spent on the study and practice of ancient esoteric knowledge.”

“Esoteric knowledge, huh?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean like how to be cryptic and annoy the hell out of people? Because you’ve got that down pat.”

He Ignored the jab. “Having lived as long as I have, there are downsides. Watching humanity repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, is… frustrating.”

“Yeah, I bet,” I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Must be tough, being all wise and immortal while the rest of us idiots keep screwing up.

But hey, at least you’ve got your priorities straight. Like bringing me back from the dead. Speaking of which—why me?” I’ve been meaning to ask him that. Last time I did, he found a way to evade providing a direct answer.

Ra’s met my gaze, his expression serious. “Because a mistake I made cost you your life. You were collateral damage.” He replied.

I stared at him, my sarcasm momentarily forgotten. “What kind of mistake?”

“You were at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, his voice heavy with something that almost sounded like regret. “You were caught in an explosion caused by someone I never should have employed.”

I opened my mouth to ask more, but he cut me off. “You’ve rested enough. It’s time to commence your training.”

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet. “Of course it is. Because why would we waste time talking when we could be doing more manual labor?”

Ra’s didn’t respond. He just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back as always, looking every bit the enigmatic mentor. I sighed, resigning myself to whatever fresh hell he had in store for me.

“Alright, old man,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ra’s led me back toward the waterfall, his steps unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, I guess, he did. Immortality must be nice like that—no rush, no deadlines, just centuries of cryptic wisdom and dramatic pauses. Meanwhile, I was stuck playing catch-up, my muscles still screaming from dragging those damn logs.

The waterfall roared in the background, its mist cooling the air around us. Ra’s stopped at the edge of the stream, where the water pooled into a shallow, crystal-clear basin. He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

“Advanced stealth,” he began, his voice carrying over the sound of the rushing water, “is not merely about moving unseen. It is about becoming one with your surroundings. Your mind must be as still as the surface of an undisturbed lake, your body as fluid as the current of this water.”

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. “So, what? I’m supposed to, like, meditate by the river and hope I turn into a ninja? Because I’ve got to tell you, I’m not really the ‘ohm’ type.”

Ra’s didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Meditation is only the beginning. Your mind is restless, Jason. It is clouded by anger, by self doubt, by the noise of your past shadow which tries to sabotage whatever ounce of peace you might achieve. Until you learn to silence it, you will never master true stealth.”

Flashes of my encounter with the hallucination—that eerily lifelike version of myself—haunted my thoughts. Sleep had become elusive since then, my nights restless and frayed at the edges.

The way I had killed Khalid’s guard— so inhumanly—weighed on me. Two lives, extinguished by my hand. No matter how often I told myself they deserved worse, no matter how I justified it, their deaths lingered in my conscience like a stain I couldn’t scrub away.

I snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe my ‘restless mind’ has something to do with the fact that I died and got thrown into a magic pit that brought me back wrong. Ever think of that?”

He tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. “The Lazarus Pit did not make you ‘wrong,’ Jason. It amplified what was already within you. Your anger, your pain—these are not weaknesses. They are tools, if you learn to wield them.”

“Tools, huh?” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Great. So instead of therapy, I get to channel my trauma into becoming a better assassin. Sign me up.”

Ra’s ignored my jab, gesturing to the stream. “Step into the water.”

I blinked at him. “You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing out here.”

“The cold is irrelevant,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Step into the water.”

I muttered a string of curses under my breath but did as he said, kicking off my boots and wading into the stream. The water was icy, biting at my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I sucked in a sharp breath, my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering.

“Now,” Ra’s said, his voice calm and measured, “close your eyes. Focus on the sensation of the water around you. Let it guide your thoughts.”

I closed my eyes, though I was pretty sure this was a waste of time. The water was cold, yeah, but it wasn’t exactly enlightening. All I could think about was how much I wanted to get out and dry off.

“Your mind is still racing,” Ra’s observed, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You are fighting the current instead of letting it flow through you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t feel like flowing today,” I shot back, opening my eyes to glare at him. “Can we skip to the part where I get to punch something?”

Ra’s sighed, a rare show of exasperation. “You are impatient, Jason. Impatience is the enemy of focus.”

“And focus is the enemy of fun,” I retorted. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to teach me some deep, mystical lesson about inner peace or whatever. But I’m not exactly the poster child for Zen. So how about we try something that doesn’t involve me turning into a popsicle man.

Ra’s shook his head. “You’re assuming I’ll grow tired of your stubbornness—that I’ll give up and switch to training you’d actually enjoy. You’re only delaying the inevitable.” His voice hardened. “Now shut up, close your eyes, and focus.”

Finally, I’d struck a nerve. The old man had seemed immune to my jabs lately, but irritation flickered beneath his calm now.

Best not to push him further. I obeyed, shutting my eyes—yet even in the dark, I could feel the weight of his glare, sharp with frustration. Yeah… time to behave.

Chapter Text

[Talia al Ghul's POV]

The night air of Gotham City was thick with the stench of decay. It clung to the rooftops, seeped into the cracks of crumbling buildings, and lingered in the shadows where the dregs of humanity festered. The city was a festering wound, a place where hope went to die, and yet, it was also the home of the man Talia al Ghul could not seem to rid from her thoughts.

Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Her beloved.

The League of Shadows’ mission here was complete, and her father’s orders had been carried out with precision. The criminal underworld of Gotham would feel the aftershocks of their work for weeks to come, though they would never know it was the hand of the Demon’s Head that had struck them. Standing on the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the city, Talia felt a pang of something unfamiliar—nostalgia, perhaps. Or maybe it was simply the weariness of a woman who had seen too much, done too much, and yet still found herself drawn to the one man who had always eluded her grasp.

The city sprawled before her, a labyrinth of shadows and light. The skyline was jagged, a silhouette of broken dreams and forgotten promises. The faint hum of traffic below was a distant murmur, drowned out by the occasional wail of a siren or the sharp crack of gunfire.

Gotham was a city that never slept, but it did not live either. It existed in a state of perpetual unrest, a battlefield where the lines between hero and villain blurred into obscurity.

She adjusted the hood of her cloak, pulling it tighter around her face. The fabric was dark, blending seamlessly with the night, and the faint glint of her armor beneath was the only hint of her presence.

The League’s uniform was a second skin, a reminder of who she was and what she represented. But tonight, she was not here as the heir to the Demon’s Head. Tonight, she was here as Talia. Just Talia.

The thought of seeing Bruce again stirred something deep within her. It had been too long since their paths last crossed, and though she would never admit it aloud, she had missed him. Missed the fire in his eyes, the way he moved with the grace of a predator, the way he spoke with a voice that carried the weight of the world.

He was a man of contradictions—a man who fought for justice yet lived in the shadows. A man who wore the mask of a bat to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, yet beneath it all, he was still the boy who had lost his parents to the very darkness he now battled.

She wondered how he was coping. The death of his son, Jason Todd, must have shaken him to his core. Bruce had always been a man who carried his burdens alone, burying his pain beneath the cowl and the mission.

But even Batman was not invincible. Even he had to feel the weight of loss, the sting of failure. She knew this better than anyone. She had seen the cracks in his armor, the moments when the mask slipped and the man beneath was revealed.

If only I could tell him the truth.

If only she could reveal that Jason was alive, that he was well, and that he was under her father’s care. But such a revelation would come at a cost.

Ra’s al Ghul’s plans were not to be trifled with, and his interest in Jason was… troubling. The boy was a weapon, a tool to be shaped and molded, and Talia feared what he might become under her father’s influence. But for now, she had to remain silent. To speak would be to betray her father, and that was a line she could not cross. Not yet.

She leaped from the rooftop, her movements fluid and precise. The city rushed past her in a blur of light and shadow as she navigated the rooftops with ease. The wind whipped at her cloak, tugging at the fabric, but she paid it no mind. Her focus was singular, her destination clear. She knew where to find him. She always did.

It did not take long to spot him. He was perched on the edge of a rooftop, his silhouette unmistakable against the night sky.

The cape billowed behind him, a dark shroud that seemed to merge with the shadows, and the pointed ears of the cowl gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. He was a figure of myth, a legend brought to life, and yet, he was also just a man. A man who had given everything to this city, to his crusade.

She landed silently behind him, her boots barely making a sound against the gravel. He did not turn, but she knew he was aware of her presence. The Batman was never caught off guard. Not by her. Not by anyone.

“Talia,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice that carried the weight of authority. But there was something else there too. A hint of… something. Surprise? Relief? She couldn’t tell.

“Bruce,” she replied, stepping closer. The distance between them felt both vast and infinitesimal. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape. “It’s been a while.”

He turned then, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl. The white lenses of the mask hid his true expression, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

It was a look that pierced through the layers of armor, both physical and emotional, and reached the core of who she was. It was a look that had haunted her for years.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone guarded. There was no warmth in his voice, no hint of the man beneath the mask. But she knew it was there. She had seen it before.

“Can I not visit an old friend?” she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. The words were light, but the weight behind them was anything but. They were more than friends—they were allies, enemies, lovers, and adversaries. They were everything and nothing, all at once.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to the city, his gaze sweeping over the skyline. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

“The League’s presence in Gotham hasn’t gone unnoticed,” he said after a moment. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A warning. “If you’re here on your father’s orders—”

“I’m not here on my father’s orders,” she interrupted, her tone sharp. The mention of Ra’s was a sore subject, a reminder of the divide that separated them. “I’m here because I wanted to see you. Because I… needed to see you.”

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. It was not often that Talia allowed herself to be vulnerable, to show the cracks in her own armor. But with Bruce, it was different. With Bruce, she couldn’t help but be honest.

He turned to her again, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched on, and for a moment, she wondered if he would say anything at all. But then, he spoke.

“Why now?” he asked, his voice softer now. There was a hint of something in his tone. Curiosity? Concern? She couldn’t tell.

“Because I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within her. “Because I know what you’ve lost, and I… I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The words were true, but they were not the whole truth. She couldn’t tell him about Jason. She couldn’t tell him that his son was alive, that he was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. But she could offer him this—a moment of connection. A moment of understanding.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. The cape swirled around him like a living thing, and the faint scent of leather and smoke filled the air. He was so close now, close enough to touch, and yet, the distance between them felt insurmountable.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. But she knew better. She could see the pain in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He was not fine. He was far from it.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Bruce,” she said, her voice gentle. “Not to me.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the man beneath the cowl, the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. The man who had lost so much and yet continued to fight. The man she had loved for as long as she could remember.

“Talia…” he began, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, and neither did she. There were no words that could bridge the gap between them, no words that could undo the choices they had made or the paths they had chosen.

And so, they stood there, two figures silhouetted against the night, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape. The city stretched out before them, a sprawling testament to the darkness they both fought against. And for a moment, just a moment, Talia allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them.

But the moment passed, as all moments did, and the weight of reality settled back onto her shoulders. She stepped back, the distance between them growing once more.

“Be careful, Bruce,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “The city is not the only thing that can break you.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable once more. The mask was back in place, the walls rebuilt. But she knew what lay beneath. She had always known.

With one last look, she turned and leaped from the rooftop, disappearing into the night. The wind rushed past her, carrying with it the faint scent of Gotham’s decay. But as she made her way through the city, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of… something. Relief? Regret? She didn’t know.

Somewhere out there, Batman continued his relentless crusade, fighting to fill the ever-expanding void that consumed him.

She saw it in his every move, in the way he threw himself into the abyss of Gotham’s chaos. He blamed himself for the loss of his son, Jason Todd, and that guilt had become his penance, his retribution.

If only she could tell him the truth, if only she could ease his suffering. But the time was not right, and the secrets she carried were not hers to reveal—not yet.

Their son, Damian, was a light in this darkness, a beacon of hope and pride. He was everything she could have dreamed of and more.

With his striking resemblance to Bruce, his sharp intellect, and his prodigious talents, Damian was a testament to the legacy of both his father and the al Ghul bloodline.

He was her joy, her purpose, and her greatest triumph. How she wished she could share this with Bruce, to let him know that a part of him lived on in their son.

Damian was not just her child—he was theirs. He carried Bruce’s strength, his determination, and his unyielding sense of justice. But for now, this truth had to remain hidden. The weight of it would only complicate matters, and Bruce was not ready to bear it. Not yet.

She knew her beloved would endure. He was Batman, after all—the man her father had once seen as a worthy successor to the League of Assasins. Bruce’s resilience was unmatched, and though he might be lost in the shadows now, she had faith he would find his way.

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays bleeding into the horizon as the day surrendered to the encroaching twilight. The river before me shimmered like molten bronze, its surface rippling with the occasional leap of a fish or the gentle caress of the evening breeze.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and sweat I was now accustomed to. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the world felt both vast and suffocating—a paradox I couldn’t quite reconcile.

I sat cross-legged on the riverbank, my back stiff from hours of forced meditation. Ra’s al Ghul, had insisted on it. “Meditation is the foundation of control,” he’d said, his voice as smooth as the river’s current but with an undercurrent of steel. “Without it, you are but a leaf in the wind, tossed about by your emotions.”

I Hated it. Every second of it. My mind doesn't seem to be built for stillness. It felt more like a battlefield, a cacophony of anger, regret, and the ever-present itch for carnage.

But here I was, playing the obedient student, because if there was one thing I hated more than meditation, it was feeling like I had no control over myself.

Ra’s had set up camp a few yards away—a modest tent that looked more like a relic from a bygone era than something fit for a man of his stature. I doubted he’d be sharing it. The old man had a flair for the dramatic, and his idea of “roughing it” probably involved silk sheets and a butler.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the river, Ra’s called out to me. “Jason, join me.”

I stood, brushing the dirt from my pants, and made my way over. He stood at the water’s edge, his silhouette framed by the dying light. In his hands, he held a dagger, its blade glinting ominously. A length of rope was tied to its handle, the other end coiled neatly in his palm.

“Let us catch ourselves some dinner before your final lesson for the day,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. He tossed a handful of bait into the water, and almost immediately, the surface erupted with activity as fish swarmed the spot, their silvery bodies darting to and fro.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is it just me, or did you skip the part about eating dinner before we call it a night? Because I’m starving.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he twirled the rope with practiced ease, the dagger spinning in a deadly arc. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the water. The blade struck true, impaling a fish mid-swim. He yanked it back, the fish flopping helplessly as he placed it on a bed of leaves behind him.

He repeated the process, catching another fish with the same effortless precision. Then, without a word, he handed the rope and dagger to me.

“Your turn,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the makeshift fishing tool, feeling the weight of the dagger in my hand. “Okay…” I muttered, more to myself than to him. I mimicked his movements, twirling the rope until the dagger gained momentum.

My eyes locked onto a fish—a plump one, lazily drifting near the surface. It looked like it would taste amazing roasted over a fire, especially after the grueling day I’d had.

I halted the rotation and hurled the dagger, aiming for the fish’s body. The blade hit the water with a splash, missing its mark entirely. The fish darted away, disappearing into the murky depths.

“Shit!” I growled, frustration bubbling up. I tried again, this time aiming for a smaller fish. Same result. The damn thing was faster than it looked.

The geezer watched silently, his expression unreadable. “There are a few more around,” he said finally. “You only need to catch one.”

“Just one?” I shot him an incredulous look. “Three fish won’t be enough for both of us. I’m starving. Four would be ideal.”

He folded his arms, his gaze steady. “We will be incorporating fasting into our training for the next few days.”

“Fasting?” I echoed, my voice rising. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Fasting is a key practice,” he explained, his tone infuriatingly calm. “It will help you attune to your body and mind during meditation. Now, focus. Catch a fish before we lose the light.”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to push down the irritation. I locked onto another fish, this one smaller but quicker. Ra’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Anticipate its movement. Strike where it will be, not where it swims.”

It was simple advice, but it clicked. I spun the rope again, the dagger whirling in a tight circle. This time, I aimed for the fish’s head, calculating its trajectory. With a grunt, I let the dagger fly.

It struck true, the blade embedding itself in the fish’s body. I yanked it back, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. “Yes!”

“Good,” Ra’s said, his approval as understated as ever. He nodded slightly, the closest I’d get to a pat on the back.

By the time I pulled the fish ashore, the sun had fully set, leaving the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The old man lit a campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face as he prepared the fish. He skewered them on sticks and set them over the fire, the smell of the roast making my stomach growl.

When the fish were done, he handed me two, keeping only one for himself. “Here,” he said. “You earned it.”

I hesitated, eyeing the second fish. “Are you sure?”

“You will need your strength for tomorrow’s training,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the fishes, the warmth of the fire seeping into my bones as I ate. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable. The old man had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like a test.

As he stood to retire to his tent, he paused, turning to me. “Yes? Ask your questions. I will answer two, so choose wisely.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Damn, is he psychic too?

The first question came easily. “How long is this training going to take?”

“Until you achieve a level of self-mastery that allows you to conceal your presence from even the most alert individuals,” he said, his voice as steady as the river’s flow. “This training should help you gain control over your emotions and impulses.”

I nodded, the answer both satisfying and daunting. The second question was more of a jab. “Why do you get a tent, and I’m stuck out here with a sleeping bag?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I say so.”

“That’s not an answer,” I called after him as he disappeared into his tent.

He didn’t respond.

I added more wood to the fire, the flames crackling as I settled into my sleeping bag. The exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me, and despite the hard ground and the chill in the air, sleep came quickly.

As I drifted off, the last thing I saw was the fire’s glow, a small beacon in the vast, dark wilderness. And for the first time in a while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.

- - -

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pale pink and gold. The forest was alive with the sounds of waking creatures—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the distant gurgle of the river. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and pine. Jason Todd stirred in his sleeping bag, the chill of the morning seeping into his bones.

He groaned, pulling the thin fabric tighter around himself. He didn’t have a nightmare last night and was having the best sleep he has had since the past week, but the peace was short-lived.

“Jason,” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. “Rise. The day does not wait for those who linger in comfort.”

Jason cracked an eye open, squinting at the silhouette of Ra’s standing over him. The man was already dressed, his robes immaculate despite the wilderness setting.

Jason muttered a curse under his breath but forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You know, most people start the day with coffee, not a wake-up call from the Demon’s Head.”

Ra’s ignored the quip, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Today, we begin your training in earnest. Follow me.”

Jason dragged himself to his feet, shivering as the cold morning air bit through his clothes. He grabbed his jacket and followed Ra’s, who moved with the grace of a predator through the dense forest.

The ground was soft beneath their feet, covered in a thick layer of moss and fallen leaves. The trees towered above them, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.

After a short hike, they reached a clearing where a waterfall cascaded down a rocky cliff, its waters crashing into a crystal-clear pool below. The sound was deafening, a constant roar that drowned out all other noise. Mist rose from the pool, catching the sunlight and creating a shimmering veil around the waterfall. It was a scene of raw, untamed beauty, but Jason had a feeling he wasn’t here to admire the view.

Ra’s turned to him, his gaze piercing. “You will sit beneath the waterfall. The cold and the pressure will test your endurance, but more importantly, they will force you to focus inward. You must let go of the outside world and confront the darkness within.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You want me to sit under that? In this weather? Are you trying to kill me?”

Ra’s didn’t flinch. “If I wanted you dead, Jason, you would be. This is not about comfort. It is about control. The chaos in your mind is your greatest enemy. To master it, you must first face it.”

Jason hesitated, staring at the waterfall. The idea of sitting under that freezing torrent was about as appealing as a root canal, but he knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in just his pants. The cold air bit at his skin, raising goosebumps as he stepped into the shallow stream. The water was icy, sending a shock through his system as he waded deeper.

He reached the base of the waterfall, the force of the falling water pounding against his shoulders as he tried to find a stable position. The rocks beneath his feet were slippery, and the pressure of the water threatened to knock him off balance.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit cross-legged beneath the cascade. The cold was unbearable, and the pressure felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into his skin.

“Close your eyes,” Ra’s instructed, his voice carrying over the roar of the waterfall. “Focus on the darkness you see within. Let go of the outside world. Listen only to the pulse of your heartbeat.”

Jason clenched his jaw, trying to block out the discomfort. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a swirling mass of anger, and pain.

The blurred memories of his past, familiar but unidentifiable, voices of a deranged clown, his death, his resurrection, flooded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him as he was almost sent into shock.

He struggled to push them aside, to focus on the pulse of his heartbeat, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

“I can’t—” he started to say, but Ra’s cut him off.

“You can. And you will. This is not about physical strength, Jason. It is about mental fortitude. The chaos in your mind is a reflection of your lack of control. Confront it. Master it.”

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He focused on the rhythmic pounding of his heart, using it as an anchor to ground himself. Slowly, the chaos in his mind began to recede, replaced by a sense of calm.

The cold and the pressure of the water faded into the background, becoming distant sensations rather than overwhelming forces.

As he sat there, the faint flashes of memories blurred even further, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

- - -

The training continued for three days, each one more grueling than the last. Ra’s pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to confront his weaknesses and overcome them.

They hunted for food, tracking wild animals through the dense forest and catching fish from the river. Ra’s taught Jason how to move silently, to blend into his surroundings, and to strike with precision. But the most challenging part of the training was the meditation beneath the waterfall.

Each morning, Jason would sit beneath the cascade, the cold and pressure testing his endurance. At first, he struggled, his mind a whirlwind of chaos and emotion. But with each passing day, he grew stronger, more focused.

Due to this training Ra’s had put him unto, the resurfacing memories of his past were chugged down to the deepest corners of his mind, replaced by a sense of calm and control. By the third day, he could sit beneath the waterfall for hours, his mind clear and his body still.

On the final day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ra’s called an end to the training. “You have made progress,” he said, his tone as neutral as ever. “But this is only the beginning. True mastery takes years, even decades. Are you prepared to continue?”

Jason nodded, his expression determined. “I’m ready.” He replied, feeling like some weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Ra’s studied him for a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the camp. “Then let us return to the base. There is much work to be done.”

As they made their way through the forest, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The anger and pain that had once consumed him were still there, but they felt distant, like echoes of a past life.

He didn’t realize it, but the training had done more than just teach him control—it had reshaped him, solidifying his current personality and burying the memories of his old self deep within his subconscious.

When they finally emerged from the forest and returned to the base of the League of Assassins, Jason felt a sense of accomplishment.

He had faced his demons and come out stronger. But as he looked at Ra’s, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future held. The path to self-mastery was long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, Jason felt like he was on the right track.

Chapter Text

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays bleeding into the horizon as the day surrendered to the encroaching twilight. The river before me shimmered like molten bronze, its surface rippling with the occasional leap of a fish or the gentle caress of the evening breeze.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and sweat I was now accustomed to. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the world felt both vast and suffocating—a paradox I couldn’t quite reconcile.

I sat cross-legged on the riverbank, my back stiff from hours of forced meditation. Ra’s al Ghul, had insisted on it. “Meditation is the foundation of control,” he’d said, his voice as smooth as the river’s current but with an undercurrent of steel. “Without it, you are but a leaf in the wind, tossed about by your emotions.”

I Hated it. Every second of it. My mind doesn't seem to be built for stillness. It felt more like a battlefield, a cacophony of anger, regret, and the ever-present itch for carnage.

But here I was, playing the obedient student, because if there was one thing I hated more than meditation, it was feeling like I had no control over myself.

Ra’s had set up camp a few yards away—a modest tent that looked more like a relic from a bygone era than something fit for a man of his stature. I doubted he’d be sharing it. The old man had a flair for the dramatic, and his idea of “roughing it” probably involved silk sheets and a butler.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the river, Ra’s called out to me. “Jason, join me.”

I stood, brushing the dirt from my pants, and made my way over. He stood at the water’s edge, his silhouette framed by the dying light. In his hands, he held a dagger, its blade glinting ominously. A length of rope was tied to its handle, the other end coiled neatly in his palm.

“Let us catch ourselves some dinner before your final lesson for the day,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. He tossed a handful of bait into the water, and almost immediately, the surface erupted with activity as fish swarmed the spot, their silvery bodies darting to and fro.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is it just me, or did you skip the part about eating dinner before we call it a night? Because I’m starving.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he twirled the rope with practiced ease, the dagger spinning in a deadly arc. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the water. The blade struck true, impaling a fish mid-swim. He yanked it back, the fish flopping helplessly as he placed it on a bed of leaves behind him.

He repeated the process, catching another fish with the same effortless precision. Then, without a word, he handed the rope and dagger to me.

“Your turn,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the makeshift fishing tool, feeling the weight of the dagger in my hand. “Okay…” I muttered, more to myself than to him. I mimicked his movements, twirling the rope until the dagger gained momentum.

My eyes locked onto a fish—a plump one, lazily drifting near the surface. It looked like it would taste amazing roasted over a fire, especially after the grueling day I’d had.

I halted the rotation and hurled the dagger, aiming for the fish’s body. The blade hit the water with a splash, missing its mark entirely. The fish darted away, disappearing into the murky depths.

“Shit!” I growled, frustration bubbling up. I tried again, this time aiming for a smaller fish. Same result. The damn thing was faster than it looked.

The geezer watched silently, his expression unreadable. “There are a few more around,” he said finally. “You only need to catch one.”

“Just one?” I shot him an incredulous look. “Three fish won’t be enough for both of us. I’m starving. Four would be ideal.”

He folded his arms, his gaze steady. “We will be incorporating fasting into our training for the next few days.”

“Fasting?” I echoed, my voice rising. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Fasting is a key practice,” he explained, his tone infuriatingly calm. “It will help you attune to your body and mind during meditation. Now, focus. Catch a fish before we lose the light.”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to push down the irritation. I locked onto another fish, this one smaller but quicker. Ra’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Anticipate its movement. Strike where it will be, not where it swims.”

It was simple advice, but it clicked. I spun the rope again, the dagger whirling in a tight circle. This time, I aimed for the fish’s head, calculating its trajectory. With a grunt, I let the dagger fly.

It struck true, the blade embedding itself in the fish’s body. I yanked it back, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. “Yes!”

“Good,” Ra’s said, his approval as understated as ever. He nodded slightly, the closest I’d get to a pat on the back.

By the time I pulled the fish ashore, the sun had fully set, leaving the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The old man lit a campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face as he prepared the fish. He skewered them on sticks and set them over the fire, the smell of the roast making my stomach growl.

When the fish were done, he handed me two, keeping only one for himself. “Here,” he said. “You earned it.”

I hesitated, eyeing the second fish. “Are you sure?”

“You will need your strength for tomorrow’s training,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the fishes, the warmth of the fire seeping into my bones as I ate. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable. The old man had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like a test.

As he stood to retire to his tent, he paused, turning to me. “Yes? Ask your questions. I will answer two, so choose wisely.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Damn, is he psychic too?

The first question came easily. “How long is this training going to take?”

“Until you achieve a level of self-mastery that allows you to conceal your presence from even the most alert individuals,” he said, his voice as steady as the river’s flow. “This training should help you gain control over your emotions and impulses.”

I nodded, the answer both satisfying and daunting. The second question was more of a jab. “Why do you get a tent, and I’m stuck out here with a sleeping bag?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because I say so.”

“That’s not an answer,” I called after him as he disappeared into his tent.

He didn’t respond.

I added more wood to the fire, the flames crackling as I settled into my sleeping bag. The exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me, and despite the hard ground and the chill in the air, sleep came quickly.

As I drifted off, the last thing I saw was the fire’s glow, a small beacon in the vast, dark wilderness. And for the first time in a while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.

- - -

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pale pink and gold. The forest was alive with the sounds of waking creatures—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the distant gurgle of the river. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and pine. Jason Todd stirred in his sleeping bag, the chill of the morning seeping into his bones.

He groaned, pulling the thin fabric tighter around himself. He didn’t have a nightmare last night and was having the best sleep he has had since the past week, but the peace was short-lived.

“Jason,” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. “Rise. The day does not wait for those who linger in comfort.”

Jason cracked an eye open, squinting at the silhouette of Ra’s standing over him. The man was already dressed, his robes immaculate despite the wilderness setting.

Jason muttered a curse under his breath but forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You know, most people start the day with coffee, not a wake-up call from the Demon’s Head.”

Ra’s ignored the quip, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Today, we begin your training in earnest. Follow me.”

Jason dragged himself to his feet, shivering as the cold morning air bit through his clothes. He grabbed his jacket and followed Ra’s, who moved with the grace of a predator through the dense forest.

The ground was soft beneath their feet, covered in a thick layer of moss and fallen leaves. The trees towered above them, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.

After a short hike, they reached a clearing where a waterfall cascaded down a rocky cliff, its waters crashing into a crystal-clear pool below. The sound was deafening, a constant roar that drowned out all other noise. Mist rose from the pool, catching the sunlight and creating a shimmering veil around the waterfall. It was a scene of raw, untamed beauty, but Jason had a feeling he wasn’t here to admire the view.

Ra’s turned to him, his gaze piercing. “You will sit beneath the waterfall. The cold and the pressure will test your endurance, but more importantly, they will force you to focus inward. You must let go of the outside world and confront the darkness within.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You want me to sit under that? In this weather? Are you trying to kill me?”

Ra’s didn’t flinch. “If I wanted you dead, Jason, you would be. This is not about comfort. It is about control. The chaos in your mind is your greatest enemy. To master it, you must first face it.”

Jason hesitated, staring at the waterfall. The idea of sitting under that freezing torrent was about as appealing as a root canal, but he knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in just his pants. The cold air bit at his skin, raising goosebumps as he stepped into the shallow stream. The water was icy, sending a shock through his system as he waded deeper.

He reached the base of the waterfall, the force of the falling water pounding against his shoulders as he tried to find a stable position. The rocks beneath his feet were slippery, and the pressure of the water threatened to knock him off balance.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit cross-legged beneath the cascade. The cold was unbearable, and the pressure felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into his skin.

“Close your eyes,” Ra’s instructed, his voice carrying over the roar of the waterfall. “Focus on the darkness you see within. Let go of the outside world. Listen only to the pulse of your heartbeat.”

Jason clenched his jaw, trying to block out the discomfort. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a swirling mass of anger, and pain.

The blurred memories of his past, familiar but unidentifiable, voices of a deranged clown, his death, his resurrection, flooded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him as he was almost sent into shock.

He struggled to push them aside, to focus on the pulse of his heartbeat, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

“I can’t—” he started to say, but Ra’s cut him off.

“You can. And you will. This is not about physical strength, Jason. It is about mental fortitude. The chaos in your mind is a reflection of your lack of control. Confront it. Master it.”

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He focused on the rhythmic pounding of his heart, using it as an anchor to ground himself. Slowly, the chaos in his mind began to recede, replaced by a sense of calm.

The cold and the pressure of the water faded into the background, becoming distant sensations rather than overwhelming forces.

As he sat there, the faint flashes of memories blurred even further, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

- - -

The training continued for three days, each one more grueling than the last. Ra’s pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to confront his weaknesses and overcome them.

They hunted for food, tracking wild animals through the dense forest and catching fish from the river. Ra’s taught Jason how to move silently, to blend into his surroundings, and to strike with precision. But the most challenging part of the training was the meditation beneath the waterfall.

Each morning, Jason would sit beneath the cascade, the cold and pressure testing his endurance. At first, he struggled, his mind a whirlwind of chaos and emotion. But with each passing day, he grew stronger, more focused.

Due to this training Ra’s had put him unto, the resurfacing memories of his past were chugged down to the deepest corners of his mind, replaced by a sense of calm and control. By the third day, he could sit beneath the waterfall for hours, his mind clear and his body still.

On the final day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ra’s called an end to the training. “You have made progress,” he said, his tone as neutral as ever. “But this is only the beginning. True mastery takes years, even decades. Are you prepared to continue?”

Jason nodded, his expression determined. “I’m ready.” He replied, feeling like some weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Ra’s studied him for a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the camp. “Then let us return to the base. There is much work to be done.”

As they made their way through the forest, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The anger and pain that had once consumed him were still there, but they felt distant, like echoes of a past life.

He didn’t realize it, but the training had done more than just teach him control—it had reshaped him, solidifying his current personality and burying the memories of his old self deep within his subconscious.

When they finally emerged from the forest and returned to the base of the League of Assassins, Jason felt a sense of accomplishment.

He had faced his demons and come out stronger. But as he looked at Ra’s, he couldn’t help but wonder what the future held. The path to self-mastery was long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, Jason felt like he was on the right track.

Chapter Text

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the base was bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, Ra’s summoned Jason to his private quarters.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a large wooden desk, a few chairs, and a map of the world pinned to the wall. Ra stood by the desk, having a neutral expression.

“You have made significant progress,” Ra’s said, his voice calm but commanding. “But true mastery can only be achieved through practical field application. A mission has come up that will test your skills.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of mission?”

Ra’s gestured to the map, his finger tracing a line to a small village nestled in the mountains. “There is a target here—a man who has betrayed the League.

He is hiding in the village, protected by a group of mercenaries. Your task is to infiltrate the village, eliminate the target, and retrieve a valuable artifact he has stolen. You must do this without being seen or noticed until you have retrieved it and assassinated the target.”

Jason studied the map, his mind already working through the details. “When do I leave?”

“At dawn,” Ra’s replied. “This will be your final test. If you succeed, you will have proven yourself worthy of the League’s teachings.”

Jason nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. “I won’t fail.”

- - -

The village was a ghostly settlement swallowed by towering pines, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Wooden houses, their beams blackened by time, stood like sentinels beneath thick blankets of moss.

Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and spiced meat. Laughter echoed through the narrow streets, but Jason didn’t let the illusion of peace fool him.

‘Too quiet for a mercenary base.’

He moved like a wraith, his boots barely disturbing the damp earth. The League’s training had honed his instincts to a razor’s edge—every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind, spoke to him. His fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger strapped to his thigh, the cold metal a silent promise.

‘Guards. Two at the gate, four patrolling the perimeter. Too many for a simple village.’

His target’s hideout loomed ahead—a fortified manor encircled by a high stone wall, its surface slick with ivy. Mercenaries prowled the grounds, their rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes sharp.

Jason smirked beneath his mask. Amateurs.

He waited, counting the seconds between patrol rotations. Then—flick—a pebble arced through the air, landing in the underbrush with a soft crunch.

The nearest guard spun. “You hear that?”

Jason was already moving, scaling the wall with practiced ease. His muscles coiled as he dropped into the courtyard, rolling behind a rain barrel. The scent of damp wood and gun oil filled his nostrils.

No alarms. Good.

The manor’s back door was reinforced steel, but the lock was a joke. Three picks, a twist, and the mechanism surrendered with a soft click. Inside, the air was thick with incense—sandalwood and something bitter. Camouflage. They’re hiding something.

He ghosted through dim corridors, his senses hyper-alert. The study door was ajar, golden candlelight spilling onto the hardwood floor.

There.

A man sat at an oak desk, his back turned, a familiar ornate box resting before him. The build matched his target’s—broad shoulders, military-straight posture. Jason’s grip tightened on his knife.

End this quick.

In three silent strides, he was behind him. “Don’t move,” Jason murmured, voice low and lethal. “This doesn’t have to get messy.”

The man tensed—then moved. A dagger flashed in the candlelight, slicing toward Jason’s throat.

‘Shit.’

Instinct took over. Jason twisted, catching the man’s wrist and driving a brutal elbow into his windpipe. The mercenary gagged, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.

Jason yanked down the scarf masking the man’s face.

It wasn’t the League’s target, Slade Wilson.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he thought to himself. ‘Slade should be here somewhere.’

He did not know why the name or picture of his target was so familiar to him, but he ignored that and was so focused on executing his mission with acute efficiency.

Footsteps echoed in the hall—heavy, purposeful.

Jason acted fast. He dragged the unconscious merc behind the desk, then slid into the vacated chair, pulling the scarf over his own face. The door creaked open.

A guard stepped in, his rifle slung lazily over one shoulder. “Didn’t realize you were still here, sir. Just checking in.”

Jason kept his voice smooth, bored. “I’m reviewing intel.” He slowly walked towards the door and closed it behind him.

The guard hesitated. “You… weren’t with the main force?”

Jason’s pulse spiked, but his tone remained ice. “I had separate orders.” Curious as to where the main force may have gone to as it was only reasonable that their leader might be with them, he asked.

“Where’d the main force head off this morning?” Jason kept his voice casual, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there. “Just finished my assignment, but by the time I got back to file my report, the place was half-empty.”

The guard smirked, puffing out his chest. “Oh, you missed the fun. Boss took the big guns out for a hunt.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. “That so? What’s the target?”

“The League of Assassins’ stronghold,” the guard said, pride dripping from his words.

“Slade’s gonna carve up Ra’s al Ghul himself and bring back his head as a trophy. Let’s see the ‘Demon’s Head’ survive that.” He barked a laugh, sharp with mockery.

Jason’s jaw clenched behind the mask, teeth grinding against the sting of the insult. It burned—not just the words, but the casual arrogance behind them.

They’d slaughtered an entire unit like it was nothing. He forced a chuckle anyway, rough and approving, the sound scraping his throat like gravel.

“Damn. Wish I’d been on that op.” A shake of his head, the picture of a soldier denied glory. “Nothing left but cleanup now, huh?”

The guard shrugged, oblivious. “Pretty much.” Then, with a camaraderie that made Jason’s skin crawl, the man clapped him on the shoulder—

—and froze.

Jason saw it the second the guard’s gaze flicked downward, toward the unconscious man’s boot protruding from behind the desk. A half-breath of hesitation. A widening of pupils.

Too late.

Jason was already moving.

With much practiced efficiency, his hand snapped up in a knife-edge strike, driving into the guard’s exposed throat with surgical precision.

The man’s choked gasp died as his windpipe collapsed; he folded like a marionette with its strings cut, knees hitting the floor before his body toppled sideways.

No time to dwell. No time to check pulses.

‘They’re inside the League.’

The realization coiled like ice in his gut. He snatched the artifact from the desk—its weight suddenly too light for the havoc it carried—and was at the door in three strides.

Shadows swallowed him as he slipped into the corridor, his breaths measured, his footfalls silent. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but discipline kept his movements efficient, invisible.

He retraced his steps through the hideout’s labyrinthine halls, a ghost in enemy territory.

A guard turned the corner ahead; Jason melted into an alcove, pressing flat against the wall until the man passed, whistling. Another heartbeat, and he was moving again, slipping out a side entrance into the knife-cold air of the forest.

Dawn had bled into midday by the time he cleared the tree line, the sun high and pitiless.

The artifact was secure in his pack, but his fingers twitched toward the comm unit at his belt. Static hissed back—jammed, or the League’s channels were chaos. Either way, the message was clear.

They’re under attack. And Ra’s doesn’t know.

He broke into a sprint.

- - -

[The League of Assassins stronghold]

Training had begun, and Jason was nowhere to be found. When that happened, he was usually with Ra’s or receiving secluded instruction from him. But this morning, Talia spotted her father on the balcony above, surveying the training grounds as she led the assassins through their drills.

Damian had also noticed the older boy’s absence. Under his mother’s orders, he had gone to drag Jason down to the courtyard, eager to annoy the shit out of him before training even started. To his irritation, the room was empty. Jason wasn’t in his usual spot atop the mountains either, where he often went to clear his head.

As another instructor took over the weapon drills, Talia seized the moment to approach her father. His undisturbed demeanor suggested he knew exactly where Jason was—and that bothered her.

She climbed the stairs, her steps measured, and joined him at the balcony’s edge.

“Father,” she greeted, her voice steady.

“Daughter,” he replied, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below. “As always, your training sessions are commendable. You will make a fine leader for the League, guiding my grandson when the time comes for him to claim his inheritance.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The praise warmed her, as it always did. She had spent her life striving to meet his expectations, honing herself into the perfect weapon—not as the heir he might have wanted, but as the assassin he needed.

Yet something gnawed at her.

“Jason wasn’t present for training this morning,” she remarked, keeping her tone neutral. “He didn’t report in, nor did he give notice. That isn’t like him.”

Ra’s finally glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re concerned for the boy.”

It wasn’t a question.

“There’s no need for worry. I sent him on an errand—a challenge to help provide him with insight on the strength he must still attain.”

Talia’s fingers twitched, the only outward sign of her unease. Her father’s missions were brutal by design, but this secrecy was unusual.

“What mission required such discretion that he couldn’t inform me?”

“I ordered him to tell no one. He left before dawn.” Ra’s paused, weighing his next words. “A containment box was stolen from my gallery. It appeared to be a mere artifact, but it held a tracker—one that was likely discovered and destroyed by now. Only one man could have taken it without detection.”

Talia’s stomach tightened. “Who?”

“Slade Wilson.”

Her breath caught. “You sent Jason after Deathstroke?” Disbelief sharpened her voice. “He’s outmatched in every way—experience, skill, combat instinct.”

Ra’s remained impassive. “It will serve as a lesson. Either he rises to the occasion, or he perishes. Survival alone will force growth.”

“This isn’t training, Father. It’s a death sentence.”

“He won’t die so easily.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Intuition.” Ra’s turned back to the courtyard, his voice low. “He has the will to survive. If he returns, he will have earned his place. If not… then he was never fit for the role I envisioned.”

Talia bit back her protest. There was more to this. “What was in the artifact?”

Ra’s exhaled, as if amused by her focus. “The question isn’t what it contained, but what was engrav—”

“Mother!” Damian’s voice cut through the air as he strode toward them. “He’s gone. No one has seen Jason all morning.”

Talia forced calm into her tone. “Your grandfather sent him on a mission.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. The implication was clear—Jason was being groomed in ways he wasn’t. A flicker of resentment burned in his eyes.

Ra’s noticed. He extended a hand, drawing Damian closer. “You need not worry. None of this diminishes your birthright.” He gestured to the assassins below, moving in flawless unison. “This is your legacy, Damian. The League will be yours.”

Pride swelled in the boy’s chest, but before he could respond, Ra’s stiffened. His sharp eyes caught the glint of a rifle muzzle from a nearby doorway.

“Get down!”

He shoved Damian aside as Talia dropped. A gunshot rang out—a near miss, but the bullet grazed Ra’s shoulder.

Blood seeped into his robes.

“We’ve been breached!” he snarled.

Talia's gaze snapped toward the shifting shadows. Dark figures poured into the courtyard like ink spilling across parchment, their movements precise, predatory. The glint of firearms in their grip caught the pale morning light, cold, impersonal, lethal.

“Get him out of here,” Ra’s ordered, unsheathing his sword, his wound ignored.

Chapter Text

Chaos erupted in the heart of the League's stronghold.

Ra's al Ghul stood unwavering despite the blood seeping through the fabric of his robes, staining the dark green silk a deeper crimson.

The bullet wound in his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, yet his posture remained rigid, his very image of indomitable will.

Before him, black-clad intruders poured into the courtyard like a tide of shadows, their assault rifles gleaming dully in the pale morning light as they fanned out with military precision.

Every muzzle was trained on the Demon's Head, his daughter, and his grandson, three generations of al Ghul legacy standing against the storm.

"Take the boy." The command left no room for debate, Ra's voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade through silk.

Talia moved before the echo faded.

Her fingers closed around Damian's wrist with the certainty of a falcon's talons, yanking him behind her.

The assassins flooding through the arched gateways moved with a synchronization that made her stomach clench, these weren't mere mercenaries.

Their footfalls fell in perfect rhythm, their attacks coordinated with lethal efficiency. These were trained killers.

"Stay close," she ordered Damian, her voice sharp as the steel in her hand.

"I don't need protection!" Damian spat, his young face contorted in a mix of fury and indignation, his small hands already gripping his own dagger.

But Talia's attention was already elsewhere - mapping escape routes, calculating threats, her mind working with the cold precision that had kept her alive through countless coups and betrayals.

The second gunshot shattered the moment.

Talia's body moved before her mind fully registered the threat. She twisted, using her momentum to slam Damian against a weathered stone pillar just as the bullet struck where his head had been, sending chips of ancient rock spraying through the air.

The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood from the courtyard.

"They're not just here to raid," Talia realized aloud, her voice barely above a whisper yet carrying terrible certainty. This was an extermination. A purge.

Damian's emerald eyes burned with defiance, his small chest heaving, but before he could voice another protest, a shadow detached itself from the corridor ahead.

Talia's dagger met the attacker's blade in a shower of sparks, the ringing clash echoing off the courtyard’s walls.

Without breaking rhythm, she drove her knee upward, feeling ribs give way beneath the impact. The assassin stumbled back, choking on blood.

"Move!" The command left her lips like the crack of a whip, her palm pressing firmly between Damian's shoulder blades to propel him forward.

Ra’s’ sword moved like liquid silver, each swing a masterpiece of violence. The blade sang as it parted flesh and bone, his movements so precise they seemed choreographed.

An attacker fell, throat opened. Another collapsed, clutching at the ruin of his abdomen. Yet for all his lethal grace, the numbers were against him.

Then– destruction.

The traditional fusuma doors that had stood for generations, elegant wooden frames papered with delicate scenes of mountain landscapes–exploded inward in a hail of splinters.

The sound was deafening; centuries of craftsmanship reduced to flying shrapnel in an instant. Through the ruined doorway poured more black-masked figures, their weapons glinting like a field of deadly stars in the morning light.

"Get him out of here!" Ra's voice carried over the din, the order absolute.

This time, Damian didn't resist. Talia felt the subtle shift in his posture the moment his training overrode his pride.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his small form tight against her chest, and leapt from the balcony without hesitation.

Wind rushed past Talia's ears as they fell. The extended rooftop rushed up to meet them, its clay tiles baking in the morning sun. Impact came with a thunderous crack as their combined weight shattered the ancient terracotta.

They skidded downward in a cascade of broken fragments, Talia's body twisting mid-fall to take the brunt of the impact, her arms forming a protective cage around Damian.

For one breathless moment, the world was dust and pain and the sharp scent of broken clay.

Then training took over. Talia rolled them to their feet in one smooth motion, her eyes already scanning for the next threat even as she assessed Damian for injuries.

Ra's al Ghul had already begun his
bloody work on the balcony above.

The Demon's Head stood silhouetted against the pale sky, his sword raised high like a standard of defiance.

Every gun on the spot turned toward him as one, forming a perfect semicircle of death. The simultaneous gunfire was deafening, a wall of lead and fire rushing toward its target.

Ra's moved like a specter.

His blade became a silver blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision. Sparks flew as steel met lead, the ricochets whining through the air like angry hornets. Step by calculated step, he closed the distance, his expression one of terrifying calm.

Then he struck.

The first attacker died with Ra's sword buried to the hilt in his chest, the blade punching through armor as if it were parchment.

As the others continued firing, Ra's danced between the bullets, his footwork a deadly poetry. Each slash sent arcs of crimson through the air; each parry rang like a death knell.

One by one, they fell.

The last surviving attacker backpedaled desperately, his boots slipping in his comrades' blood. The whites of his eyes showed stark against his black mask as he emptied his clip in a panicked spray.

Ra's sidestepped the barrage with contemptuous ease. Then he leapt - a perfect, soaring arc that carried him over the final distance.

The attacker had just enough time to scream before the sword found its mark, punching through his open mouth and out the back of his skull in a grisly fountain of gore.

Silence fell.

Then–the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle from the shadows of the inner corridor. The bullet passed so close to Ra's face that it stirred the hairs of his beard. His head snapped toward the darkness, his eyes burning with primal fury.

"Who would dare?" The words dripped with venom, with the outrage of a king defied in his own hall. This wasn't battle - this was cowardice.

Without another word, he charged into the darkness, his sword hungry for one more kill.

- - -

The stronghold burned.

Flames clawed at the ancient stone walls, their orange tongues licking the darkened sky as smoke coiled thick and suffocating.

The League’s sanctum, once a fortress of shadow and discipline, had become a slaughterhouse. The air trembled with the roar of gunfire, the shriek of missiles, and the dying cries of assassins cut down before they could strike.

Talia moved like a wraith through the carnage, her son Damian pressed close behind her. The courtyard was a nightmare of flickering firelight and blood-slicked stone.

Bullets chewed through the air, stitching death into the ranks of her warriors. Above, the mechanical beasts of war—four AH-64 Apache helicopters—hovered like vultures, their miniguns spitting leaden fury.

Then came the thunder.

Missiles streaked from the choppers, slamming into the open field. Dirt and bodies erupted in geysers of flame. A direct hit vaporized three assassins mid-charge, their swords flashing uselessly before they were reduced to crimson mist.

Talia seized Damian’s arm and yanked him behind a crumbling section of wall just as shrapnel whined past, embedding itself in the stone where his head had been.

“Stay down," she hissed.

Twice now, in the span of ten brutal
minutes, death had reached for him-
and twice, Talia had ripped him from
its grasp.

Damian exhaled sharply, his small
frame pressed against the scorched
stone wall. His fingers curled into
fists, nails biting into his palms.

His eyes—green and sharp as dagger points—flickered with something between fury and fear. But he obeyed.

Across the courtyard, the League’s warriors fought with the desperation of cornered beasts. Some fell, their bodies jerking under hails of gunfire.

Others, faster, deadlier, twisted through the bullets like serpents, closing the distance to bury blades in mercenary throats. But for every soldier that fell, another seemed to take his place.

Then, the reinforcements arrived.

Five CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters descended, their rotors whipping the smoke into frenzied spirals.

Ropes uncoiled like striking vipers, and mercenaries rappelled down, boots hitting the ground in synchronized thuds. M16s and M13s glinted in the firelight as they fanned out, advancing in disciplined formation.

Talia’s jaw tightened. This was a massacre, not a battle.

She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Stay here." The command left no room for argument. She shoved Damian deeper into cover, ensuring the shadows swallowed him whole. Then she stepped into the fray.

A bow found its way into her hands—snatched from a dying assassin whose chest was a ruin of bullet wounds. The arrows were League-forged, their tips designed to punch through steel. She nocked, drew, and released in one fluid motion.

The arrow streaked through the chaos, a silver whisper in the night. It found the cockpit of the nearest Apache, piercing the pilot’s throat with surgical precision. Blood painted the glass as the chopper lurched, its controls slipping from lifeless fingers.

The co-pilot scrambled, hands grappling at the cyclic, but the bird was already spiraling. It struck the ground in a fireball that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Her warriors roared.

Talia became a storm. Arrows flew, each one a death sentence. She emptied her quiver, then discarded the bow and moved like vengeance incarnate. A mercenary lunged—she broke his wrist, stole his rifle, and put two rounds through his skull before turning the weapon on the next.

Gunfire. Screams. The stench of burning flesh.

She fought her way toward the fences, where more mercenaries poured in like a black tide. A soldier dropped from the wall, rifle swinging toward her—she was already moving.

Her knee crashed into his ribs, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, she used his collapsing body as a stepping stone, launching herself onto the wall.

Now she had the high ground.

A pump-action shotgun barked in her hands, its roar drowning the cacophony. Shell after shell, she cut down the reinforcements, her aim unerring. Bodies tumbled from the wall like broken dolls.

Behind the crumbling barricade, Damian watched. His small hands clenched into fists.

A mercenary spotted him—grinned—raised his pistol.

A blade flashed. The man’s arm hit the ground before he could pull the trigger. His scream was cut short as an assassin’s sword took his head.

Damian didn’t flinch.

His gaze locked onto the fallen pistol. An opportunity.

In a heartbeat, he was moving. Small, fast, lethal. He snatched the gun, rolled into a crouch, and fired. Two mercenaries dropped before they even registered the threat.

“A child?” Their faces twisted in disbelief as they dropped dead.

Damian advanced, his shots precise, his stance that of a trained killer. The League’s blood ran thick in his veins.

Above, the remaining choppers faltered. League assassins, now regrouping, rained arrows and launched projectiles with deadly accuracy. One Apache took a direct hit to its rotor, spinning wildly before exploding midair.

The mercenaries, once an unstoppable wave, now wavered.

But Talia knew this wasn’t over.

To her ignorance, Slade’s true objective wasn’t the League.

It was Ra’s al Ghul.

And somewhere in the fortress, her father was alone and outnumbered.

Chapter Text

The wind howled like a wounded beast as Jason crested the ridge overlooking the League of Assassins' stronghold. The obsidian fortress, carved into the mountainside, was usually a bastion of impenetrable silence.

Today, it burned.

Smoke coiled into the blood-red sky. The scent of charred wood and iron filled the air. Distant shouts echoed—orders, screams, the clash of steel.

They're already inside.

Jason's grip tightened around the artifact in his pack.

He didn't have much time.

- - -

Back within the dimly illuminated corridors, Ra's al Ghul walked through with extreme caution as he held his sword in a readied stance while he made his way through the dimly lit hallway.

Some might wonder why the Head of the Demon cautiously made his way through that dimly lit hallway when he was currently the most skilled person at that base.

That's because he was fully aware of how dirty and dishonourably those mercenaries fought, he also had a suspicion of who might have led them, for an utter outsider wouldn't have been able to launch such an attack on his home.

Sensing their presence within the darkness, he made a swift turn just as the mercenary soldiers came out of hiding for a surprise attack from behind.

The muzzle of a rifle was right up his face but unfortunately for them, his eyes had well adjusted to the dark already.

Metal shrieked as the rifle's barrel split cleanly, severed before the trigger could be pulled.

The first man fell, his throat opened before he could scream. The second barely had time to widen his eyes before Ra's drove the tip of his blade through his heart.

He was utterly surrounded by enemy forces, all wielding guns while he had nothing but his trusty sword in hand.

Ra's slashed, stabbed and cut his way through every intruder that dared to make an attempt for his head.

The space was too narrow for them to simultaneously open fire, and it didn't help that Ra's kept getting in range of their allies.

If there was any misfire, it could take out their own men.

His sword became a whirlwind of death, parrying the sporadic gunfire that came his way, each deflection ringing like a death knell.

He moved like a specter, slipping between them, his blade drinking deeply as it carved through flesh and bone. Blood painted the walls in macabre strokes, pooling on the floor beneath their fallen comrades.

One mercenary, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, charged with a roar.

Ra's sidestepped, using the man's momentum to impale him on his own sword. As the body slumped, two more opened fire.

He yanked the corpse up as a shield, feeling the bullets thud into lifeless flesh before surging forward. A swift decapitation sent one man's head rolling; a reverse slash split the other from shoulder to hip.

The survivors faltered.

Then, with a collective snarl, they rushed him—forcing him backward through a Shōji door. The delicate paper screen tore like flesh beneath their assault, its wooden frame splintering as they spilled into the meditation chamber beyond.

The room was serene, untouched by the carnage outside. A single mat lay in the center, the same one where Jason had spent hours in silent contemplation. Now, it was a battleground.

Ra's found himself surrounded, a ring of steel and gun barrels tightening around him. The mercenaries' eyes gleamed with the certainty of victory.

"Die, old man!" one spat.

Gunfire erupted.

Yet Ra's did not fall.

His sword became a blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision, the clang of steel on lead filling the room like some hellish symphony. He moved with preternatural speed, his footwork a dance of death, his blade an extension of his will.

Two soldiers, firing wildly, found their bullets buried in each other's chests instead. They collapsed, their expressions frozen in shock.

Silence.

"Hold your fire, he's mine."

A voice came from behind as a masked figure stepped forward—taller than the rest, twin blades in his possession, one stealthed at his back and the other drawn.

He had his mask raised over his head, leaving his face in total exposure.

"You've grown reckless, Demon's Head," the man said, his voice distorted.

Ra's didn't flinch. "And you've grown bold. A fatal mistake."

'It seems the boy was unsuccessful with his mission. No. Considering the timing of this attack, it's most likely the boy missed him.' Ra's thought to himself.

"Confused Old man?" Deathstroke asked as he tried to make sense of what went on in Ra's' mind.

"Slade, what is the meaning of this?" Ra's asked, his tone demanding for an immediate answer.

"I call it a hostile takeover." He deadpanned.

"Your arrogance emberasses me and shames you." Ra's stated, the other mercenaries stood by to withhold the impending showdown.

"Yet here I am, so close to taking over this legacy of yours and making it mine." He stated, not bothered by the prio comment.

His eyes squinting as they locked on to Slade, he spoke without the slightest hint of accusation in his voice. "I know you stole the artifact." Certainty clearly audible in his tone.

"Oh, that." Slade casually admitted to the accusation with such nonchalance that confirmed Ra's' suspicion of Jason not having met Deathstroke at the base where he was to assassinate him.

"You will never be able to decipher what's within and get a hold of the information inside." Ra's said with a stern tone.

"Only I have the knowledge to decipher what's within, and it would be utterly impossible getting it out of me."

"Hmmm. Well, that's where you are wrong, old man. I don't need you, there's someone else on this very base that I am certain you must have thought of how to do so." Slade replied as a wicked smirk crepted to the side of his lips.

"You will never have your way, boy."

"I see you still have some spring in your steps, let's see how you do against a real swords man, come and get some. Old man." He taunted Ra's into combat before him and his team ran out of time.

"After you, boy." Ra's retorted as he glared at Deathstroke who seemed to be in need of some serious ass whooping to put him in his place.

Yet, Ra's did not underestimate how dangerous his prey was as he remained on guard and cautious.

'I might as well fulfill the task I sent Jason on. For this you have done Slade, your head shall be mine.' Ra's declared in his thoughts while taking on a sword stance.

Seeing the glare in his eyes, Deathstroke reached for his second sword behind his back.

He wielded a twin blade.

The traitor lunged.

Steel met steel in a furious exchange, sparks flying as Ra's parried and countered with inhuman speed.

Deathstroke swung both swords down at Ra's who successfully blocked both, but the wound in his arm slowed him—just enough for Deathstroke to go in for a counter.

Ra's avoided he kick then went in for an attack, their swords clashed once more

"How could you have pushed me out!?" Deathstroke yelled in a fit of rage, their swords pressed against the other in a deadlock of blades. "I was your right hand."

"Your actions decided for you." Ra's deadpanned, not needing to explain himself to the brat who was in way over his head.

As the fight raged on, a masked mercenary soldier far behind, noticed Ra's was well invested in the fight. "He's in position." He reported into his comms.

As if having received confirmation from the other end, they evacuated the scene, leaving the two to battle.

Slade ran out of the space, making way towards the hallway.

He does this while maintaining appropriate distance with Ra's who would cut him down from the slightest slip up.

The Demon's Head closed in on him, his emerald robes whispering against the ground.

His sword caught the pale light, its edge glinting like a serpent's fang. His eyes, cold and ancient, locked onto his prey with the patience of a predator who had hunted for centuries.

"You flee like a cornered rat. I expected more from the world's deadliest mercenary. To think you aspired to become my right hand man." Ra's stated the last bit with disgust and disappointment in his voice.

A smirk appeared on the mercenary face, fingers flexing around the hilt of his blade. There was no fear in his stance—only calculation.

"Fleeing?"

He wasn't running, but luring.

He came to a stop as steel flashed. The mercenary struck first, his sword a silver blur aimed for the throat.

The clash of metal rang through the hallway, sparks erupting as their blades ground together.

The older man deflected with ease, twisting his wrist to send a vicious upward slash toward his opponent's ribs. The mercenary barely pivoted in time, the edge grazing his armor.

"You cannot outthink centuries of battle, boy."

A feint—left, then right. The mercenary's boot lashed out, kicking a broken pillar toward the robed figure, forcing him to sidestep. In that split second of distraction, the mercenary turned and bolted down the ruined hallway, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

A snarl twisted the older man's lips.

"Running again?!"

He gave chase, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of some avenging specter.

Then—the mechanical roar of engines.

The Demon's Head halted, his sharp ears catching the sound of a chopper from the far end of the hallway's entrance too late.

His eyes flicked behind him just as the chopper descended to the balcony's level at the far end of the hallway, launching missiles right into it.

It was a straight line through the hallway right to his current location and Slade was already making a run for it.

The missiles screamed toward them.

The Ra's turned, instincts honed over lifetimes screaming at him—but his opponent was already moving.

Fire erupted behind him, a rolling inferno devouring stone and air alike. The heat lashed at the Demon's back, searing his robes, but he ran, his ancient body pushing through the pain.

The mercenary sprinted for the edge of the hallway which led to space below.

At the edge, the mercenary leapt—his augmented muscles carrying him effortlessly across the gap and unto the edge of a balcony across the yard.

The older man followed, but the flames overtook him. His robes ignited, the fire biting into his flesh as he let out a loud and agonizing scream. A choked gasp escaped him as the ground vanished beneath his feet.

The mercenary stood at the far edge, his face unreadable.

"Insurance."

He muttered, his words a dirge as he watched the Demon's body drop to the ground below with an audible thud.

- - -

[The Fallen Demon]

He crashed onto a lower ledge, his body wreathed in smoke, his sword skittering away into the darkness. Pain lanced through him, but he stifled a groan that threatened to escape.

With his body burnt to a crisp, Ra's had just one option if he wished to survive, but time wasn't on his side and he needed to act fast.

The pit.

He tried crawling his way there, he extended an arm in front of him so he could pull his body along the ground.

Then—a boot pressed down on his back

The mercenary loomed above him, his sword resting against the older man's throat. His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.

"Centuries of battle… and you still didn't see the missile play coming?" He taunted.

Slade kicked his side with enough force to flip him over on his back.

A cough. Blood on his lips. But the smirk remained, defiant even in ruin.

"A clever gambit… but you forget—"

A flash of steel—the hidden dagger in his sleeve slashed across the mercenary's thigh. The younger man staggered, but his reflexes were inhuman. His fist snapped forward, cracking against the older warrior's jaw.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision swam.

The mercenary pressed the blade harder, his breathing steady despite the wound.

"Any last words, old man?"

The Demon's Head glared up at him, his eyes burning brighter than the flames that had engulfed him.

"This… is not over."

Chapter Text

Moving like a specter, Jason slipped through the fortress’s hidden passages—routes only the Demon’s Head and his most trusted knew. The stone walls, usually cold and unyielding, now trembled with the force of battle.

A shadow lunged at him from a side corridor.

Jason reacted on instinct—his dagger flashed, steel meeting steel in a shower of sparks. The assassin’s eyes widened beneath his hood.

"Jase?"

Jason recognized the voice—Cassius, one of Ra’s elite. The man’s robes were torn, his left arm slick with blood.

"Where’s Ra’s?" Jason growled, not lowering his blade.

"The inner sanctum," Cassius hissed. "Deathstroke’s forces broke through the eastern gate. They’re—"

A gunshot cracked through the hall.

Cassius staggered, a bloom of crimson spreading across his chest. Jason yanked him into cover as another bullet ricocheted off the stone.

"Go," Cassius coughed. "Warn him, though I fear it might be too late."

Jason didn’t waste time on farewells.

He ran.

The sanctum doors were shattered. Bodies littered the floor—League assassins and mercenaries alike. The air reeked of gunpowder and death.

He spotted two figures at the other end, one stood above the other as his glinting sword was placed on the neck of the other.

As he closed the distance, making haste to the opening, he noted the stature of the one above was too different to be Ra’s.

Then he noticed, the attire of the barbequed human who laid on the floor, were worn by Ra’s alone.

Slade stamped his dominant foot into Ra's chest, placing his sword right against the side of his neck.

“After five hundred years, the world has had quite enough of you, old man. The Lazarus Pit will not bring you back this time.”

With both hands he grabbed onto his sword as he raised it high, prepared to stab it through the Demon’s Head.

“I’ve waited quite a long time for this.” He added.

Slade was unable to finish his downward motion as a heavy kick made way into his chest, propelling him off his feet.

With a flip, he got on his feet and looked up to see who the hell had just interrupted his kill.

“Old man!” Jason exclaimed, a mix of concern and worry in his voice as he sympathized with the grotesque wounds he had conceived.

Deathstroke charged in with a sword in hand, attempting to behead the masked individual who had obstructed him from claiming the victory he had longed for, for so long.

With a swift turn, he parried off Deathstroke’s attack with his blade, sending him back a couple feet.

“How dare yo–”

“No, how dare you?” Jason retorted, cutting off Deathstroke.

“How dare you do this to the old man? How dare you attack this place?” He asked once more, anger sipping into his voice, rage began to swell up from within.

The closet thing he had to a father figure was dying right before his eyes and the person responsible stood before him.

The thought of how capable Deathstroke had to be to inflict such damage upon Ra’s came to mind but he shrugged it aside, only taking it as a note of caution.

All he could think about was ending the man who stood before him, with the title of world's best mercenary.

Before his stirring rage, that title meant nothing.

He lunged forward, with his blade in hand as he closed in within Deathstroke’s range for an attack.

It was parried, and countered as Deathstroke used the base of his sword’s handle to jab at Jason’s forehead.

He was quick enough to duck underneath the filthy strike and delivered a strike of his own aimed at Deathstroke’s arm.

With practiced technique, he was able to disarm him as Deathstroke was left with just one sword.

Without needed recovery time, Deathstroke swung his elbow from above with enough force that could dislocate Jason’s shoulder bone.

But he was quick enough to sidestep with his sword going in for a counter strike, aimed at Deathstroke’s torso.

Reaching for his undrawn sword with applaudable speed, Deathstroke blocked the attack.

With skilled foot work, Jason pivolted his way into Deathstroke’s personal space as he successfully landed a jab upon Deathstroke’s nose with his elbow.

He instantly initiated a follow up attack as Deathstroke would be unable to use his sword in such close range, but his attack was thwarted before he could fully initiate it as Deathstroke delivered a high knee swing aimed at his solar plexus.

Skill and reflex came into play as he instantly put up his forearms as guards to shield himself and minimize the damage attempting to be dealt.

But instead, the force on impact sent him flying as his back smacked into the wall behind.

“You are quite good, for a kid.” Deathstroke acknowledged, making it known he knew Jason was still inexperienced and just in his late teens.

“But not good enough.” He added, walking towards his sword which Jason had disarmed.

“And you are freakishly strong.” Jason stated, pushing himself to his feet as he took on a sword stance.

He was even more eager to end the fight as soon as he possibly could because the more the fight prolonged, Deathstroke would totally have the advantage as momentum was already with him.

Not to mention he was very skilled and has decades of combat experience.

He had read Deathstroke’s file, the details that were given to him before he embarked on his mission to assassinate the man.

A mission that if had been successful, would have increased his rank and reliability within the League for it would have proven he excels in skill and the title of ‘Assassin’ would have been given to him.

Ra’s was more likely to have bestowed upon him a personalized title of his own.

But he had missed his target and as if by fate, here he was.

And had committed a crime so heinous that it was unforgivable, Deathstroke needed to be sent off the world of the living and off deep into the depths of hell so Hades and the demons down there would torment him for eternity.

And if they were to ever meet in hell, he would ensure to continue their fight down there until he had destroyed his soul.

That was how much hatred he now harbored for the mercenary.

Jason knew that in his current state, his chances of victory in a straight up confrontation was very slim. But at this point, he didn’t care.

Deathstroke picked up his sword, his eyes locked unto the masked teenager who glared at him with a fierce look in his eyes.

They didn’t dim the boy's worth of even calling his prey.

His whole invasion and strategized attack was being done according to time, and he did not have much of it left, he and his troops needed to evacuate real soon.

“Time to end this!”

He lunged forward for a piercing strike, Jason sidestepped and swung his sword to cut off Deathstroke’s arm in counter.

But it was a feint, as Deathstroke’s other sword went in for an horizontal slash attack aimed to cut across his torso.

There wasn’t enough space behind him to step out of the swing’s range because a wall was behind him. It was checkmate…Or so Deathstroke thought, unaware of how nimble and quick on his feet Jason could be.

Much to his surprise, Jason leaped off the ground backwards onto the wall as he pushed off the wall and propelled himself over his blade with a dive.

Upon impact with the ground, he transitioned into a roll and quickly made way for the nearest wooden pillar.

Before Deathstroke knew it, Jason cut through the thick wood with a single strike. Just as Ra’s al Ghul had taught him during their training in the woods.

The wooden structure above, crumbled upon Deathstroke who was unable to get out on time.

“You little bastard.” He grimaced as his head came through the wreckage first while he made way for his body to pull through.

Jason was right in front of him already.

With one quick strike, he thrusted his sword right at Deathstroke’s face with the intention of driving his blade through the man’s thick skull.

With Deathstroke’s movement partially restricted, he could barely get his face out of the way on time before Jason buried his blade into his right eye but not deep enough to reach his brain.

Aghhhh!!

The pain was so excruciating that he screamed in agony.

Jason did not mind that, but rather proceeded unto a follow up attack as he pulled back his sword and made a horizontal slash with an attempt of beheading the man.

A fitting death, given what he has done.

Deathstroke quickly pulled himself off the wreckage, right on time to fend off the strike with his own blade, pushing Jason slightly off balance.

The sound of a chopper came from above and just as Jason looked up to see if it would rain down bullets, Deathstroke landed an attack.

He kicked Jason so hard that he was sent somersaulting halfway across the yard. He struck his sword into the ground, regaining his bearings.

Looking up, he saw Deathstroke grab onto a zipline dropped from the hovering chopper.

“As much as I’d enjoy playing with you some more kid, It’s time for me to leave.” He announced with a slight hint of amusement in his voice as he stared down the boy.

“No you don’t.” Jason reached into a small pack attached to the side of his belt and pulled out three shurikens which he simultaneously hurled at Deathstroke with speed and precision.

With one hand holding onto the zipline, Deathstroke made use of the other which held his blade as he easily fended off the ninja shooting stars.

“Get back here you coward.” Jason yelled out to him.

“Don’t worry kid, I will make sure to pay you back for this.” He replied as he gestured to his bleeding eye.

Jason said nothing in response but maintained a death glare until the chopper was gone.

“If only I had a gun.” He angrily muttered to himself. “A gun would surely help me get to targets that are far out of range, there’s only so much one can do with a sword.”

He snapped out of his thought as a sudden realization dawned on him. He could still save Ra’s.

With the help of the Pit, he should be as good as new. Turning to the spot where Ra's barbecued body laid, he was nowhere to be found.

“Where is the geezer?” He muttered to himself as he ran down towards the hidden carven where the pit was located.

As he made his way down the stairs and finally arrived at the glowing cave, he spotted Ra's lifeless body near the water.

His arm was stretched out, just a couple inches away to the edge of the pool. He appeared to have crawled his way there.

He walked in on a few members who paid witness to the scene with a mournful demeanor as they paid respect to their dead leader.

Damian picked up Ra’s lifeless body in his arm and approached the pit, attempting to drop him into its waters in hope of the miracle waters reviving his grandfather.

Talia made her way to his front, standing between him and the pit as he halted.

“He’s already dead, Damian. There’s nothing the waters can do for him now.” She said to him in an attempt to persuade him from completing that action.

Yes, dropping her father’s corpse into the Lazarus Pit could revive him. But there was a high probability that it might only bring his body back to life, which would be devoid of his soul.

An empty shell.

They were lucky with Jason, who’s life was fortunate enough to defy the odds and eventually regained both his sanity, and his soul.

Though she still had her doubts over the sanity part, it was a process she refused to put her father through.

She refused to see him in such a condition, an empty shell. A shadow version of her father which would highly pale in comparison to the great man her father truly was.

The best they could do at the moment was to come to terms with the acceptance of their leader’s death and find a way to move on.

“I failed.” The words that escaped Damian with a tone of defeat mixed into his words.

“We can’t think about that now, we have to move.” She grabbed onto his arm and pulled him as she walked out.

“Where are we going?” He asked, but showed no resistance to his mother’s pull.

“To meet your father.”

Chapter Text

Knock.

The sharp rap against the door cut through the silence of the dimly lit room.

“Come in.”

The reply was immediate, smooth, and devoid of hesitation. The voice carried the weight of authority, a tone that brooked no argument.

The man on the other side twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open with a slow creak. The hinges groaned in protest, as if reluctant to admit him. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood, polished leather, and the faint metallic tang of weapon oil.

A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, its golden glow barely reaching the corners where darkness clung stubbornly.

Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—stood with his back turned, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering light. His posture was rigid, his stance that of a man who had long since mastered the art of patience.

“I’ve got to say, boss,” the man began, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind him, “the rate at which we keep changing our base is starting to get disturbing.” His voice was laced with dry amusement, but beneath it was an undercurrent of genuine concern.

Slade didn’t turn immediately. Instead, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath that spoke of controlled irritation. “This change of location was necessary.” His words were clipped, final.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” the man—Jones—replied, striding forward without waiting for an invitation. He dragged a chair from the side of the room, its legs scraping against the hardwood floor, and dropped into it with a sigh.

“But a little heads-up would’ve been nice. I was already halfway to the old base when I got the message.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “Imagine walking into an ambush just ‘cause the intel was late. Sheesh.”

Finally, Slade turned. The dim light caught the black eyepatch stretched over his right eye, the leather stark against his scarred face.

His remaining eye—sharp, calculating—locked onto Jones with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavier.

“Come on, Jones,” Slade said, his voice a low rumble. “You and I both know you can handle yourself.” He moved with deliberate steps toward a small oak cabinet in the corner, its surface dusted but well-maintained.

Jones smirked, though his gaze lingered on the eyepatch. “Love the new look, by the way. Gotta say, it’s a bold statement.”

Slade pulled open a drawer, retrieving a bottle of amber whiskey and two crystal glasses. “It isn’t for fashion.”

“Didn’t figure it was,” Jones admitted, watching as Slade poured the liquor. The liquid caught the light, glowing like molten gold. “But in our line of work, it does make you look all… dangerous and murdery.” He reached out, accepting the offered glass with a nod of thanks.

Slade’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “The old man didn’t go down without leaving his mark.” Jones teased as he swirled the whiskey, studying its slow crawl down the sides of the glass.

“Ra’s al Ghul, huh?” He took a sip, relishing the burn. “Figured as much. Hard to imagine anyone else over there who could’ve done that to you.”

Slade’s expression darkened. “Ra’s wasn’t the one who took my eye.”

Jones froze mid-sip, his brow furrowing. “What?” He lowered the glass. “You’re telling me there was someone else in that hellhole who could pull that off?”

Slade said nothing, choosing instead to take a slow drink. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken implications.

Jones exhaled sharply, leaning forward. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets.” He waved a hand dismissively. “How’d the mission go, then? Aside from the… unexpected accessory.”

Slade’s grip tightened slightly around his glass. “Everything went according to plan—until the end.”

“Until?”

“Ra’s was already finished. Burned, broken. I had him beneath my boot, blade at his throat.” Slade’s voice was eerily calm, but Jones could hear the undercurrent of frustration. “I wanted him to see it coming. To know it was me.”

Jones nodded slowly. He knew the history—the betrayal, the exile. Slade had waited years for this moment.

“And?” he pressed.

Slade’s jaw tightened. “I was interrupted.”

Jones blinked. “By who? Talia?”

“No. She was occupied, just as planned.” Slade set his glass down with deliberate care. “This was someone else.”

Jones waited, sensing the reluctance in his boss’s posture.

Slade exhaled through his nose. “A kid.”

Jones choked on his whiskey. “A what?”

Slade’s eye narrowed. “You heard me.”

Jones wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring. “You’re telling me some teenage brat got the drop on you?”

Slade’s silence was answer enough.

Jones let out a low whistle. “Damn. Now I gotta hear this.”

Slade leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. “He wasn’t just some kid. He moved like a trained killer—raw, but skilled.”

“League-raised?”

“No.” Slade’s voice was firm. “His style was different. Unrefined, but… adaptable. Instinctive.”

Jones frowned. “You sound almost impressed.”

Slade’s eye gleamed. “He fought like he had nothing to lose.”

Jones mulled that over. “And the eye?”

Slade’s fingers brushed the edge of the patch. “He trapped me. Just for a second. That was all he needed.”

Jones exhaled sharply. “So what now? We hunting this kid down?”

Slade’s expression hardened. “No. He’s not the priority.” He reached into his coat, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment covered in cryptic symbols. “This is.”

Jones studied the markings. “Still no luck deciphering it?”

“None.” Slade’s voice was grim. “Which means we need someone who can.”

“Who?”

Slade’s lips curled into something cold. “Talia al Ghul.”

Jones groaned. “Oh, come on. After what you did to her old man?”

Slade’s gaze was unreadable. “She’ll talk. One way or another.”

Jones shook his head, then paused. “Wait—before we go charging into that mess, what’s this even for?” He gestured to the parchment. “What info did you need from the stolen artifact? What’s the endgame here?”

Slade was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he spoke.

“Ever heard of the Mirakuru serum?”

The name hung in the air like a promise—or a threat.

Jones’s glass froze halfway to his lips.

And just like that, the atmosphere tensed up.

- - -

The winds howled like vengeful spirits across the jagged peaks of the hidden mountain, their mournful cries echoing through the stone corridors of the League’s new stronghold.

The air was thin here, laced with the crisp bite of altitude, and the scent of burning incense clung to the walls—sandalwood and myrrh, the traditional offerings for the dead.

Talia al Ghul stood at the edge of the fortress’s highest balcony, her fingers curled around the railing, her knuckles pale with tension. Below her, the world stretched out in an endless sea of mist and rock, a kingdom of shadows now hers to command.

A week had passed since her father’s murder.

A week since Slade Wilson had defiled the sanctity of the Lazarus Pit, turning what should have been a place of rebirth into a tomb.

She had sealed the cavern herself, pressing her palm against the ancient stone doors as they groaned shut, sealing Ra’s al Ghul’s scorched remains within. No rites. No final words. Just ash and silence.

The dishonor of it burned in her chest like a brand.

Her father—the Demon’s Head, the man who had shaped empires and outlived dynasties—had been denied a warrior’s death. Instead, he had fallen to treachery, to explosives and ambushes, to the cowardice of a man who had once been his most trusted blade.

Slade would pay for that.

The League had abandoned the old base, retreating to a secondary stronghold—one of many her father had prepared for exactly this scenario.

Nestled deep within the Himalayas, this fortress was a labyrinth of black stone and hidden passages, its defenses refined over centuries.

Motion-sensitive traps lined the halls, and every entrance was guarded by loyal shadows who had sworn their lives to the Demon’s Head—now to her.

Talia had ensured Damian was far from this war. She had left him with his father, Bruce Wayne, in Gotham. The boy would be safe there, far from the bloodshed to come.

As for the rest of the League?

They were hers now.

Her first decree had been simple: Find Slade Wilson.

A dozen assassins had already been dispatched, their orders clear—track him, but do not engage. Not yet. She would take his head herself.

What Talia did not know was that Slade was hunting her just as fiercely.

He needed her alive.

The artifact—a relic of unknown power, its surface etched with indecipherable symbols—remained a mystery. Slade had expected Ra’s to die without revealing its secrets; the old man had been too stubborn, too prideful to break under torture.

But Talia?

She was different.

If she knew how to decode the artifact, she would crack. Eventually.

As for Jason, Talia had given him a choice: stay and fight under her banner, or leave and find his own path.

Ra’s had brought him into the League for reasons he had never shared with her. Some grand design, some purpose Jason was meant to fulfill. But with her father gone, those plans were lost to the winds.

Jason was skilled—brutally so—but Talia had no use for ghosts of her father’s schemes.

Before their paths diverged, he had returned the artifact to her.

"It belonged to him," he had said, his voice rough with something between respect and resentment. "Now it belongs to you."

Talia had turned the relic over in her hands, studying the strange markings. She had no idea what it meant, what power it held. To her, it was just another piece of her father’s legacy—one she had no interest in unraveling.

So she had given it back.

"Keep it," she had told him. "A memento. Of the man who was your teacher."

Jason had accepted it without a word, tucking it away before vanishing into the night.

Now, as Talia stood alone in the dim light of the fortress, the weight of her new title settled upon her shoulders.

Ra’s al Ghul was dead.

Slade Wilson had declared war.

And somewhere in an unknown destination, an ancient power lay dormant, its secrets waiting to be unlocked.

The game had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The night was a silent predator, its breath cold against the jagged cliffs surrounding Deathstroke's hideout.

Talia al Ghul stood at the edge of the treeline, her emerald eyes narrowed, calculating. Behind her, a number of the League's deadliest assassins waited, their black garb blending into the shadows.

The intel had been precise—this was where Deathstroke had retreated after slaughtering her father.

Where he had hidden like a coward after dealing a surprise attack which led to her father's death and a loss in great numbers of their soldiers.

Dishonorable.

Unforgivable.

Talia's fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, the metal biting into her palm. She would carve the truth from his flesh before she let him die.

A single gesture.

Her assassins moved like ghosts, scaling the compound walls with practiced ease. No alarms sounded. No guards patrolled. The silence should have been her first warning.

The second came when the floodlights exploded to life, blinding white, and the gunfire erupted.

They had walked into a trap.

Bullets tore through the first wave of her men before they could react, bodies jerking like broken marionettes before collapsing.

Talia rolled behind a concrete barrier, the heat of muzzle flashes searing the air. She could hear Deathstroke's mercenaries shouting, their boots pounding as they closed in.

Then he stepped into view.

Deathstroke stood atop a steel walkway, his mask a blank, emotionless slate, his single visible eye glinting with something like amusement. "Talia al Ghul," he called, his voice a deep, mocking rasp. "I was wondering when you'd come."

She didn't waste words.

With a snarl, she lunged, her blade flashing toward his throat. He blocked with his forearm, the reinforced plating screeching against steel.

She twisted, driving her knee into his ribs—only for him to grab her leg and hurl her into a shipping container. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, pain spiderwebbing up her spine.

Her assassins rushed him.

The slaughter was methodical.

Deathstroke moved like a machine, every motion precise, brutal. A sword severed a man's arm at the elbow before reversing into his gut.

A pistol barked twice—two headshots, two corpses hitting the ground before the echoes faded. Talia regained her footing just in time to see him drive a combat knife through the eye socket of her last remaining fighter.

Then he turned to her.

She attacked again, faster this time, her strikes a blur of lethal intent. He countered each one, his strength overwhelming.

A fist cracked against her jaw, sending her stumbling. A boot slammed into her ribs—she felt something snap. Blood filled her mouth, metallic and warm.

She barely registered the needle sliding into her neck before the world went black.

- - -

When consciousness returned, it came with agony.

Talia hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, her arms stretched taut, her toes barely scraping the concrete floor. The room stank of blood and antiseptic, the flickering fluorescent light casting jagged shadows across Deathstroke's armor as he paced before her.

"You're awake," he observed. "Good."

He backhanded her.

The force snapped her head to the side, her vision swimming. Blood dripped from her split lip, splattering the floor between them.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

She spat at him.

The knife came next, sliding between her ribs with clinical precision. She choked on a scream, her body convulsing as he twisted the blade.

"Ra's had something I need," Deathstroke continued, his voice disturbingly calm. "Coordinates. Hidden in an artifact. You will tell me how to decipher them."

Talia gritted her teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Another strike—this time the pommel of his knife crushing her fingers. Bones shattered. She couldn't stop the cry that tore from her throat.

Days blurred together in a haze of pain.

Electricity seared her nerves.

Knives peeled skin from muscle.

Salt and acid followed, burning into open wounds.

Through it all, Deathstroke repeated the same question.

And through it all, Talia gave the same answer.

She didn't know.

But he didn't believe her.

On the fifth night, as she hung limp in her chains, barely conscious, Deathstroke finally paused.

"You're either remarkably stubborn," he mused, "or you truly are ignorant."

Talia lifted her head, her breathing ragged. Blood matted her hair, her once-pristine robes now shredded and stained. "Why?" she rasped. "You killed my father. You tore the League apart. Taking control… that wasn't your end goal. What do you want?"

Deathstroke studied her for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his mask.

The face beneath was scarred, weathered, his single eye cold as ice. "Normally," he said, "I wouldn't waste my breath. But since you won't be leaving this room alive…" He reached into his belt, withdrawing a small, weathered map. "Have you ever heard of a drug called Mirakuru?"

Talia frowned. The word was unfamiliar.

"It was a Japanese experiment," Deathstroke continued. "World War II. A serum designed to create super-soldiers. It worked too well." He unfolded the map, revealing an island circled in red. "The test subjects became monsters. Unstoppable. Unkillable. The project was buried, the remaining vials lost."

His finger tapped the coordinates.

"Until Ra's al Ghul found one."

Talia's blood ran cold.

Deathstroke's smile was a razor's edge. "Imagine an army of men like me. Unbreakable. Unyielding. That is what your father hid. And I will have it."

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

"Even if I have to carve the answer from your bones."

Talia's body was a ruin of pain, every breath a struggle against broken ribs and seared flesh. Deathstroke's words echoed in her skull—Mirakuru. An army of monsters. The thought of it made her stomach twist. Her father had kept many secrets, but this… this was something else entirely.

Deathstroke stepped back, observing her reaction with detached interest. When she said nothing, his gloved hand closed around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision pulse black at the edges.

"Still playing the loyal daughter?" he mused. "Ra's is gone. His empire is ash. Whatever misplaced devotion you have left won't protect you from what's coming."

She spat blood at his feet. "You think you're the first man to try breaking me?"

His grip tightened. "No. But I'll be the last."

- - -

The next round of torture was worse.

The dim glow of flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows across the stone-walled chamber, their orange light dancing over the cold, damp surfaces.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the faint, acrid tang of smoke from recently extinguished fires. Talia knelt on the rough-hewn floor, her wrists bound behind her, her dark hair disheveled and clinging to her sweat-streaked face.

Despite her predicament, her emerald eyes burned with defiance, fixed on the man who loomed over her—Deathstroke, the mercenary whose reputation for ruthlessness was as legendary as his skill.

Deathstroke didn't just want pain—he wanted erosion. The slow, methodical dismantling of her will.

This time around, he started with precision strikes, targeting nerve clusters that left her screaming without leaving permanent damage. When that didn't work, he moved to more creative methods.

A scalpel traced the old scars on her back—the ones from her League training. "You were always his favorite weapon," he murmured as the blade bit deep. "Sharpened to perfection. Tell me, did he ever see you as anything more than a tool?"

Talia clenched her jaw. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He pressed a live wire to the fresh wound.

Her body arched against the chains, a raw, animal scream tearing from her throat. The smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Deathstroke watched, unmoved. "The coordinates, Talia."

"I. Don't. Know."

He sighed, as if disappointed. Then he pulled a syringe from his belt. The liquid inside was thick, iridescent—unnatural.

Her breath hitched. "What is that?"

"A gift from an old friend," he said, tapping the needle. "Not Mirakuru, but close enough. It won't kill you. It'll just make you wish it did."

The injection burned like molten lead in her veins. Within seconds, her muscles locked, her nerves alight with white-hot agony. She couldn't scream. Couldn't move. Could only feel as if her body betrayed her.

Deathstroke leaned in, his voice a malicious whisper. "When it wears off, you'll talk. Everyone does."

His armored fingers tightened around her throat, not enough to crush, but enough to remind her of his control. The black and orange mask obscured half his face, leaving only one cold piercing blue eye visible.

He studied her reaction, searching for any flicker of fear, any sign that she might break. But Talia had been trained by the Demon's Head himself; she would not give him the satisfaction.

"Sir."

The sudden voice came from behind, abruptly cutting through the tension.

A masked soldier stood at attention in the doorway, his posture rigid, his gloved hand pressed to his brow in salute. The insignia on his shoulder marked him as one of Deathstroke's elite—loyal, lethal, and utterly disposable if necessary.

Deathstroke didn't turn. "Can't you see I'm busy?" His voice was a low growl, the irritation barely restrained. His grip on Talia's neck remained firm, his thumb pressing just beneath her jaw, where the pulse thrummed steadily.

The soldier hesitated, then stepped forward. "I apologize, sir, but it's urgent."

"And?" Deathstroke's tone was flat, daring the man to waste his time.

The mercenary's gaze flickered briefly to Talia before he continued, his voice dropping slightly, as if uncertain whether she should hear. "It's an urgent message from Vice Commander Jones."

A slow, knowing smirk curled beneath Deathstroke's mask. "Oh, do not mind her." He tilted his head slightly, his eye never leaving Talia's face. "She won't be alive long enough for it to matter."

The soldier swallowed hard but obeyed. "Vice Commander Jones says… it's been found."

For the briefest moment, the chamber seemed to freeze. The crackling of the torches, the distant drip of water from the ceiling, even Talia's steady breathing—all of it faded into silence. Deathstroke's eye widened, a spark of triumph flashing within its depths.

Then, in one swift motion, he released Talia, letting her slump forward as he turned fully toward the soldier. "I see." His voice was dangerously calm.

Without another word, he strode toward the exit, his armored boots echoing against the stone. But just before he crossed the threshold, he paused.

His head tilted slightly, his single visible eye locking onto Talia over his shoulder. The message in that gaze was unmistakable.

"Looks like you just outlived your usefulness."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Talia didn't need an explanation—she understood immediately.

Whatever Deathstroke had been trying to extract from her, he no longer needed. Someone else had given him the answers. And now, she was nothing more than loose ends to be severed.

As his footsteps faded down the corridor, the heavy iron door groaned shut behind him, sealing her fate. The chamber felt colder now, the shadows deeper. Talia exhaled slowly, her mind already racing through escape routes, contingency plans, last resorts.

But one thing was certain—Deathstroke had what he wanted. And she had just become expendable.

- - -

The Batcomputer's screen flickered with satellite imagery, its blue glow casting sharp shadows across Batman's cowl.

Coordinates blinked red over a derelict industrial complex on Gotham's northern outskirts—abandoned on paper, but recent thermal scans showed heat signatures where there should have been none.

This was the recent base Deathstroke currently held in Talia, after moving from the previous one she had engaged in her raid.

"Slade's hiding in plain sight," Batman growled, pulling up schematics of the facility. "Old Kord Industries storage site. Reinforced sublevels, limited entry points. He's using it as a staging ground."

Nightwing leaned against the console, arms crossed. "So, what's the play? Sneak in quietly, or give him the usual Bat-branded house call?"

Batman's gauntleted fingers tightened around a smoke pellet. "We go in hard. He's expecting stealth. We make noise."

The complex loomed like a graveyard of steel and concrete, its chain-link fences topped with rusted barbed wire. Batman and Nightwing dropped onto the rooftop of an adjacent warehouse, their boots silent on the rain-slicked surface.

"Guards at every stairwell," Nightwing observed through his binoculars.

"Two-man patrols. Military-grade gear. Definitely Slade's boys."

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Take the east entrance. I'll flank from the west. Meet at the central elevator shaft."

Nightwing smirked. "Try not to hog all the fun."

They moved like shadows splitting in the dark.

Batman descended through a shattered skylight, landing behind two mercenaries chatting near a stack of crates. A batarang to the first man's temple, a spinning heel kick to the second's jaw—both dropped before they could blink.

Alarms blared.

"So much for subtlety," Nightwing's voice crackled over the comms, punctuated by the crunch of a well-placed escrima strike.

More guards poured into the corridor. Batman grappled upward, kicking off a wall to somersault over their heads. He landed in a crouch, twin batarangs already whirling through the air. They struck rifle barrels, sending sparks flying as guns misfired.

Nightwing flipped into the fray, his staff a blur of motion. "You know, for a guy who hates guns, you sure love disarming people."

A mercenary lunged with a combat knife. Batman caught his wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into his throat. "Focus."

They cleared the hallway in under a minute.

The central elevator was locked down, but Batman pried the doors open with a hydraulic tool from his belt. The descent into the sublevel was pitch-black, the only sound the whir of the grappling line.

At the bottom, a reinforced door stood ajar. Flickering light spilled from within.

Batman motioned for silence. Nightwing nodded, shifting his grip on his escrima sticks as Batman took a look.

Batman froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Nightwing to notice.

"Well," Nightwing muttered, "that's not what I expected to find."

Talia lifted her head slowly, her emerald eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. A bruise darkened her cheek, and her usually immaculate attire was torn and stained. Yet, even in this state, she carried herself with regal disdain.

"Bruce." Her voice was hoarse but steady. "I suppose I should be flattered you came looking for me."

Batman moved forward, slicing through her restraints with a batarang. "I wasn't." His tone was clipped, but there was an undercurrent of tension—anger, concern, something unspoken.

Nightwing folded his arms, watching the exchange with raised eyebrows. "Awkward family reunion? Should I step outside?"

Talia's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "Still keeping such delightful company, I see."

Batman ignored the barb, his hands briefly checking her injuries. "Deathstroke did this?"

"Obviously," Talia replied dryly. "He was... persuasive in his methods."

Nightwing whistled low. "Guess even the great Talia al Ghul isn't immune to bad dates."

Batman shot him a glare before turning back to Talia. "Where is he?"

"Gone." She straightened with effort, wincing slightly. "He found what he was looking for. And I was no longer of use."

A muscle twitches in Batman's jaw. "What was he after?"

Talia met his gaze, her own unreadable. "Something you won't like."

Nightwing sighed. "Oh good. Cryptic answers. My favorite."

Batman's cowl hid his expression, but his voice was steel. "We're leaving. Now."

As they moved toward the exit, Nightwing couldn't resist one last jab. "So, Talia, you need a lift, or do you have a League of Assasins Uber account?"

Talia's smile was razor-thin. "Charming as ever, Richard."

Batman didn't speak again, but the tension in his shoulders said enough. Deathstroke had slipped away. And whatever he had wanted—whatever he had found—was trouble.

Big trouble.

Chapter Text

Jason had been making use of the vastly empty base. He continued to live there and maintained his routine training schedule Ra’s had him undergo either frequently or at consecutive times periods.

He basically lived in the mountains, engaging in frequent hunting and fishing from around the region.

These activities seem to bring him some sense of peace and help him feel some sort of connection with Ra’s.

He had lost the only father figure in his life.

The man who had wholeheartedly accepted him even with his clearly visible flaws and questionable sanity.

He still treated him like a son, taught him a lot of things which quite a majority of then currently kept him alive.

The old man had taught him how to survive in this world which ran on the principle of survival of the fittest, in one way or another.

Ra’s had helped him pick up a couple pieces of himself to help him form an identity and gave him direction and purpose in life.

He was just beginning to feel whole, right from the camping trip where Ra’s had him meditate right beneath the waterfall.

Now he felt empty again, like those pieces which held up his identity and sense of self had shattered and scattered vastly across the earth.

Deathstroke would pay for taking Ra’s from him, for causing him to feel this way.

He would pay for introducing him to the pain of such loss.

Every morning he would climb to the mountain top which was part of his regimen. But now he often caught himself, reminiscent of several conversations he had with Ra’s atop that mountain top.

Hell, he even misses the herbal tea the old man would often make for him to calm his nerves and help sooth his mood.

He should be out there in the world and on the hunt for Deathstroke, but was clearly aware of their difference in skill,strength, and technique.

So he settled for completely surrendering his mind and body to constant rigorous training.

Being he now constantly by himself and with no one around, he hardly got his usual impulsive thoughts to end a person’s life in the most gruesome way he could possibly imagine.

Scratch that.

His imagination was more like a plain canverse, one where his creativity for painting the most grotesque and disturbing outcome even just in his head alone, surprises him.

Most times he would spend days at the campsite him and Ra’s visited, as he occasionally engaged in mindful meditation while being seated directly below the water fall.

Jason trained to fortify himself in both body and mind. He wasn’t bothered if Talia and the others got Deathstroke before he goes hunting for him.

After all, it was their right to get revenge for the old man. And it should help them get some closure over his death.

But if they haven’t succeeded in exerting their revenge by the time he felt ready enough to confront Deathstroke and avenge his fallen sensei, then he’d call shotgun for that meant Deathstroke was all he’s for the taking.

Until then, he’d continue to train deep in the mountains while continuously honing his skills.

He also worked on his tracking skills while he hunted certain types of animals which possess at least some kind of intelligence.

At times he would put himself in the shoes of his prey while tracing the tracks left behind, in an attempt to understand what instinctive thought patterns went through their head if they were to survive.

He would often let the injured prey run off on purposely, all so he could trail, track and retrieve them.

He did this for sport.

He had no way of tracking down Deathstroke, it would be like trying to track down a shadow who doesn’t want to be found.

So in the meantime, he immersed himself in training.

In recollection of how Deathstroke and his army of mercenaries overwhelmed the League, he realized there was only so much one could do with a sword.

A gun had its advantages and since it was the primary weapon of his target and subordinates, he got himself a gun from League’s base.

He had stock piled them when he did clean up on the stronghold, burning the corpses of enemies and allies alike.

Jason trained with all sorts and sizes of firearms, but none felt right to him.

That was until he tried out a glock–45 which he found to be an efficient firearm.

It was portable, easy to use and quick to draw.

It just felt right.

But of all the weapons inhabited within the base, he trained mainly on the utilization of knives, swords, and his gun.

He had found his basic tools.

All that was left for him was training to utilize them in combat, working to get a feel for quick transitions from one weapon to the other.

- - -

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The world was a blur of pain and cold.

I lay flat on my back, every breath a struggle, my body a map of bruises and lacerations. The chill of the forest floor seeped into my bones, gnawing at me with relentless teeth, as if the earth itself sought to claim what warmth I had left.

My eyelids were leaden, the weight of exhaustion and injury pressing them shut. For a fleeting moment, surrender whispered in my ear—just stay here. Just rest.

But survival was a habit I couldn’t shake.

The ground beneath me was unforgiving—a jagged mosaic of rocks and roots, each one digging into my flesh with malicious precision.

Compared to this, the hard-packed dirt of Ra’s al Ghul’s training camps might as well have been a featherbed. At least there, I had the luxury of knowing I wouldn’t wake up with a predator’s teeth in my throat.

Consciousness returned in fragments, each thought sharp and disjointed.

It hurts.

The pain was a living thing, coiled around my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Every muscle screamed in protest as I shifted, testing the limits of what my body could still endure. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of my throat, thick and suffocating.

‘Where am I?’

‘What happened?’

The questions cut through the fog in my mind, sharp as the claws that had torn into me.

My eyes snapped open.

Darkness.

Not the comforting shadows of trying to stay hidden, but the oppressive, consuming black of the wilderness at night.

Above me, skeletal branches clawed at the sky, their outlines barely visible against the dim glow of a half-moon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, undercut by the coppery stench of my own blood.

‘The woods.’

Memory rushed back in a nauseating wave.

I’d gone hunting.

Stupid.

Arrogant.

I’d ventured deeper than I ever had before, confident in my own skill, in the knife strapped to my thigh.

Then the bear.

It had been still, a hulking shadow wrapped in the forest’s camouflage, its fur blending seamlessly with the undergrowth. I hadn’t seen it until it was too late. Maybe it had been stalking something else. Maybe my stumbling footsteps had scared off its meal.

Either way, it had decided I was the next best thing.

The roar had been deafening, a sound that vibrated in my chest, rattling my ribs like a physical blow.

I’d barely registered the movement before its paw connected, claws slicing through fabric and flesh with terrifying ease. The force sent me reeling, my back hitting the slope of the hill before gravity took over.

Tumbling. Rolling. Impact after impact, rocks and roots tearing at me until the world went black.

Now, here I was. Alive. Barely.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself into a sitting position, my back pressed against the rough bark of a tree.

The wound on my chest was a ragged, angry red, the edges of torn fabric sticking to it with dried blood. Not deep enough to kill me—not yet—but enough to make every breath a battle.

Lucky.

If the fall hadn’t knocked me out, the bear might have finished the job.

A bitter laugh escaped me, the sound hoarse and broken. Tasty meat. That’s what I’d wanted. And now? Now I was the one who’d almost ended up as dinner.

“Ouch.”

The word hissed between my teeth as I shifted, my knee protesting violently. A quick inspection confirmed it wasn’t broken—just badly bruised, the joint swollen and throbbing. Probably smashed against a rock during the fall.

Improvisation was second nature. I tore the hem of my shirt, binding two sturdy twigs against either side of my knee with the fabric. A makeshift splint. Not perfect, but enough to keep me moving.

Standing was agony.

The forest swayed around me, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood loss. Dehydration. The world tilted dangerously, and for a moment, I thought I’d collapse right back into the dirt.

No.

I couldn’t afford to stop. Not here. Not now.

The night was alive with unseen threats—predators that wouldn’t hesitate to finish what the bear started.

Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. My fingers twitched toward the empty space on my thigh where my knife should have been.

Gone. Lost in the fall.

Another mistake.

I forced myself forward, each step a battle against the weight of my own body.

The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches twisting into grotesque shapes in the dim light. My breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air burning my lungs.

The water in my bag was a small mercy. I poured it over my head, the shock of the icy liquid sharpening my senses for a fleeting second.

More trickled over the wound on my chest, washing away dirt and dried blood. The sting was excruciating, but necessary. Infection out here would be a death sentence.

I wanted to drink. God, I wanted to. My throat was parched, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

But at the moment, swallowing could mean death.

So I resisted.

The journey back was a haze of pain and determination. Time lost meaning. Minutes bled into hours, each one an eternity of stumbling, falling, dragging myself back up. The forest seemed endless, the trees closing in around me like prison bars.

Then, there it was.

The League’s stronghold.

Relief was a fleeting thing, quickly swallowed by the reality of my condition. I wasn’t safe yet. The infirmary was my only goal, the only place with the supplies to keep me from bleeding out on the floor.

The hallway stretched before me, the walls cold and unyielding under my trembling hands. My legs threatened to give out with every step.

“Almost there,” I muttered, the words slurring. A mantra. A lifeline.

“Just a little further.”

Then—

“Oh no, you don’t.”

The voice was mine. But it wasn’t.

I froze.

Hallucination. It had to be. Blood loss did strange things to the mind.

I turned, my vision swimming, and there—me. Standing there. Watching. A mirror image, but wrong. Smirking.

“You,” I breathed.

The ground rushed up to meet me. Or maybe I was the one falling. The world tilted, the ceiling spinning above me before everything went black.

The last thing I heard was my own voice, dripping with amusement.

“Yes. Me.”

Then—nothing.

Chapter Text

The voice was distant, muffled, as if spoken through layers of water and delirium.

"It would be so pathetic if we died here."

The words slithered into Jason's consciousness, barely coherent, before his body jerked awake—only for him to realize, with a surge of primal terror, that he wasn't breathing.

His eyes flew open, but all he saw was an eerie, pulsating glow, liquid emerald swallowing his vision.

The cold, thick weight of the Lazarus Pit pressed against his skin, seeping into his wounds, his lungs, his very bones.

Then—

The pain hit him like a wave—white-hot and merciless, as if every nerve in his body had been set ablaze. His chest convulsed, screaming for air, but the Pit's waters filled his throat instead, thick and metallic, like drinking liquid fire.

He thrashed, limbs heavy and uncoordinated, his muscles remembering survival before his mind did.

His hands clawed upward, desperate for the surface, but the water resisted, viscous as oil. For a heart-stopping second, he wondered if this was death—if he had already drowned, and this was some cruel afterlife.

Then his fingers broke through.

He erupted from the depths with a ragged, choking gasp, his body heaving as he dragged in air that burned just as much as the water had.

The cavern around him swam in and out of focus—a jagged, obsidian maw of rock, the walls slick with moisture, the only light coming from the Pit itself, its luminescence casting writhing shadows across the stone.

His arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the rocky shore, his body convulsing as he coughed up mouthfuls of bitter, glowing fluid.

His stomach heaved, and he retched violently, the Pit's waters leaving his throat raw, his insides feeling scraped hollow. The taste lingered—like copper and rot and something unnervingly alive.

He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, and stared up at the cavern ceiling, his thoughts a fractured mess.

How the hell did I end up here?

The last thing he remembered was heading to the infirmary. His own hands, slick with red, pressing uselessly against the wound. The creeping numbness as his vision darkened at the edges.

He had been dying.

And now he wasn't.

The realization hit him like a second drowning. His fingers trembled as he pressed them to his chest, searching for the injury—but there was nothing. No gaping wound, no torn flesh. Just smooth, unbroken skin, damp with the Pit's residue.

A shudder ran through him, deeper than the cold.

The Lazarus Pit didn't just heal. It changed things.

And someone had thrown him into it.

He pushed himself up on shaking arms, his breath still uneven, and scanned the cavern. No footsteps. No voices. Just the quiet drip of water from stalactites and the low, almost rhythmic pulse of the Pit's glow.

He was alone.

Alive.

And he had no idea why.

His fingers brushed against his side, probing for the wound—only to find smooth, unbroken skin.

Even the persistent ache in his knee had vanished, as though it had never existed. A frown creased his brow as he glanced around the cavern, the dim light casting long shadows across the uneven stone.

What the hell happened?

The silence of the cave offered no answers. His gaze drifted to the far end, where a freshly dug grave lay nestled against the rock.

'Talia must have buried Ra's here before sealing the cavern.' The thought twisted something inside him—gratitude and resentment tangled into one.

Then it struck him.

The exit.

He turned sharply toward the collapsed rubble that had once been the way out. No passage remained, no gap to squeeze through. The realization settled heavily in his chest.

Then how did I get in here?

His eyes narrowed as he studied the cavern's entrance—the one Talia and the League had used. Something about it felt off. The positioning was wrong. It wasn't the same as the hidden passage Ra's had led him through before.

If memory serves right…

Pushing himself up, he limped toward the wall, tracing the rough stone with his fingertips. The texture here was different—unnatural. Too precise. Too deliberate.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

Ra's had always been a man of secrets, of illusions. False walls, hidden pathways—everything was a game to him. And games had rules.

Mimicking the old man's movements from memory, he pressed his palm against a cluster of protruding rocks.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a faint grind of stone, his hand sank inward. The wall yielded, sliding aside with a whisper of dust.

You sly old man.

Before him, a narrow stairway spiraled upward into darkness. He didn't hesitate. Each step echoed faintly as he ascended, the air growing cooler, thinner. At the top, another false wall waited.

Again, he repeated the motion—the same pressure, the same angle. The mechanism responded with a quiet click, and the wall retreated, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond.

He stepped through, blinking against the sudden light. The hallway was empty, silent. No one in sight.

"How did I end up in that cavern?"

The question gnawed at him, but for now, it didn't matter. He was alive. And he owed Ra's a debt—one that could only be repaid in death.

- - -

The morning light filtered through the high arched windows of Jason's chamber, casting elongated golden streaks across the stone floor.

He stirred, blinking slowly as consciousness fully settled in. For the first time in what felt like years, his body didn't ache with the familiar tension of old wounds.

The Lazarus Pit hadn't just healed him—it had renewed him. His muscles were loose, his mind unnervingly sharp, as if someone had scrubbed away the fog of exhaustion and doubt that had clung to him for so long.

He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and exhaled. The air itself felt different—charged, like the static before a storm.

His thoughts, usually a tangled mess of unease and suppressed rage, now rang with startling clarity. It was almost intoxicating.

Then his gaze landed on it.

The artifact.

It sat on the table across the room, bathed in the pale morning glow. He had carried it for days, turning it over in his hands, searching for answers, yet never truly seeing it. But now, from this angle, in this light—something was different.

A pattern.

Subtle, almost invisible unless the light hit it just right. A series of interwoven lines and symbols that tugged at his memory. He knew this. Not just from handling the artifact, but from… somewhere.

Frowning, he swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room in quick strides. The stone was cool under his fingertips as he lifted it, tilting it toward the light. The design wasn't just decorative—it was a map. Or part of one.

His pulse quickened.

He had seen this before. Not on a mission, not in some dusty archive—but here, in the heart of Ra's al Ghul's stronghold.

The gallery.

Without another thought, he was out the door, moving swiftly through the dimly lit corridors.

The fortress was quiet, the only sounds the distant birds chirping in the morning air.

The gallery was a vast hall lined with paintings, tapestries, and relics from centuries past.

Jason's boots clicked against the marble as he scanned the walls, his eyes darting from one piece to another. He tore through them, frustration mounting with each passing second.

Nothing.

Had he imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks on him, still riding the high of the Pit?

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Then, just as he turned to leave—

A flicker. A shift in the light.

His breath caught.

There, on the far wall, was a painting—unremarkable at first glance. But as he stepped sideways, the angle changed, and the image morphed. The brushstrokes rearranged themselves into the same intricate pattern that adorned the artifact.

"There it is," he muttered, striding toward it.

He reached out, fingers brushing the frame before carefully lifting it from the wall. The back was aged, the wood slightly warped with time. And there, etched into the corners—

Two words.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

- - -

[At the same time]

The rotors of the helicopter thundered overhead as the chopper descended onto the cracked tarmac of the abandoned military base.

The hangar loomed ahead, its metal skeleton rusted and half-collapsed, a relic of a war long forgotten.

Slade Wilson stepped out, his combat boots crunching on broken concrete. The wind whipped at his jacket as he strode forward, his single visible eye scanning the perimeter with cold precision.

The soldiers stationed there stiffened as he passed—some out of respect, others out of fear.

He didn't bother with greetings.

The office door slammed shut behind him as he entered, his gaze locking onto the man hunched over a bank of flickering monitors.

"You better be certain about this," Slade said, his voice a low growl.

Jones didn't look up, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Of course." A pause. Then, with a smirk, "Have I ever let you down?"

Slade's eye narrowed.

Jones chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Apart from those times."

Slade ignored the jab. "How did we miss this before?"

Jones swiveled in his chair, tapping the screen. "Because it wasn't just hidden—it was erased. Scrubbed from every map, every satellite feed. The system didn't just fail to locate it—it just couldn't."

He punched a series of commands into the console. The screen flashed red—ERROR.

Then, with a few more keystrokes, the display shifted. A satellite image filled the monitor—endless ocean, stretching into oblivion.

And then, a single red marker pulsed to life.

Slade's lips twitched.

"You brilliant bastard," he murmured, staring at the coordinates.

- - -

Jason's fingers traced the engraved words on the back of the painting, realization hitting him.

At the same moment, thousands of miles away, Slade's screen displayed the same two words in bold, glowing text.

Their voices, though separated by distance, echoed the same name—

"Lian Yu!!"

The island of death. The place where everything had begun.

And where, it seemed, it would all end.

The moment the name Lian Yu seared itself into Jason's mind, he was already moving.

His body thrummed with restless energy, the kind that came from standing on the precipice of a revelation too dangerous to ignore.

The dim glow of the library's ancient lanterns painted the room in flickering amber, casting long, wavering shadows across the towering shelves of forgotten knowledge. The air smelled of aged parchment, brittle leather, and the faint metallic tang of ink that had dried centuries ago.

Ra's al Ghul's library was a fortress of secrets—each book, each scroll, a silent witness to histories too dark for the world to remember.

And if there was any truth about Lian Yu still in existence, it would be buried here, hidden between the lines of some crumbling manuscript or locked away in a cipher only the most determined could unravel.

Jason's fingers moved with practiced precision, tracing the spines of books, pulling volumes from their resting places with a quiet urgency.

The silence of the library was oppressive, broken only by the whisper of turning pages and the occasional creak of the old wooden desk beneath his weight. Time blurred.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the monotony of research gnawing at his patience. His eyes burned from strain, his muscles tense with the need for action rather than this slow, methodical search.

Then—

A brittle, leather-bound ledger, its cover cracked with age, nearly disintegrated at his touch. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the words were unmistakable.

Lian Yu. North China Sea. Imperial Japanese black site.

Project designation: Imperial Japanese Military.

Objective: Development of enhanced combatants through biochemical augmentation.

Termination ordered.

Records purged.

Jason exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the ledger. The implications crashed over him like a wave.

Lian Yu wasn't just an island—it was a graveyard of horrors. A place where men had been turned into weapons, their bodies and minds reshaped in the name of war.

The Japanese had sought an unstoppable army, soldiers who moved faster, hit harder, thought sharper. But something had gone wrong. The project had been buried, erased from history as if it had never existed.

And yet, Slade had something to do with this Mirakuru serum. Which the Japanese referred to as the Miracle serum.

Jason's mind raced, piecing together the fragments. Ra's' intel had painted Slade as a soldier turned mercenary, a man whose skills defied natural limits. His reflexes, his strength—they weren't just the result of training. They were engineered.

A cold realization settled in Jason's gut.

Slade wasn't just a killer for hire. He was a success. A living testament to whatever nightmare science had been wrought on Lian Yu. And now, armed with that knowledge, he wasn't content with being the only one.

He wanted an army.

Jason could see it now—rows of soldiers, each one a mirror of Slade's lethal perfection.

An unstoppable force, answering only to him.

The ledger slipped from his fingers, landing on the desk with a soft thud. Outside, the wind howled through the mountains, a hollow echo of the storm that was coming.

Lian Yu had been the beginning.

And if Jason didn't act fast, he would lose the opportunity to enact his revenge.

Chapter Text

Jason sent word to Talia—short, direct, no room for negotiation. He knew where Slade was heading. But information like that came with a price.

The climb to the League’s new stronghold was grueling. The mountain pass was narrow, the air thin enough to make his lungs burn. Stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of assassins’ footsteps, wound up the cliffside like a serpent’s spine.

At the top loomed a massive gate, flanked by twin statues—ancient, weathered sentinels with hollow eyes that seemed to track his every move. Their stone robes were carved with symbols Jason didn’t recognize, remnants of a language lost to time.

The gate groaned open before he could raise a hand. No guards challenged him. No blades crossed his path. Just silence.

Inside, the fortress buzzed like a stirred hornet’s nest. Masked soldiers moved in tight formations, sharpening swords, loading rifles, their movements precise but hurried.

The scent of oiled steel and smoldering incense clung to the air. Among them, Jason spotted unfamiliar figures—fighters in sleek, modern combat gear, their masks angular, their posture rigid. Not League. Not entirely.

A soldier in a blackened helm gestured for him to follow. Jason fell into step behind them, eyes scanning.

The halls were dim, lit by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. Murals of past Demon Heads lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow him. Ra’s was among them, frozen in pigment and pride.

They stopped at a heavy oak door. The soldier knocked once, then melted back into the shadows, leaving Jason alone.

He pushed the door open.

Talia sat slumped in a high-backed chair, her usual poise shattered. Bruises mottled her arms, a fresh cut split her lip, and her knuckles were raw—defensive wounds. But it was her eyes that struck him: dark, exhausted, simmering with something between fury and defeat.

Beside her stood a woman Jason had never seen. Tall, lean, with the same sharp features as Talia but colder.

She wore fitted armor, a dagger strapped to her thigh, and a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

"Welcome, Jason," Talia said, her voice hoarse. She gestured to the woman. "This is Nyssa al Ghul. My sister."

Jason’s brows lifted. Sister?

Nyssa extended a hand. Her grip was firm, calloused. "I’ve heard so much about you."

Jason held her stare. "Funny. First I’m hearing of you."

A flicker of amusement crossed Nyssa’s face. "There’s a story there."

"One we don’t have time for," Talia cut in, wincing as she shifted in her seat.

Jason crossed his arms. "Then give me the short version. And why she’s here."

Talia exhaled. "She and my father had a… falling out. She took a faction of the League and left. Built her own empire."

Jason glanced at Nyssa. Of course Ra’s had more secrets. The old man had probably buried more skeletons than Jason could count.

"And the injuries?" he pressed.

Talia’s jaw tightened. "Deathstroke. He had me for days. Wanted the artifact’s secrets." Her fingers curled into fists. "By the time I escaped, he’d already deciphered it."

Jason’s stomach twisted. The thought of Talia—proud, unbreakable Talia—broken under Slade’s hands made his blood simmer.

Nyssa leaned against the table, arms crossed. "She says you cracked Ra’s code. What’s your price?"

Jason didn’t hesitate. "I go with you. And Slade’s mine."

Talia’s gaze darkened. For a heartbeat, Jason saw the conflict—the daughter’s vengeance warring with the strategist’s pragmatism. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Jason pulled a map from his jacket, spreading it across the table. "It’s a black site. An island called Lian Yu, hidden in the North China Sea."

Talia frowned. "I’ve heard the name."

Nyssa’s smirk returned. "I can take you there."

Jason eyed her. "How? The area’s a maze of islands."

"Because," Nyssa said, tracing a finger over the map, "Ra’s took me there. For training."

Silence settled over the room. Jason studied her—the way she held herself, the way her fingers lingered near her dagger. She wasn’t just Talia’s sister. She was Ra’s’ daughter. And if Ra’s had trusted her enough to show her Lian Yu…

"Then we move now," Jason said, rolling up the map.

Talia pushed to her feet, grimacing. "Deathstroke won’t be alone. He’ll have an army."

Nyssa’s grin turned razor-sharp. "So do we."

- - -

The chopper blades thundered overhead before Slade's boots even hit the damp earth of Lian Yu. The island smelled like salt and decay - a graveyard of forgotten experiments and half-buried secrets.

His mercenaries fanned out like a dark tide, their rifles sweeping across the overgrown ruins of what had once been a military compound.

Crumbling concrete walls, long since reclaimed by vines, stood as silent witnesses to the horrors this place had birthed.

"Fan out," Slade barked into his comms, his single eye scanning the tree line.

"I want every bunker, every tunnel checked. The serum samples have to be here somewhere."

The Mirakuru formula was his endgame - the key to building an army that could never be stopped.

His men moved with practiced efficiency, breaching rusted doors and kicking through debris. The occasional rat scurried from their path, the only signs of life on this cursed island.

Then the world exploded.

The first rocket hit the eastern ridge, sending a fireball curling into the dawn sky. Slade whirled, his sword already in hand as the familiar whump-whump-whump of approaching helicopters shook the trees. Not his. Not expected.

"Contact!" one of his lieutenants screamed just as the treetops erupted with gunfire. Leaves shredded under the barrage, his mercenaries diving for cover as a second chopper banked hard, its side-mounted machine gun painting the ground with bullets.

Jason felt the adrenaline surge as his chopper door slid open, the wind whipping at his all black get-up. Below, Deathstroke's forces scrambled like ants under a magnifying glass. Good. Let them feel what surprise felt like for once.

"Go! Go! Go!"

The pilot didn't need to yell - Jason was already leaping, his boots hitting the soft earth as he rolled to absorb the impact.

Around him, League assassins and Nyssa's hybrid forces hit the ground running, their war cries mixing with the staccato rhythm of gunfire.

The island had become a living thing - breathing fire, screaming metal. To the east, though injured, Talia moved like shadow given form, her sword flickering in the daylight as she cut through two mercenaries before they could raise their rifles.

To the west, Nyssa's forces employed brutal efficiency, their modified rifles spitting specialized rounds that punched through body armor.

Jason's pistol barked twice, dropping a sniper trying to reposition on a crumbling watchtower. The man tumbled like a broken doll, his rifle clattering down the rocks.

Somewhere in the chaos, he heard Deathstroke roaring orders, but the sound was swallowed by another explosion - someone had hit an ammo cache.

The ground became a chessboard of violence. Here, a pair of assassins fought back-to-back against four mercenaries, their blades weaving deadly patterns.

There, a League archer picked off targets from the high ground, each arrow finding its mark with eerie precision. The smell of cordite and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the salt spray from the nearby cliffs.

Jason moved toward the sound of Slade's voice, his boots crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings. This time, the playing field was level. This time, it ended.

A mercenary lunged at him from behind a burned-out jeep. Jason sidestepped, driving his elbow into the man's throat before putting two rounds in his chest. No hesitation. No mercy. Not today.

Through the smoke and chaos, he caught glimpses of the real battle unfolding - not just between armies, but between ideologies. The League's cold precision against the mercenaries' brutal pragmatism. And somewhere in that mess, his personal war waited.

The chopper blades still thundered above it all, the sound now mixed with screams and the wet thunk of steel meeting flesh.

Determined to stay on course, he hailed one of the helicopters and took off, moving in Slade's approximate direction.

Lian Yu, the island that had birthed so much pain, would bear witness to one more bloody chapter.

Jason reloaded with practiced ease, his eyes sharp for even the faintest trace of Slade Wilson.

- - -

The distant echoes of gunfire and shouting faded into the background as Deathstroke and Jones pushed deeper into the dense foliage of Lian Yu’s interior.

The jungle here was thicker, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation. Sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy overhead, casting everything in a murky green twilight.

Jones wiped sweat from his brow, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he stepped over gnarled roots.

"How could they have cracked the code so fast?" he muttered, swatting away a cloud of insects. "We barely got our hands on the damn thing before they were on our tail."

Deathstroke didn’t slow his pace. His tomahawk flashed in the dim light, cleaving through vines and low-hanging branches with practiced efficiency.

"Talia played us," he said, his voice a low growl. "Either she knew how to decipher it all along and held out under torture—which, I’ll admit, would be impressive—or someone else figured it out faster than expected."

The ground beneath them sloped upward, the terrain becoming rougher. Rocks jutted from the earth like broken teeth, forcing them to navigate carefully. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic thud of explosions underscored the ongoing battle near the shore.

Jones glanced back the way they’d come. "You really think she’d let herself get carved up just to keep a secret?"

Deathstroke’s lips curled beneath his mask. "You don’t know the al Ghuls like I do. Pride makes people do stupid things."

Before Jones could reply, a new sound cut through the jungle—the unmistakable thrum of helicopter blades, growing louder by the second. Both men froze, their instincts screaming danger.

The trees above them shuddered as the chopper roared into view, its shadow slicing across the forest floor.

"Move!" Deathstroke barked.

They dove in opposite directions just as the machine gun opened fire. Bullets chewed through the foliage, sending splinters of wood and shredded leaves raining down.

Dirt erupted in geysers where rounds struck the ground, stitching a deadly line between where they’d been standing moments before.

Deathstroke rolled behind the thick trunk of a banyan tree, his pulse steady despite the close call. He peered around the edge, his single eye narrowing as two figures rappelled down from the hovering chopper, black-clad and moving with lethal precision.

One of them turned, and even from this distance, Deathstroke recognized those eyes—cold, furious, and utterly focused.

"Well, well," he murmured, stepping out from cover. He didn’t bother reaching for a weapon yet. Instead, he rubbed his gloved fingers over his eyepatch, the leather creaking softly. "Thanks for coming, kid. I did promise to pay you back for this."

Jason didn’t blink. He unsheathed his blade in one smooth motion, the steel glinting dully in the filtered light. "You can have the other one," he said to the assassin beside him, never taking his gaze off Deathstroke.

The second fighter—one of Nyssa’s elites—nodded and melted into the trees after Jones, leaving the two of them alone in the clearing.

Jason adjusted his grip on the sword, settling into a stance Ra’s had drilled into him a thousand times. "And I promised to finish the job." His voice was calm, but Deathstroke didn’t miss the undercurrent of something darker beneath it.

"You owe me a death. I’m here to collect."

Around them, the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere far off, a bird shrieked, but the sound was swallowed by the distant chaos of the larger battle. Here, in this pocket of stillness, there was only the two of them—and the debt between them that could only be paid in blood.

Deathstroke finally reached for his own sword, the metal whispering as it left its sheath. "Then let’s see if you live long enough to cash in."

Jason’s answering smirk beneath his mask, was all the reply he needed.

The fight began.

Chapter Text

The jungle swallowed them whole as Jason and Deathstroke circled each other, their boots sinking slightly into the damp earth.

Around them, the air hung thick with the scent of crushed foliage and gunpowder residue. Somewhere beyond the dense canopy, the distant staccato of gunfire and shouted orders reminded them this was just one battle within a war—but for these two, it was the only one that mattered.

Deathstroke made the first move, his twin swords cutting through the humid air with a metallic hiss.

Jason barely got his blade up in time, the impact vibrating through his arms as he skidded back a step.

His heel caught on an exposed root, sending him stumbling against a moss-covered tree trunk. The bark bit into his shoulders through his combat vest.

"Running out of room, kid," Deathstroke taunted, advancing with the steady rhythm of a predator. Sunlight filtering through the leaves painted jagged patterns across his armored chest.

Jason's fingers found a thick vine hanging beside his head. As Deathstroke lunged, Jason yanked hard.

The vine snapped taut just as Deathstroke's sword arm came down—the fibrous plant wrapped around his wrist mid-swing, jerking his attack off-course. The blade buried itself deep into the tree trunk beside Jason's ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passing.

In that split second of distraction, Jason's free hand went to his hip. The pistol cleared its holster with practiced ease.

Two rapid shots punched into Deathstroke's torso at point-blank range—only for the bullets to ricochet off with metallic pings, leaving barely a dent in the advanced body armor.

Jason didn't hesitate. He adjusted his aim upward and fired again at the unprotected head.

Deathstroke moved with terrifying speed. His entire body coiled and dropped low, the third bullet whining past where his skull had been a heartbeat before. The sudden movement tore the vine free from Jason's grip, sending him off-balance.

Before Jason could recover, Deathstroke released his embedded sword and lunged forward in a spear tackle. His shoulder connected with Jason's midsection like a battering ram, driving the air from his lungs as they crashed to the ground. Damp soil and rotting leaves sprayed upward from the impact.

Jason tasted blood in his mouth as Deathstroke's weight pinned him down. Two hammer-like punches rocked his head against the ground—the first splitting his lip, the second making his vision swim with black spots.

Then Jason's fingers found the hidden sleeve dagger. The blade slid free with a whisper of metal on fabric before burying itself to the hilt in Deathstroke's thigh. A grunt of pain escaped the mercenary as Jason twisted the knife viciously, feeling the specially tempered League steel tear through muscle and fabric alike.

Deathstroke rolled off with a snarl, yanking the blade free with one gloved hand. Blood welled from the wound, darkening his pants leg as he tossed the knife aside. It landed with a soft thunk in a nearby fern.

"You're learning," Deathstroke admitted, retrieving his sword from the tree with a sharp tug. The blade showed no damage—whatever alloy it was forged from seemed just as resilient as the League's own metallurgy. "But lessons like this tend to be fatal."

Jason spat blood as he scrambled to his feet, his own sword finding his hand again. The jungle around them seemed to hold its breath, the usual chorus of insects and birds silenced by the violence. Somewhere deeper in the forest, the occasional clash of steel suggested Jones was still occupied with Nyssa's assassin.

"Funny," Jason said, assessing his jaw for damages. "I was about to say the same thing."

They charged at each other again, blades flashing in the dappled light.

The kick landed like a sledgehammer to Jason's ribs, lifting him clean off his feet. He tasted copper as blood sprayed against the inside of his mask, the warm metallic tang flooding his mouth.

The world tilted as he crashed back-first into a towering mahogany tree, its rough bark scraping through his combat vest. Splinters rained down around him as the impact shook loose decades of accumulated moss.

Deathstroke didn't let up. He came in like a storm, his twin swords carving deadly arcs through the humid jungle air.

Each parry sent shockwaves up Jason's arms, the mercenary's enhanced strength turning every block into a battle of attrition.

Between strikes, Deathstroke peppered in brutal efficiency: a knee to the ribs here, an elbow to the collarbone there. Jason's left arm went momentarily numb from a perfectly placed pressure point strike.

"Fuck!" Jason spat, rolling sideways just as a sword bit deep into the tree where his head had been. The curse wasn't just from the pain, it was frustration at himself. He'd trained for this. Prepared for this. And still, he was barely holding on.

Deathstroke's chuckle was muffled by his mask but no less mocking. "Come on boy, is this all you've got?" He pressed forward, his boots crushing ferns into the damp earth. "I have to say I'm disappointed. The old man raised such a weakling."

Something inside Jason snapped.

The jungle sounds faded away. The ever-present ache in his ribs disappeared. Even the taste of blood became distant. All that remained was white-hot rage, bubbling up from some dark pit in his soul he'd kept chained for too long.

"You think your test tube enhancements make you superior?" Jason pushed off the tree, his breathing steady despite the blood trickling down his chin. "You're just a government's failed experiment. Everything impressive about you came from a syringe."

The change was immediate. Jason's stance shifted, his grip on the sword adjusting subtly.

Where before there had been controlled fury, now there was something primal, but frighteningly focused. The Lazarus Pit's influence, usually kept carefully leashed, now flowed through him like dark electricity.

Deathstroke actually took half a step back, his remaining eye narrowing behind the mask. "There it is," he murmured, adjusting his grip on his swords. "Those eyes finally show what you really are."

Jason didn't charge blindly. That was the terrifying part. When he moved, it was with lethal precision, a horizontal slash that morphed mid-swing into a vicious thrust from an unexpected angle.

Deathstroke barely got his second blade up in time, the parry sending sparks flying as the edges screeched against each other.

The rhythm of the fight changed. Jason's attacks became unpredictable, his feints more convincing, his recoveries impossibly fast.

Where Deathstroke had relied on brute strength before, now he found himself actually working to keep up. A particularly clever reversal nearly took his remaining eye - the blade tip leaving a thin red line across his cheekbone before he jerked back.

For the first time, Deathstroke felt something akin to respect. This wasn't mindless rage, it was being wielded.

Every ounce of Jason's Lazarus-induced bloodlust was being channeled, focused, and directed with terrifying efficiency.

Their blades locked again, faces inches apart. Jason's eyes burned with green-tinged fury behind his mask. Deathstroke's single eye gleamed with something between amusement and genuine surprise.

"Now this," Deathstroke grunted as he shoved Jason back, "is more like what I expected from Ra's al Ghul's pet."

Jason didn't respond with words. He responded with a sudden knee to Deathstroke's thigh, right where the knife wound still seeped blood. As the mercenary staggered, Jason spun, his elbow connecting with the side of Deathstroke's head hard enough to make his ears ring.

The playing field had leveled. No more predators and preys. Just two killers in a jungle, each refusing to die.

The stalemate stretched between them like a taut wire, both fighters breathing heavily in the salty ocean air as they lost daylight and and now fought in moonlight.

Jason's muscles burned from the constant strain of deflecting Deathstroke's overwhelming strength, but he'd found his rhythm, using his agility to dance just outside the mercenary's most devastating swings while countering with precise strikes of his own.

Their blades met again in a shower of sparks, the metallic shriek echoing across the clifftop. In the split-second pause that followed, Jason's free hand flashed to his hip. The pistol cleared its holster with practiced ease, its muzzle already swinging up as his finger found the trigger.

Three shots rang out in rapid succession. Even at point-blank range, the bullets merely dented Deathstroke's advanced body armor, but the kinetic force was enough to make the larger man stagger back a step, his boot scraping against the rocky outcrop.

Jason saw the counterattack coming before Deathstroke fully committed. The second sword came around in a blinding arc, aimed to sever his gun arm at the elbow.

There was no time to dodge, only to react. He brought the pistol up in a desperate block, the blade shearing through the weapon's frame with a horrible grinding noise before he threw himself backward.

"Damn." Jason tossed the ruined firearm aside, watching as its pieces tumbled over the cliff edge into the churning waves below. The taste of salt spray mixed with the coppery blood in his mouth as he regained his footing.

They stood now on an exposed section of the headland, the ground uneven with weather-worn stone and patches of stubborn sea grass.

Behind them, the cliff dropped away sharply to where white-capped waves smashed against jagged rocks fifty feet below. No trees. No cover. Just open sky and the endless ocean stretching to the horizon.

Deathstroke's next series of attacks lacked their usual surgical precision. Jason noticed the slight tremor in his opponent's sword arm, the way his footwork had become half a beat slower.

When Jason landed a solid kick to Deathstroke's ribs, he felt the satisfying give of armor plating under his boot - and something more concerning. The mercenary's breathing had taken on a ragged edge beneath that mask.

"You're starting to feel it now, aren't you?" Jason wiped blood from his chin which dripped behind his mask with the back of his hand, allowing himself a grim smile. "Well, took you long enough."

Deathstroke's remaining eye narrowed as he processed the symptoms, the creeping numbness in his extremities, the way his vision kept trying to double. Then it clicked. "The knife," he growled. "You poisoned the blade."

Jason didn't deny it. He simply adjusted his grip on his sword, watching as Deathstroke's enhanced metabolism fought against the toxin coursing through his veins. The fact the man was still standing at all was testament to those super-soldier enhancements.

For a brief moment, tactical logic warred with pride behind Deathstroke's mask. Retreat would be the smart play, regroup, find an antidote. But the idea of withdrawing from a fight with this upstart?

Unthinkable. His reputation had been built on impossible victories. Besides, his modified biology was buying him time. Not much, but enough.

The cliff's edge crumbled beneath Jason's boots as he skidded backward, gravel spraying from his heels. Moonlight bled through the storm clouds above, casting jagged shadows across Deathstroke's armored form. The mercenary's swords gleamed wetly—whether from sea spray or blood, Jason couldn't tell. Probably both.

"You punk." The words tore from Deathstroke's modulator in a staticky snarl. Even through the pain of his poisoned system, the man moved like a machine, muscles coiling as he raised both blades high.

Jason barely got his sword up in time.

The collision of steel sent shockwaves down his arms. His boots slid another inch toward the precipice as Deathstroke leaned into the strike, putting his full weight behind the blow. Jason's knees hit stone with a crack that reverberated through his bones.

"You see, boy?" Deathstroke's breath hitched—just slightly—betraying the toxin's work. But his voice remained iron. "You're nothing compared to me."

A twist of his wrists, and Jason's guard shattered.

He hit the ground hard, lungs emptying in a rush. Before he could roll, Deathstroke pivoted, his combat boot carving through the air in a vicious arc aimed at Jason's temple.

He let himself fall completely flat, the kick whistling overhead as his fingers found the hilt of his combat knife. The moment Deathstroke's momentum carried him past, Jason exploded upward in a spray of loose shale, leading with the blade.

Steel met flesh with a wet crunch.

The knife bit deep behind Deathstroke's knee, parting kevlar, muscle, and finally the pulsing vein beneath. Hot blood sheeted down the mercenary's leg as his joint buckled.

"You fucking brat." Deathstroke hit one knee with a metallic clang, but his swords never stopped moving. They wove a deadly lattice in the air between them, each slash forcing Jason back half a step.

Jason parried high, then low, feeling the rhythm of Deathstroke's attacks shift—the poison and blood loss making him fractionally slower. Just enough.

He feinted left, then drove his knee up into Deathstroke's masked face. The impact jolted up his leg as the reinforced nose guard crumpled inward. Blood sprayed the inside of Deathstroke's visor in a crimson web.

Still, the bastard wouldn't fall.

Jason didn't hesitate. His knife hand shot forward, the blade sinking to the hilt just below Deathstroke's sternum. The resistance gave way with a sickening pop of parting tissue.

"This is for Ra's." Jason twisted the knife as he spoke, the words coming out in a graveled growl that barely sounded human.

He yanked the blade free in time to see Deathstroke's remaining eye widen behind the mask. Jason's sword arm rose for the decapitating strike—

—when the first bullet took him in the shoulder.

The impact spun him like a top. His sword clattered across the rocks as his back hit dirt. Through the ringing in his ears, Jason registered two things: Deathstroke finally collapsing onto his back, Jason's knife still protruding from his gut, and the complete absence of muzzle flashes in the surrounding darkness.

Then the second bullet punched through his chest.

Jason's breath came in wet, ragged pulls as he staggered upright. No single shooter—this was a coordinated killbox.

His vision swam as he tried to triangulate the angles. Blood slicked his gloves as he slowly made to the edge of the cliff with his back faced towards the open ocean.

Left with just one option if he had any intention of survival, the rocks gave way beneath him.

For one weightless moment, Jason hung in the air, salt wind tearing at his clothes. Then gravity took hold.

The ocean rose to meet him like a concrete wall. Icy water drove the air from his lungs as the impact drove him deep beneath the surface. Currents clawed at his limbs, dragging him down into the lightless depths.

Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision as the cold seeped into his bones. Some distant part of him noted the irony—Deathstroke still breathing while he sank toward the abyss.

His last conscious thought wasn't fear, or even anger. Just quiet annoyance that he hadn't finished the job.

Then the blackness took him, and Jason stopped fighting.

After all, it wouldn't be his first time being craddled in death's cold embrace.

- - -

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Chapter Text

Jason's eyelids fluttered open, but the world refused to come into focus—just a hazy smear of shapes and colors, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache pulsing behind his temples.

The air smelled sterile, sharp with antiseptic, undercut by something metallic. Blood? Probably his own.

A voice cut through the fog, crisp and professional. "He's starting to regain consciousness, sir."

Jason groaned, trying to blink away the blur. His arms were strapped down, the leather cuffs biting into his wrists when he tested them. The steady, rhythmic beep… beep… beep… of a heart monitor filled the silence, way too loud for his liking.

Then—movement. A shadow loomed over him, resolving slowly into a familiar face. Ra's al Ghul stood there, arms clasped behind, looking down at him like he was a mildly interesting science experiment.

Jason's mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "Old man?" he slurred, voice rough. "How are you—"

But before he could finish—before he could even begin to process how the hell Ra's was here, alive, or if he missed the old man so much that he's hallucinating—the man spoke, calm and commanding.

"Activate the Jason Project."

Jason's stomach dropped. "But… how?" he mumbled, already feeling the darkness creeping back in at the edges of his vision. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts sluggish, like his brain was drowning in syrup.

The last thing he heard before everything went black again was his own voice—flat, obedient, wrong—answering: "What are my mission's orders, master?"

And then—nothing.

- - -

Deep in his unconscious state, all he saw was an endless void—a suffocating darkness that pressed in from all sides, weightless and timeless. There was no sound, no sensation, just an abyss that swallowed everything.

Then—

Light erupted without warning, shattering the blackness. Images flickered before him, sharp and vivid—not random flashes, but memories. His own.

The vision dragged him back to days before his capture, to the nights when he still wore the mantle of Robin.

The air had been thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and sweat as he and Batman stood amidst the wreckage of a drug bust.

Broken bodies littered the floor, groaning in pain. Robin's knuckles were raw, his breath ragged. He had been brutal—more than necessary. Batman's voice cut through the haze of adrenaline, sharp with disapproval.

"You went too far."

Jason had bristled, jaw clenched. "They deserved worse."

Batman's glare was like ice, his silence heavier than any reprimand. Jason knew the lecture that was coming—about restraint, about justice, not vengeance. He swallowed his pride and muttered an apology, but deep down? He wasn't sorry. Not for what he'd done to them.

The memory dissolved, and suddenly, he was somewhere else—a hospital.

The sterile white walls of the hallway stretched before him, fluorescent lights humming overhead. The sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nose as he walked, his boots scuffing against the linoleum. He was in civilian clothes, no mask, no cape—just Jason Todd.

Then, without warning, an arm hooked around his shoulder, yanking him backward into a supply closet. The door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into dim, cramped darkness.

"Jason."

The voice was low, familiar. Bruce.

Jason's back hit the wall as Bruce pinned him there, his grip tight on his collar. The faint glow from under the door cast shadows across Bruce's face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce demanded, his voice a controlled growl.

Jason scoffed, slapping Bruce's hands away. "You followed me." He rolled his shoulders, irritation flaring. "Figures."

"I was about to guess the same of you," Bruce countered, his tone edged with suspicion.

Jason blinked. That wasn't the response he expected.

"But I didn't follow you to Bosnia," Bruce continued, stepping back just enough to give Jason space. "I followed Ra's al Ghul."

Jason smirked, crossing his arms. "He's got you jumping through hoops to marry his daughter again, huh?" The jab was deliberate, laced with sarcasm. "Well, I'm on my own mission here."

Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Which is?"

"I'm tracking Joker."

A beat of silence. Bruce's expression darkened.

"Joker? Here? And you're tracking him alone?" The disbelief in his voice was palpable.

Jason's patience snapped. "I know that he shot Barbara through the spine!" His voice rose, sharp and raw. "And I know he didn't stop there. But you only put that waste of life back in a cell."

Bruce flinched, his gaze dropping for the briefest moment. Jason saw it—the flicker of guilt.

"Well, he's broken out. Again. And someone had to do something—"

"Jason," Bruce cut in, his voice grave. "Ra's is attempting to build dirty bombs. Thousands could die from radiation poisoning. He's here in Bosnia, buying nuclear material from an unknown seller."

Jason exhaled, forcing himself to process the information. "Joker got a hold of stolen uranium. I got a lead. He's selling it to terrorists."

Bruce's stern expression softened—just slightly. A ghost of pride flickered in his eyes. "Excellent detective work, son."

The words sent a rush of warmth through Jason. Son. After everything, Bruce still saw him that way.

"I think it's going to take Batman and Robin together to close this case," Bruce said, offering a rare, small smile.

Jason returned it, nodding.

- - -

[Later, in the field]

The night air was thick with tension as they stood at the crossroads—literally.

Ra's' men were moving bombs across the border in one direction. In the other, the warehouse Jason had traced Joker to loomed in the distance, its broken windows like hollow eyes watching them.

Batman's grip on the Batcycle's handles tightened. "We need to intercept Ra's' shipment before it crosses."

Jason bristled. "Batcycle only seats one. You take them down while I investigate the warehouse." He jerked his chin toward the darkened building.

Bruce's response was immediate. "No. Stay here." His hands clamped onto Jason's shoulders, his voice dropping into something almost pleading. "Jason, for once, please listen to me."

Jason stiffened.

"Don't go after Joker alone. He's too dangerous." Bruce's eyes were hard behind the cowl, his jaw set. "You read me?"

Jason hesitated. Then, reluctantly: "Loud and clear. Just hurry back."

Bruce sped off, leaving Jason standing there.

He waited until the roar of the Batcycle faded.

Then he turned toward the warehouse.

- - -

The memory shifted—violently.

Now he was back in that chair.

The stench of gasoline and blood filled his nose. Joker's laughter echoed, high and manic, as the crowbar came down again.

Pain.

Darkness.

Then—beeping.

His foggy gaze locked onto the blinking red light in the corner.

A bomb.

His muscles went slack.

Boom.

- - -

His eyes snapped open.

The room was dim, the air stale. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor filled the silence.

Hospital.

He was in a hospital.

The sheets were rough against his skin, the mattress stiff beneath him. The scent of disinfectant was overwhelming.

The door creaked open. A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand, humming softly as she checked the machines.

Then she turned—and froze.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and alert.

She gasped, nearly dropping the clipboard. "You're awake?" Her voice was a whisper. Then, louder: "He's awake!"

She bolted from the room.

Minutes later, she returned with a doctor, who shone a light into his pupils.

"What is your name?" the doctor asked.

Jason's throat burned. "I… don't remember."

"What do you remember?"

"Nothing. It's all… fuzzy."

The doctor nodded, sympathetic. "Rest. You've been out for a while."

As they turned to leave, Jason rasped: "Nurse."

She paused.

"Where am I?"

"Gotham City's Central Hospital."

Gotham.

"What happened to me?"

"We don't know. You were found unconscious at our doors a week ago. No injuries—just scars."

A week.

"Thank you," he murmured, exhaustion pulling at him.

The nurse smiled softly. "Rest. I'll be back in the morning."

The door clicked shut.

Jason fought the heaviness in his eyelids, but the sedative dragged him under.

The last thing he saw was the faint glow of the city through the window—Gotham's skyline, jagged and familiar.

Then—darkness.

- - -

[A Few Days Later]

The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, a constant reminder of Jason's confinement within the hospital's white walls.

The hum of distant machines, the muffled conversations of nurses, the occasional groan of another patient—these were the sounds that filled his days.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the sheets as he stared at his legs, willing them to move. But they remained stubbornly still, as if disconnected from his very being.

The doctors had run every test imaginable—blood work, nerve conduction studies, X-rays—all yielding the same frustrating conclusion.

There was nothing physically wrong with him. His muscles were intact, his nerves undamaged. And yet, his body refused to obey.

Psychological. That was their diagnosis.

The white streak cutting through his dark hair had drawn curious glances from the medical staff.

After some deliberation, the doctor had labeled it Canities Subita—a sudden whitening of the hair, often linked to extreme stress or trauma.

Jason had scoffed at the term. A name didn't explain why it had happened. It didn't explain the hollow pit in his chest, the simmering rage that never quite faded.

An all too familiar feeling.

Physical therapy was a special kind of torment. Each session was a battle—not just against his own body, but against the fury that threatened to consume him.

The first time the nurse helped him stand, his legs buckled instantly, sending him crashing to the padded floor. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, as a snarl ripped from his throat.

Pathetic.

The nurses were patient, at least. They murmured reassurances, treating his outbursts with practiced calm.

They assumed his anger was born of frustration—of a young man robbed of his strength, his memories, his very identity.

And maybe it was, in part. But there was something else, something darker. A hunger for violence that coiled in his gut, whispering to him in moments of stillness.

Bash their skulls in. Make them hurt like you've been hurt.

He didn't know where the thoughts came from. He didn't want to know.

Yet, despite the rage, there were moments—small, fleeting—where something softer flickered to life. When a nurse brought him an extra blanket after noticing he shivered at night.

When an elderly patient in the hallway smiled at him, offering a shaky thumbs-up as he struggled with his cane. These moments left him unbalanced, unsure of what to do with the warmth that briefly pushed back the anger.

Progress was slow but undeniable. From collapsing after two steps, he learned to bear his own weight. Then to shuffle forward, gripping the parallel bars until his palms blistered. And finally, to walk—haltingly, painfully—with the aid of a cane. Each step was a victory, yet it did nothing to quell the storm inside him.

Then came the television.

The hospital's common room was quiet that afternoon, the usual chatter of patients subdued. Jason sat in a stiff-backed chair, fingers drumming against the armrest as he half-watched the news.

"—precisely five years since one of Gotham's most dangerous criminals, known as the Joker, was sent to Arkham Asylum—"

The name hit him like a crowbar, pun intended.

His head snapped up, eyes locking onto the screen. The Joker's grinning face filled the corner of the broadcast, that leering, grotesque smile stretching wide. And suddenly—

—metal crashing against bone—

—laughter, high and shrill, ringing in his ears—

—pain, so much pain, and the smell of blood and gasoline—

Jason's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. His hands trembled, his vision swimming as the flashes sharpened into full, horrifying clarity. The warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion.

Robin.

Batman.

Death.

He remembered.

The cane clattered to the floor as he surged to his feet, his body moving on pure instinct.

The nurses called after him, but their voices were distant, meaningless. His mind was a whirlwind—rage, betrayal, confusion.

Three years. The date on the screen taunted him. Three years had passed since his death. Since his rebirth. And yet, he remembered none of it. Only the before.

And the Joker was still alive.

Batman hadn't killed him.

The realization burned through him, hotter than any anger he'd felt before.

The hospital doors swung open as he stepped into the Gotham night, the cold air biting at his skin. The city stretched before him—a labyrinth of shadows and neon, of sirens and silence.

Somewhere out there, the Joker breathed.

Somewhere out there, Batman watched.

And Jason?

He was done waiting for answers.

- - -

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Chapter Text

[Gotham City – The First Night]

The Gotham night swallowed Jason whole as he stepped out of the hospital, the cold air biting through the thin scrubs they'd dressed him in. The city's skyline loomed—towering spires of glass and steel, their peaks lost in the smog-choked clouds.

Neon signs flickered in the distance, casting sickly reflections on rain-slicked pavement. Somewhere, a siren wailed, the sound swallowed by the labyrinth of alleyways.

Jason's fingers tightened around the stolen cane—his only weapon, his only advantage. He had no money. No ID. No memory of the last three years. But he had instincts and he knows Gotham, and right now, they screamed at him to move.

The first rule of surviving Gotham: avoid the open.

Jason stuck to the shadows, his body still unsteady but his mind razor-sharp. The streets here were a graveyard of forgotten buildings—warehouses with busted locks, condemned apartments with hollowed-out insides. He needed somewhere unseen. Somewhere no one would ask questions.

He found it in the skeleton of an old textile factory near the docks. The sign above the door hung crooked, the letters faded to ghosts: WAYNE TEXTILES – EST. 1942.

Irony.

The door groaned as he forced it open, the scent of mildew and rust thick in the air. Inside, the floor was littered with debris—broken glass, shredded fabric, the carcasses of dead rats. But the upper floor was intact, the metal staircase still clinging to the wall.

Jason climbed, each step sending a dull ache through his legs. The second floor was a cavern of empty space, the windows boarded up but for a few slivers of moonlight cutting through. A desk sat in the corner, half-collapsed, its drawers gutted.

Good enough.

He scavenged what he could—a moth-eaten tarp to block the wind, a length of chain he could use as a lock. A rusted fire axe lay abandoned near the stairwell, its handle splintered but its blade still sharp.

Better.

For the first time since waking up, Jason let himself breathe.

Gotham's underbelly had its own economy, and Jason knew how to work it.

The next night, he slipped into the narrow streets of the East End, where the shopkeepers knew better than to ask questions.

A pawnshop with bars on the windows, a bodega with a flickering OPEN sign—he moved between them like a ghost.

A stolen wallet from a careless tourist got him cash. A distracted vendor let him pocket a switchblade. By the time the sun rose, he had:

- A black hoodie (too big, but it hid his face)
- A pair of boots (stolen from a thrift store donation bin)
- A burner phone (paid for in crumpled bills)
- A map of Gotham (circled with places he knew—the Alley, the Docks, Arkham)

And painkillers. Because his body still screamed with every step.

- - -

The Gotham nights had settled into a familiar rhythm over the past few weeks. Jason Todd spent most of his time perched on rooftops or tucked away in dimly lit safehouses, meticulously mapping out the city's underworld.

Notebooks filled with cramped handwriting littered his workspace—names, locations, alliances. He studied the shifting territories like a scholar poring over ancient texts, committing every detail to memory.

The Falcones still controlled the docks, the Maronis held sway over the East End, and a dozen smaller factions squabbled over the scraps in between.

Other nights, he watched from a distance as Batman patrolled the city. The sight of the Dark Knight moving across Gotham's skyline still sent a jolt through Jason's chest, though he'd never admit it. He tracked the familiar silhouette with his binoculars, noting every movement, every takedown. But it was the smaller figure leaping beside Batman that made his fingers tighten around the lenses.

The new Robin.

The kid moved with a confidence Jason recognized—that same reckless energy he'd once had. The costume was different, sleeker, with more armor and a darker color scheme. It was undeniably cool.

Too cool. Jason's earlier uniform had been bright, almost garish in comparison. He could still remember how the yellow of his cape had flared behind him as he swung through the air. This new version was all blacks, reds and green, like something designed to intimidate rather than inspire.

Which reminded him of his Robin costume during his later years, red and black.

He had been replaced.

The thought settled in his gut like a stone. Five years. Five years since he'd died in that warehouse, since the Joker had beaten him bloody and left him to burn. And in that time, Batman had just… moved on. Found a new kid to fill the role. A new son.

Jason lowered the binoculars, his breath fogging in the cold night air. He wasn't angry at Bruce.

Not really.

He'd made his peace with that, or at least he told himself he had. Bruce hadn't avenged him, hadn't crossed that line Jason had begged him to cross, but Jason understood why. He knew the code, knew the oath Bruce had sworn.

But the Joker was still out there. Still laughing. Still breathing.

That was the part Jason couldn't stomach.

He pushed away from the rooftop ledge, his gloved fingers curling into fists. The city sprawled beneath him, a mess of neon and shadow. Somewhere out there, the clown was still breathing, smug in the knowledge that he'd won that night. That he'd taken Robin from Batman and lived to tell the tale.

Jason's jaw tightened.

No. That wasn't how this ended.

If justice wasn't coming for the Joker, then Jason would bring it himself.

He turned his back on the skyline, his boots scraping against gravel as he moved toward the fire escape. The wind tugged at his jacket, sharp and biting, but he barely felt it. His mind was already racing, plans slotting into place.

He'd waited long enough.

If no one else was going to do it, then fine. He'd handle it.

After all, if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself.

- - -

[Damian Wayne's POV]

Three years have passed since Grandfather's death. The shadows of his legacy still stretch long over Mother and me, a constant reminder of the world we once ruled—and the one she was rebuilding. Mother tells me that Jason avenged him, hunting down Deathstroke and ending him in brutal retribution.

But afterward, Jason vanished, disapeared from the battlefield with no confirmation of his death. She has searched for him relentlessly, her frustration growing with each dead end. Even now, his absence lingers, an unanswered question in the back of my mind.

Months ago, Father finally allowed me to wear the Robin mantle and join him on patrol. I suspect it was less out of trust and more because he grew weary of me sneaking out on my own, carving my own path through Gotham's underworld. He knew I wouldn't stop, so he chose to leash me rather than risk me running wild.

Father is exactly as Grandfather and Mother described—unyielding, disciplined, a force of justice. Yet, where the League taught us to crush our enemies without hesitation, Father denies himself that final, decisive blow.

He is strong—stronger than most—but he shackles himself with his own code. Criminals fear him, yes, but fear alone has not cleansed Gotham. The streets still fester with corruption, the same rats scurrying through the alleys night after night.

Patrolling with him is frustrating.

When he isn't watching, I make sure justice is more than just a warning. No killing—I've learned that lesson well—but pain is an effective teacher.

Broken bones, shattered pride—these are lessons Gotham's filth won't forget. But Father is always there, his presence like a shadow I can't shake. A disapproving glance, a firm grip on my shoulder pulling me back before I go too far.

Then there's Alfred. The only servant in this sprawling, hollow mansion, yet he maintains it with effortless precision. He moves through the halls like a ghost, anticipating needs before they're spoken. I respect efficiency, and Alfred is nothing if not efficient.

Still, there's something unnerving about the way he watches me—like he sees every thought, every suppressed instinct.

And now, Father has decided I need public education.

The idea is absurd. Children my age are insufferable—loud, undisciplined, their minds dulled by trivialities.

But Father insists. "You need to learn how to interact with others outside of combat," he says, as if socializing is a skill I lack rather than one I find beneath me.

Tomorrow, I'll be forced into a classroom full of them. The thought makes my jaw tighten. I've faced assassins, trained under the most lethal warriors in the world—yet this is what tests my patience.

But I don't have a choice.

If Father thinks school will tame me, he's mistaken.

I'll play along—for now.

The clock on my bedside table glowed a mocking red—11:47 PM. Far too late to still be in this room, far too early for Gotham's true darkness to settle in.

My fingers twitched against the windowsill, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe the restless energy coiling in my muscles.

I should have been out there. The city didn't sleep, and neither should I.

But Father had forbidden it.

"You need rest. School starts tomorrow."

As if I hadn't spent years training on less than two hours of sleep. As if a classroom full of ordinary children required my full, well-rested attention. The thought was almost insulting.

Downstairs, the faint creak of the grandfather clock echoed through the empty halls of the manor. Alfred had retired hours ago, though I knew better than to assume that meant he wasn't listening. The old man had an uncanny way of appearing exactly when he wasn't wanted.

I flexed my hands, imagining the weight of my katana, the familiar grip of my knieves. Father's rule was clear—no patrol tonight. But rules had never stopped me before.

The word kaleidoscope floated
through my mind as I watched the city stretched beyond my window, a mix of shadows and neon. Somewhere out there, Batman moved silently across rooftops, striking fear into the hearts of criminals who refuse to actually change their ways.

And here I was, trapped behind glass like some prized weapon locked in a display case.

A flicker of movement in the garden below caught my eye—a shadow too quick, too deliberate to be the wind. My body tensed on instinct.

Jason?

It was a foolish thought. Jason was gone. Mother's best trackers hadn't found him, and if they couldn't, no stray shadow in Wayne Manor's garden would be him.

Still.

I hesitated, torn between the order to stay and the itch beneath my skin that demanded movement, action, purpose.

The shadow vanished.

With a quiet scoff, I turned away from the window. Father's rules were one thing. Alfred's disappointment was another. And if I showed up to this school tomorrow with bruises or blood on my knuckles, there would be questions I didn't care to answer.

For tonight, I would obey.

But tomorrow?

Gotham's criminals had no idea how lucky they were.

- - -

Morning light filtered through the grand windows of Wayne Manor, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floors.

Damian stood in front of the hallway mirror, his reflection staring back at him with palpable disdain. The school uniform—gray plaid jacket, matching shorts, black socks, and polished shoes—felt like a prison sentence. He tugged at the stiff collar, scowling.

"Just kill me already."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, low and venomous. He despised uniforms, despised the idea of blending in like some ordinary child. At least in his usual attire—layered blacks and greens, hidden weapons strapped to his body—he felt like himself. This? This was humiliation.

Alfred, ever composed, stepped forward with a practiced ease, adjusting Damian's tie with deft fingers. "I have to say, Master Damian, you do look rather dashing."

"Dashing?" Damian scoffed, glaring at his own reflection. "This is a joke. A poorly executed one."

Alfred's lips twitched, but he wisely chose not to engage further. "Come along now, Master Damian. We mustn't be late on your first day."

"I'd rather not go at all," Damian muttered under his breath, but Alfred was already ushering him toward the grand staircase.

Downstairs, Bruce stood by the entrance, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. His sharp eyes flicked up as Damian descended, and an amused smirk tugged at his lips.

"Now that's how kids your age are supposed to look," Bruce remarked, setting his cup down. "Not like a miniature mercenary."

Damian's scowl deepened. "I still don't understand why I can't be homeschooled. I've already mastered subjects most of these children won't touch for years."

Bruce sighed, placing a firm hand on Damian's shoulder as he guided him toward the waiting car. "It's not just about academics. You need to learn how to interact with people your age. Make friends. Be… normal."

"Normal is overrated," Damian shot back, sliding into the car with deliberate slowness.

Bruce leaned in, unable to resist one last jab. "Have a nice day at school. And—try to make some friends."

The glare Damian leveled at him could have melted steel. Without another word, he slammed the door shut.

Bruce chuckled as the car pulled away, watching until it disappeared down the long driveway. He couldn't help but find some twisted amusement in Damian's suffering.

The boy had faced assassins, monsters, and Gotham's worst criminals without flinching—yet the idea of a classroom full of teenagers seemed to terrify him more than any villain.

- - -

Perched on a rooftop just beyond the manor's perimeter, Jason Todd lowered his binoculars, a smirk playing on his lips. He'd been watching the morning routine with detached interest, more out of habit than any real stake in the matter.

"So that pip-squeak's full name is Damian Wayne," he muttered to himself, packing up his gear. "Bruce's actual son. I knew I recognized those movements."

He'd spent the previous night lurking around the manor's grounds—nostalgia, maybe, or just morbid curiosity. Seeing the kid dressed like a prep school poster boy was almost laughable. The Demon Brat, forced into a uniform and shoved into a classroom.

"Bet he's loving that," Jason snorted, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

He spared one last glance at the manor before disappearing into the city's shadows.

Chapter Text

The school loomed ahead, an imposing brick building with manicured lawns and rows of identical windows. Damian stepped out of the car, his expression carefully neutral, though his fingers twitched at his sides—an old habit, reaching for weapons that weren’t there.

The kid was already on edge at the thought of being around kids his age.

Alfred gave him a reassuring nod. "You’ll be fine, Master Damian."

"I highly doubt that," Damian muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag before striding toward the entrance.

Inside, the halls buzzed with chatter and laughter, students milling about in clusters. The air smelled like chalk, cologne, and the faint tang of cafeteria food. Damian’s nose wrinkled.

A secretary directed him to his classroom, and after a brief, disdainful survey of his surroundings, he pushed open the door.

The teacher—a woman in her mid-forties with a too-bright smile—greeted him at the threshold. "Ah, you must be our new student!"

Damian stared at her, unimpressed. What’s so amusing? he wondered. Her smile faltered slightly under his scrutiny.

"Class, we have a new student joining us today," she announced, gesturing for him to step forward. "Come in and introduce yourself!"

Damian strode in, hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the room. Dozens of eyes locked onto him—curious, assessing, some already whispering behind their hands.

"I am Damian," he stated flatly.

The teacher blinked. "Well, uh—tell us a bit more about yourself!"

He considered his options. ‘I could tell them I was raised by assassins. That I’ve taken down men twice my size before breakfast. That I could disarm every person in this room in under thirty seconds.’

Instead, he settled on: "I prefer to keep to myself."

The teacher’s smile strained. "Right. Well, take a seat over there." She pointed to an empty desk near the middle of the room.

Damian ignored the whispers trailing after him as he sat down. His eyes flicked to the clock above the chalkboard.

This, he thought grimly, is going to be torture.

The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Around him, students shuffled papers, passed notes, and stifled giggles. Damian exhaled slowly, steeling himself.

If he could survive the League of Assassins, he could survive this.

Probably.

- - -

The classroom buzzed with the usual hum of students shifting between subjects, teachers coming and going like clockwork. Yet, despite the constant movement, not a single one acknowledged the boy sitting near the back.

His presence alone seemed to carve out an invisible barrier—tense, unapproachable.

A few girls whispered behind their hands, stifling giggles as they stole glances his way, murmuring about how dangerously cute he looked with that sharp glare and perfectly tousled hair.

But Damian Wayne wasn’t here to make friends.

His sharp eyes flicked toward the back of the room, catching two boys staring at him—one taller, bulkier than the rest, the other average but with a smirk that screamed trouble. Their gazes lingered a second too long, sizing him up.

Probably bullies.

Damian dismissed the thought with a slight tilt of his head. School was nothing more than a mission—one he had no intention of failing.

His father’s insistence on "normalcy" had landed him here, in this pretentious academy where rich kids flaunted their parents’ money like badges of honor.

The noise, the pointless chatter, the disorder—it grated on his nerves. But failure? That wasn’t in his vocabulary.

When the bell rang for lunch, Damian remained seated as the classroom emptied. His stomach growled, a quiet but insistent reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up and made his way to the cafeteria, his footsteps measured, his posture rigid.

The moment he stepped inside, the cacophony of overlapping voices hit him like a whirlwind.

Tables were divided into clear factions—jocks laughing too loudly, girls whispering behind manicured hands, loners hunched over their trays like they were trying to disappear. The hierarchy was obvious, and Damian had no interest in playing along.

He grabbed a tray, accepted the bland-looking meal and juice box handed to him, and headed for the farthest corner.

Father really thought this would be good for me? Damian mused, irritation flaring. Sending me to a school where spoiled brats learn how to be even more insufferable.

He had barely taken two bites when a voice cut through the noise.

"Hey, new guy."

Three boys slid into the seats around him without invitation. The one directly across—older, with a smirk that screamed I own this place—leaned forward, elbows on the table. The other two, the same ones from class, flanked Damian on either side, crowding him in.

Damian didn’t look up. He speared a piece of chicken with his fork and chewed slowly, deliberately ignoring them.

"Not much of a talker, huh?" the older one sneered, clearly annoyed by the lack of reaction.

Damian took a slow sip of his juice. "Can’t you see I’m eating?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—a warning. "Say what you want, then get out of my sight so I can enjoy my meal in peace."

The boy to his right—a wiry kid with a cocky grin—snorted. "You think you’re some big shot just ‘cause you’ve got nice hair?" Before Damian could react, the kid reached over and roughly messed up his hair, fingers tugging at the strands like he was proving a point.

A hush fell over the nearby tables. Students turned, watching with bated breath.

Damian’s jaw tightened. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and slammed it down onto the table, his grip ironclad. "Touch me again," he said, voice low and dangerous, "and you’ll lose the fingers."

The kid yanked his hand back, rubbing his wrist, but the older one just laughed. "Oh, feisty," he mocked, before snatching Damian’s juice box right off his tray.

"Listen, brat," the older boy sneered, squeezing the juice box menacingly. "You’re new, so I’ll let this slide. But I run things here. You do what you’re told, and maybe you won’t get your ass kicked every day."

Damian exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching around his fork. "I wasn’t finished with that," he said, voice eerily calm. "You owe me another juice box."

The older boy’s grin turned vicious. "You think you’re funny?" He looked at his friends, who snickered on cue. "He thinks he’s funny."

Then—without warning—he squeezed.

Juice exploded in Damian’s face, dripping down his nose, his chin, onto his uniform. The trio burst into laughter, shoulders shaking with cruel amusement.

"Oops," the older boy taunted. "Guess you’ll have to—"

His hand reached for Damian’s tray, intending to dump the rest of his food.

That was his last mistake.

The moment the boy’s fingers brushed the tray, Damian moved.

With a speed that left no time for reaction, he drove his fork straight through the back of the bully’s hand, pinning it to the table.

"AGHHH—WHAT THE—?!"

Before the other two could even process what happened, Damian was already striking.

His elbow cracked into the nose of the boy on his right—a sickening crunch as cartilage gave way. The second lunged at him, but Damian twisted, his fist slamming into the kid’s face with enough force to send him reeling back, blood gushing from his nostrils.

"MY HAND—MY HAND—!" the first boy shrieked, staring in horror at the fork embedded in his flesh.

Damian yanked it free in one swift motion—then stabbed it into the shoulder of the second bully as he tried to stand.

"AGHH! STOP—STOP!"

The cafeteria erupted into chaos. Screams echoed off the walls as students scrambled back, chairs screeching against the floor.

The third boy—the one who had started it all—was now backing away, hands raised in surrender, face pale with terror. "S-Sorry, man! They made me do it—please, please don’t—!"

Damian advanced, fork still in hand, blood dripping from the tines. His expression was cold, calculating.

"Mercy?" he repeated, tilting his head. "I’ll show you mercy."

He grabbed the boy by his jacket, lifting him halfway off the ground. The fork gleamed in the fluorescent light, poised to strike—

"MR. WAYNE!"

A teacher shoved through the crowd, face ashen. "Principal’s office. Now."

For a long moment, Damian didn’t move. The boy in his grip trembled, eyes wide with pure terror.

Then—slowly—Damian released him.

"Wayne?" someone whispered.

"As in… Bruce Wayne’s son?"

The murmurs spread like wildfire. Damian ignored them all, tossing the bloody fork onto the table with a clatter.

The teacher escorted him out, but not before the entire cafeteria got a good, long look at the three bullies—one clutching his bleeding hand, another with a broken nose, the third still shaking where he stood.

And as Damian walked past, the crowd parted, their expressions a mix of shock, fear… and something else.

Respect.

- - -

[The principal’s office]

The walk to the principal's office was silent, save for the occasional whisper that trailed behind them like a shadow. Damian kept his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable, even as the teacher beside him kept glancing at him with a mix of disbelief and unease.

The office door loomed ahead—dark mahogany with a polished brass nameplate that read Dr. Eleanor Voss, Headmistress. The teacher knocked twice before a sharp voice called from within.

"Enter."

The air inside was thick with the scent of leather and old books. Principal Voss sat behind an expansive desk, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun, her sharp eyes assessing Damian over the rim of her glasses. She didn't look surprised. If anything, she looked expectant.

"Ah. Mr. Wayne," she said, folding her hands. "I suppose I shouldn't be shocked that it took less than a day for you to land in my office."

Damian said nothing. He didn't fidget, didn't shift his weight—just stood there, perfectly still, like a soldier at attention.

The principal exhaled through her nose and gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit."

He did, though his posture remained rigid, his back not touching the seat.

"Three students are currently in the infirmary," she began, tapping a pen against a file—his file, Damian realized. "One with a fork wound through his hand, another with a broken nose, and the third so shaken he could barely speak. Care to explain?"

Damian tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "They touched my food."

A beat of silence.

Principal Voss leaned forward. "That's it? That's your defense?"

"It's not a defense. It's a fact." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "They initiated contact. I ended it."

The pen in her hand stilled. "You ended it by stabbing a boy with a fork."

"He shouldn't have reached for my tray or pour juice on me."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Wayne, this isn't the streets of Gotham. We don't resolve disputes with violence here."

Damian almost smirked. "Then what do you suggest? Asking nicely?"

The principal's eyes narrowed. "I suggest you remember where you are. Your father may own half this city, but in my school, you follow my rules."

Damian held her gaze, unflinching. "And what are the consequences?"

She leaned back, studying him. "Suspension. Three days."

He nodded once, as if he'd expected nothing less.

"But," she continued, "given your... unique circumstances, I'm willing to compromise. You'll serve detention instead—under strict supervision."

Damian arched a brow. "Why the leniency?"

Principal Voss's lips thinned. "Because your father made it very clear that pulling you out of this school isn't an option. And frankly, I'd rather not have you roaming the streets unsupervised."

Ah. So that was it. Bruce had already intervened.

"Detention starts tomorrow," she said, sliding a slip of paper across the desk. "You'll report to Mr. Higgins after last period. And if I ever see you in this office again for something like this, suspension will be the least of your concerns. Understood?"

Damian took the slip, stood, and gave her a curt nod. "Crystal."

As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.

"One more thing, Mr. Wayne."

He glanced back.

"The next time someone tries to provoke you," she said, her tone icy, "walk away."

Damian's fingers twitched at his sides.

"I'll consider it."

Then he walked out, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

The hallway was empty now, the lunch period long over. Damian exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension.

Detention. How thrilling.

But as he made his way back to class, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was far from over.

The bullies would talk. Word would spread.

And Damian Wayne had just made it very clear that he wasn't someone to be messed with.

- - -

A/N:–

So far you all must have noticed we now have different aspect to Jason.

I do not intend to provide spoilers but here's a brief take:–

Think of it as bro being a psychological mess of personalities sharing a single mind. But ultimately there are three sides to him now.

Jason after the Pit, The one under the 'Jason Program' according to Ra's (like a reader previously mentioned, his own SuperSoldier who has his orders). And then another personality which walks a thin line between the first and second personalities, one born out of Jason's rebellious nature (The Hood).

This side struggles between Jason's actual desires and Ra's programmed instructions. He's subconsciously fighting against being Ra's' lap dog without Jason's knowledge of it. It's like switching between the right and left brain of consciousness, but this can only be achieved through severe trauma and programming. This psychological struggle gave birth to the title of this fic, which also refrence to the battle between Jason and the dark side that whispers for control, the demon.

Hopefully, I don't get too immersed in Gotham's activities that I forget to provide a detailed explanation later on in this story.

I do hope you enjoy the read.

Chapter Text

The flickering neon sign of Margaret's Diner buzzed overhead, casting a dim red glow over the cracked vinyl booth where Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent sat. The air smelled of grease, coffee, and the faintest hint of Gotham's ever-present damp.

Outside, rain streaked the windows, turning the city lights into smears of color against the glass. A tired waitress shuffled past, refilling Clark's coffee without asking.

Bruce stirred his black coffee absently, the spoon clinking against the chipped ceramic mug. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the storm beneath the surface. Clark, ever observant, nudged the plate of half-eaten apple pie between them.

"You're quiet tonight," Clark remarked, tearing open a sugar packet. "Even for you."

Bruce exhaled, setting the spoon down. "Five years," he murmured. His voice was low, rough with the kind of grief that never fully fades. "Five years since I lost Jason. That night in Bosnia still…haunts me."

Clark's expression softened. He'd been with him in the aftermath, and had seen the devastation in Bruce's eyes when he spoke of the moment he pulled Jason's broken body from the rubble. "I know," he said simply. There wasn't much else to say.

The diner's jukebox switched songs with a mechanical thunk—some old blues number that barely covered the sound of rain pattering against the roof.

Then, after a pause, Bruce continued, his tone shifting slightly. "Three years ago, I found out I had a son." A faint, almost imperceptible warmth crept into his voice. "Damian."

Clark nearly choked on his coffee. "A son? How—"

"Talia," Bruce answered before the question could fully form. He traced a finger along a scratch in the Formica tabletop. "Ra's al Ghul's daughter. He was raised by the League of Shadows."

Clark let out a slow breath, stirring his coffee again just for something to do. "That's complicated."

Bruce smirked, just barely. "You have no idea."

Damian was a whirlwind in human form—fierce, unpredictable, and relentless. His morality had been shaped by the League's ruthless doctrines, and though Bruce had spent years tempering that instinct, the boy's blade was still quicker than his restraint.

"He's Robin now," Bruce said, watching as the waitress cleared a nearby booth with practiced efficiency. "Officially."

Clark chuckled, wrapping his hands around his warm mug. "Another Robin? Bruce, at this rate, Gotham's criminals are going to think you're running a sidekick factory."

Bruce didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "He's different from the others. More intense. More lethal."

Clark's amusement faded. He lowered his voice, though the only other patrons were an old man at the counter and a couple arguing softly in the corner booth. "How bad is it?"

Bruce mirrored his quiet tone. "I've lost count of how many times I've had to stop him from killing someone. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't second-guess. If he sees an enemy, his first instinct is to end them."

"Sounds like the League's training," Clark mused, pushing his pie around the plate.

Bruce nodded. "Exactly. And he doesn't understand why I refuse to cross that line. He argues with me—just like Jason did."

There it was again—the ghost of the second Robin lingering between them. Clark studied Bruce's face, the way his jaw tightened at the memory.

"You think he's like Jason?" Clark asked carefully.

Bruce was silent for a long moment, watching the rain slide down the window. "In some ways, yes. The impulsiveness. The need to prove himself. But Damian's colder. More serious. Criminals fear him more than they ever feared Dick."

Clark smirked. "Well, Dick does have a habit of cracking jokes mid-fight."

Bruce sighed, rubbing at his temple. "Damian doesn't joke. He doesn't banter. He just fights."

Raising Damian had been a challenge unlike any other. Bruce had dealt with rebellious protégés before—Dick's stubborn independence, Jason's fiery defiance—but Damian was something else entirely. He was a prince of the League, raised with a sword in his hand and a mandate to rule or destroy.

"I enrolled him in school," Bruce said, nodding his thanks as the waitress refilled his coffee. "Figured he needed some normalcy."

Clark nearly choked on his pie. "Normalcy? Bruce, the kid was raised by assassins. You really thought throwing him into a classroom was going to go smoothly?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "He got detention on his first day."

Clark waited, fork hovering over his plate.

Bruce sighed. "He stabbed two kids with a fork, and almost had a third victim if a teacher hadn't intervened."

Clark burst out laughing, drawing a look from the old man at the counter. "Of course he did."

Bruce shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. Clark wiped his eyes, still grinning. "He sounds alot like a mini-you, without the restraint of course."

Bruce sighed again, deeper this time. "Alfred's the only reason I haven't lost my mind. He handles Damian when I can't."

Clark's laughter faded into something more thoughtful. He tapped his fingers against the mug. "He's your son, Bruce. That counts for something. He'll learn."

Bruce's grip on his coffee cup tightened. "I won't lose another one, Clark. I can't."

The weight of that promise hung in the air, heavy and unshakable. Clark didn't offer empty reassurances. He just nodded.

"You won't."

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Somewhere in the city, Gotham's criminals lurked in the shadows.

And back at the manor, Damian Wayne sharpened his sword.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

Back to the void which was an endless expanse of darkness, an abyss where time and space seemed to lose meaning. I floated in this void, my consciousness tethered by a slender thread to the memories of my past.

"Ready for another trip down memory lane?" it asked, the voice echoing in the vast emptiness.

I nodded, a mixture of curiosity and dread filling my heart. The scene around me shifted, morphing into the familiar interior of Wayne Manor.

We found ourselves in a quiet corridor, where my younger self stood hidden in the shadows, eavesdropping on a conversation between Bruce and Alfred.

I watched intently as Bruce, standing beneath a portrait of his parents, spoke with a vulnerability I had rarely seen. Bruce's expression was haunted, his eyes filled with a rare self-doubt.

"Alfred, lately I've been wondering… What if my father was right?" Bruce's voice was heavy, laden with years of unspoken pain. "He always said vigilantes had no place in society."

Alfred, ever the loyal confidant, listened silently. Bruce continued, his tone shifting from reflective to troubled. "I've had years—and you, Alfred—to help me come to terms with the murder of my parents. But Jason… he's different."

My younger self's eyes widened as he listened, his heart pounding in his chest. He pressed himself closer to the wall, straining to hear every word.

"I must have been crazy to put Jason in the field," Bruce admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "He never recovered from his own losses. His father was murdered by Two-Face, his mother succumbed to illness… His actions as Robin are driven by pain and anger. He's a danger to himself, and a danger to our mission."

Bruce paused, his hands clenched into fists. The weight of his decision was palpable. "I have no choice… Jason's going off duty, effective immediately."

My younger self stepped out from his hiding place, a look of defiance on his face. "Fine with me," he spat, turning on his heel and running toward the doors of Wayne Manor.

"Jason!" Bruce called after him, his voice desperate. "Jason, wait!"

But it was too late. The doors to the mansion swung open, and I disappeared into the night.

The scene dissolved into darkness once more, leaving me and the voice in my head, floating in the void. The sting of that memory lingered, a reminder of the choices that had led to my death.

The voice spoke, his tone firm yet insistent as he vaguely elaborated. "If our asses ever want to avoid repeating the same shitty mistakes, we need to identify the patterns and learn from them."

"You keep using the word, 'we.' But who exactly are you?" I asked, the voice that spoke into my head from the dark void, having a pretty good guess in mind already.

After a silence that stretched like an eternity, a figure materialized from the void.

"You know who I am," he said, his voice a razor in the stillness. "I am the part of you that sees the world stripped bare."

Before me stood a man—if man he could be called—swathed in a tattered brown leather jacket, his body a mummy's wrappings of yellowed bandages, as though his very skin had been seared away.

Even his eyes lay hidden beneath those gauze layers, yet I felt his gaze like a cold blade against my throat. And that smirk—crooked, knowing—promised nothing short of ruin.

His presence was a breath from an open grave, a chill that gnawed deep into bone. He moved with the uncanny precision of a thing that should not be alive, every gesture too fluid, too deliberate, as if his very existence defied the laws of flesh and decay.

Unreal.

"I don't understand what the fuck is going on, but I'm assuming you're that voice in my head."

That much was clear, but what did it matter?

I was currently dead, and this mysterious confrontation wouldn't change anything.

"That is not entirely correct," he replied with a slow spine shivering tone as he got in motion, moving in circles around me while keeping a reasonable radius, with me as the focal point.

I could only identify it as a demonic spirit that feeds off my blood lust and pushes me down an enraged path of violence.

That seemed more reasonable to me because, what else could he be?

"There are times I wanted to kick my own ass for certain dumb and regretful decisions I made. I might be dead, but I don't mind throwing hands at some demon for payback for all that rage."

"I was just thinking the same thing, you brat." he replied while halting his circular movement, looking like he would enjoy every moment of beating me to a bloody pulp if he somehow overpowered me in our little skirmish.

"Let's see if you can kick your own ass, or have your ass handed over to you by your own self. A few love pats with my fist should probably set you straight." He confidently said to me, almost like he had been waiting for this.

"What do you mean, my own ass?" I wasn't going to pass on an opportunity to get answers from the self-tormenting voice that's been in my head.

He didn't give me an answer to my question, but a smirk played across his bandaged burnt lips.

I can only assume having fed off me for so long, he must think of us as one and the same.

"You're scared and hurt because people always leave you. You never fit in anywhere you actually want to be, no matter how hard you try. So, you just live up to their expectations of you—a hot-headed good-for-nothing who's always seeking validation from Bruce. Seeking validation as both Jason Todd and as Robin."

"Your speech is boring me to a second death, so just get to the point already. Or you could just skip the chit-chat and let's throw some hands already."

"It's either you still do not get the lessons from our little trip through your memories, or you aren't just willing to learn." He replied.

"How many times do you need to end up dead before you'd learn?"

"Learn what? My mistakes from a life that has come to an end already? My only regret at the moment is being killed by that mad fucker, Joker." I replied.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't forget these lessons by carving them into your very being." He then pulled out two knives and tossed me one.

I caught the knife, feeling its weight in my hand. The cold metal seemed to ground me, even in this strange, liminal space between life and death.

My inner demon-as I had come to know him-watched me with eyes glinting like wet stone beneath the layers of bandages, his blade spinning between his fingers with the
ease of a thought.

"Nice catch," he said, his smirk widening. "But can you fight as well as you can talk? After all, I might be the part of you with all the combat skills."

I gripped the knife tighter, ready to shut that motherfucker up for good if it was possible. "I still do not get the point of all this," I said to him.

"I'm dead, I should be resting. Or isn't there peace on the other side like most would think?"

"Let's spice things up a bit, shall we. The winner gets control as the dominant consciousness of Jason Todd."

What the fuck? "Fine by me." I replied.

He lunged at me without warning, the knife flashing in the dim, ethereal light. I barely managed to dodge, the blade slicing through the air where my head had been moments before. I countered with a swipe of my own, but he was quick, parrying my attack with ease.

"You think you have a chance at winning? How naïve I must say." He taunted, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Shut your trap already." I pressed on slashing at him again. This time, our knives clashed, the impact vibrating up my arm.

He laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. "This isn't just about you, Jason. It's about understanding what drives you, what holds you back. Bruce, the Joker, your own damn pride—they've all had a hand in shaping you, but only you can decide what you become."

I gritted my teeth, pushing against him with all my strength. "And you think getting a beating from my inner demon is going to help with that?"

"It's a start," he said, his grin never faltering. "You have been at the driver's seat for far too long until recently, it's time you stepped aside and let me have my turn.

With a grunt, I shoved him back, breaking our deadlock. "I might have been influenced by pain and anger, always seeming like the victim in my own story," I said, breathing heavily. "But it's my life and I will never give up control, I am not ever going to give up control."

He shook his head as I felt a strange look of disapproval from his ominously glinting eyes.

"That is where you had it wrong. You should have grabbed hold of your freedom by accepting the pain and rage within your soul, instead of doing the best you can to suppress them. They should serve as fuel to your resolve."

Our knives met again, and this time, I fought not just with intent, but with determination.

He's the part of me that wouldn't give a damn about the rules that clearly draws the line between hero and villain, so long as it served his intended purpose.

We were evenly matched in both strength and skill, he knows every move I'm going to make and likewise, the downside of fighting your own demon.

Still I would never give up control, I have to win.

Gasp!!!

A gasp tore through the silence—sharp, involuntary—as my body jerked upright. The remnants of the nightmare clung to me like a second skin, its phantom fingers still coiled around my throat. My breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale a desperate reclamation of life.

The warehouse loomed around me, its familiar shadows stretching across the floor, indifferent to my turmoil. The sheets beneath me were damp, the sweat cooling against my flesh, a visceral reminder that I was here, alive—not lost to whatever abyss had yawned open in my sleep.

But even as the terror ebbed, the resolve hardened within me.

Never.

I would never surrender control. To falter was to lose, and losing was not an option.

Chapter Text

I haven't been able to get my mind off my experience from the other night, it troubles me whenever the image of that being comes to mind.

That demon whom I fought against in defence, there's no way I'd let myself be possessed by some bloodthirsty demon who wants total control over me.

There's absolutely no way I would give in to the alluring feeling of peace that gnaws at the back of my mind if I were to give up control.

My constant struggles at keeping a lid on the raw outburst I subconsciously wish to unleash on those who have wronged me, relinquishing control and giving in to those impulsive desires would feel like a huge burden is lifted off my chest and I might be able to breath a little easier.

But what about the bodies that would be piling up? What about the people I'd run through and the homes I'd destroy along the way?

It wouldn't be just a vendetta against Gotham's criminals, but aimless killings.

At least while I keep these impulsive desires at bay, I can channel that rage and have it serve as a driving force to help me fulfil my desires, my own way.

Although I can only remember fragments from that weird ass dream, it did remind me of what I needed to do, and fast.

I had woken up with a fuzzy memory of my time in that emptiness, that void.

The dream—if it was even a dream—left scars deeper than any knife could. Fragments of that void still haunt me, creeping into my waking hours like a sickness.

Purgatory. The word doesn't do it justice. It wasn't just emptiness—it was absence. A place where air existed but refused to fill my lungs, where every breath was a struggle against an invisible weight.

I used to think I understood death. The League taught me to wear it like a second skin. But this? This was different. This was knowing—truly knowing—the icy grip of the abyss. And now, I can't unknow it.

Ignorance is bliss.

And I am cursed with clarity.

The rage inside me isn't just anger—it's a wildfire, scorching through my veins, begging to be unleashed. I imagine how good it would feel to stop holding back.

To let the monster out and watch Gotham's criminals drown in their own blood. No more rules. No more restraint. Just justice, swift and brutal.

But then I see the aftermath—bodies in the alleys, innocents caught in the crossfire, the line between vengeance and slaughter blurred beyond recognition.

Is that who I am?

Or is that who it wants me to be?

As badly fucked up as my mental state was right now, it did have it's bright sides. It did help me remember the promises I made to myself from purgatory when I had died at the hands of Joker, saying I would do things differently.

No more bending to Bruce's hypocritical, self-imposed leash. Now I am free, I'll do things my way from here on out, I'll show him just how to deal with this city's scums.

That demon, that void, that near-surrender it sharpened my resolve. No more half-measures. Gotham doesn't need a symbol. It needs a reckoning.

And I'll be the one to deliver it.

Control. That's the key.

That's right, crime cannot be stopped or erased, killing only breeds more killing. Even if I kept on killing the heads of crime families, some nuisance could get up one day and make a vendetta against me, his life's mission.

That'd really suck.

But if I were to be in partial control of organized crime, I get to make the rules. That means no more civilian casualty.

That way the crime families can continue to function, without causing any sort of power vacuum in the underworld. That'd probably suck even more.

If someone ever harbors a vendetta against me, I would put them in the ground and they would no longer be much of a nuisance to anyone.

But if it were to result in a power vacuum amongst Gotham city's Underbelly, I'd have to readjust my chess pieces and subdue new useful pawns so I can seize absolute control that time around.

Anyone who ever dares to attempt getting in my way or refuse to accept my terms and conditions, they'd have to escort death for an eternal vacation.

It's an inevitable fact, but I'd definitely run into Bruce in full Batman—commando mode.

I'd need a alias, an identity. Well, that's simple enough. In order to make a statement that would torment Batman, something that he alone would relate to, a reminder of the monster he created.

Hahh!

I've got it, that didn't take so long. I just have to remind him of how much he has failed this city, by having him gaze upon his very first failure.

Joker.

He was Bruce's first failure, and that led to the creation of that mad man.

The creation of Joker.

His creation which has led to the end of so many innocent souls. I guess that's why he is brooding all the time.

Those souls might be clawing their way at him from the great beyond, pulling on him to hear their cries and avenge them. But he pays deaf ears to their cries and shoulder the burden instead of liberating himself of it by ending Joker.

Pathetic.

Well, good thing I am here now. I will avenge those poor souls and serve justice to the innocents who are potential victims once that mad man is either released or escapes Arkham.

It's only fitting I play at the irony. Drawing inspiration from that, I'd go with Joker's old M.O. as my fit.

So I'll take the Joker's legacy and twist it into something new. Something of mine.

Red Hood.

The name fits. A callback to the monster Bruce created, a reminder of the blood on his hands.

I can already picture his face when he pieces it together—the shock, the guilt, the dawning horror as he realizes who's under the mask.

I'm not patient enough for a slow burn. No, I'll feed him clues. Breadcrumbs. Let him chase me through Gotham's shadows, each step dragging him closer to the truth.

Jason Todd is alive.

And he's not the same boy who died in that warehouse.

The realization will wreck him. It'll be beautiful.

Maybe then he'll understand. Maybe then he'll see how flawed his precious code really is.

Or maybe he'll just keep fighting me, stubborn as always.

Now Bruce is reunited with his biological son, another victim initiated into his endless crusade.

God knows how many times I have tried at convincing him to see a better and more effective way to deal with crime in Gotham.

Now, it's time I gave him a live tutorial of how it's done.

Maybe he'd learn a thing or two and get the lessons into that thick skull of his.

Either way?

I'm done waiting for Gotham to change.

I'm done waiting to be avenged.

It's time to force the change.

Let's see if you can keep up, Bruce.

- - -

As Jason reviewed intel regarding the Joker for the past five years, he realized there was no way he was getting to him without breaking into Arkham.

That wouldn't be too difficult but it would be messy and not set the proper stage he had intended for him, Joker, and Bruce.

The only option he saw was to introduce himself into the underworld as he had intended. He needed to let them know there was a new player in town.

Joker needed to be lured out of Arkham without Batman's interference.

In order to accomplish this feat, certain conditions needed to be met and a couple near-impossible things needed to be put in place.

- - -

The abandoned textile warehouse loomed in the shadows of Gotham's industrial district, its crumbling brick walls and rusted steel beams a testament to decades of neglect. Dust motes swirled in the dim light filtering through broken skylights, casting eerie patterns across the concrete floor.

At the center of the cavernous space stood Jason Todd, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of a single flickering bulb. His gloved fingers traced the edges of the massive investigation board before him, its surface a chaotic mosaic of violence, power, and betrayal.

Dozens of photographs were pinned in meticulous arrangement—crime lords, underbosses, enforcers—each face a piece in the deadly puzzle of Gotham's underworld. Some images were crisp surveillance shots, captured from rooftops and fire escapes; others were grainy, torn from police files or tabloid exposés.

Red strings crisscrossed between them like veins, connecting alliances, rivalries, and hidden weaknesses. The Black Mask's sneer, Two-Face's scarred grimace, Penguin's smug smirk—all watched him from the board, frozen in their arrogance.

Jason's brow furrowed, his green eyes focused on them.

Weeks of relentless reconnaissance had led him here, stalking Gotham's most dangerous men like a wraith. He moved through the city's underbelly with lethal precision, a ghost even among killers.

The League had honed his instincts; Batman had taught him patience. And now? He knew their routines—their bodyguards' blind spots, their mistresses' addresses, the exact moment a drug shipment would be left unguarded.

But the most satisfying part? He had done it all right under the Bat's nose.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Jason's mouth as he recalled the nights spent tailing not just mobsters, but the Dark Knight himself.

He knew Batman's patrol routes, the way he lingered on gargoyles, the subtle shift in his posture when something was amiss. And yet, Jason had slipped through Gotham's shadows unseen, a predator studying his prey—both the criminals and the man who had once called him son.

The warehouse was silent save for the distant drip of water and the low hum of the city beyond its walls. Jason's hand hovered over a particular photo—a crime boss who had escaped justice too many times. His fingers curled into a fist.

Soon.

Gotham's reckoning was coming. And this time, it wouldn't be wearing a cape.

Gotham City's underworld was a complex ecosystem of power struggles, alliances, and betrayals from within families and from their oppositions.

On the investigation board hung on his wall, he had detailed information which was to help him map out and strategically target his prey. He did spend many hours with Ra's who made his own version of the "Art of War" a necessity to Jason's training.

The major crime families and syndicates present on his investigation was as follows—

The Falcone Crime Family—The oldest and most traditional Mafia family, once led by Carmine Falcone.

Though weakened after his death, his daughter Sofia Falcone has been trying to reclaim power, using a mix of old-world tactics and modern ruthlessness with a sprinkle of brutality.

The Maroni Crime Family—The Falcones' historic rivals, led by Sal Maroni until his death. Now, underboss Luigi a.k.a Big Lou, Maroni struggles to maintain relevance against newer, more violent factions, making it an easy target for Jason.

The Bertinelli Crime Family—Once a major force, now fractured after Helena Bertinelli which sometime later became the Huntress and turned against them. Remnants operate in the shadows, keeping the family relevant but not as strong as they originally were.

Black Mask's False Face Society—Roman Sionis, Jason's key card to getting access to Joker and helping him set the envisioned stage between him, Batman, and the clown.

Black Mask currently runs Gotham's most brutal modern syndicate, dealing in arms, drugs, and human trafficking. He's paranoid, vicious, and sees himself as Gotham's true kingpin.

He isn't one to turn face from a rivaling force which threatens his territory and position of power. This makes it too easy to control and anticipate Black Mask's actions and responses.

Just as assassins learn to use their opponent's weight, power, and momentum against them, Jason saw a path which led to his end goal. That was, bruising Black Mask's ego, then taking full advantage of that and making Black Mask play into his very own hands.

Then there was The Penguin's Empire—Oswald Cobblepot operates in a gray area—part gangster, part legitimate businessman. He controls the Iceberg Lounge and most of the black-market arms trade.

He had no business or reason to go after Penguin's empire. Their faction was on a different territory and did not play into his plans for Black Mask and those around his territory in Gotham.

Apart from those mentioned, there were other players that weren't relevant enough to Jason's plan but he still ran an update reckon on them so as to get a good grasp of the power struggle of the underworld and to know who was in elegance to whom.

These players were placed at the side of his investigation board with the title, Minor Players and were enlisted as follows.

The Dent Crime Family, Two-Face's unstable faction.

The Street Demonz, a brutal gang, and freelance mercenaries like Deathstroke who occasionally meddle in Gotham's underworld.

With his plan set in motion, the first phase required firepower—enough to wage a one-man war. The black market was an option, but it carried risks: paper trails, informants, and dealers with loose tongues.

No, he needed something cleaner, something that wouldn't trace back to him. A simple robbery would do.

Days before the heist, he surveyed a high-end tactical arms store on the outskirts of the city—one that catered to private security and collectors rather than law enforcement.

It had minimal staff, no on-site armed guards, and, most importantly, no direct surveillance links to the police. Just a basic alarm system and two men for the nightwatch, an older man and a middle aged man who did rounds every hour like clockwork.

He wore nondescript clothing—dark jeans, a hoodie, and a black ski mask—nothing that could be tied back to him. Gloves, of course.

No fingerprints. No DNA. He disabled nearby street cameras the night before, splicing the feeds with looped footage from earlier. Simple, effective.

He struck at 2:17 AM, just after the watchman's last patrol. Though the back door's lock was solid, it was picked in under forty-five seconds.

Inside, the store was a treasure trove—glass cases lined with handguns, rifles, and tactical gear. The alarm panel blinked silently near the entrance. He disabled it with a code he'd lifted from the laptop of a very careless manager, days prior.

Twin Desert Eagles— Heavy, brutal, unmistakable. He took two, along with six spare magazines. Perfect for sending a message.

Frag Grenades & Flashbangs— Useful for chaos, misdirection. He pocketed four of each.

C4 Charges—Small, remote-detonated. Insurance for when things went loud.

Steel Cable Garrote—Silent, efficient. For when knives were too messy.

Kevlar-reinforced torso armor for protection against bullets and blades.

He grabbed a couple other stuffs which should help him modify and customize his get up.

He moved swiftly, loading everything into a duffel bag. No hesitation, no wasted motion. The watchmen never even stirred.

By the time the cops arrived, he was long gone. The security footage showed nothing but a masked figure—no voice, no identifiable features.

The media called it a professional job, maybe a mercenary stocking up. The police suspected underground buyers, but they'd never connect it to him.

By dawn, his arsenal was secured in a hidden cache, ready for the war to come.

Now, the real work began.

Now, the Red Hood was armed.

Now, it was time to make his first move.

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