Jason Todd, the Red Hood, steps into his dimly lit safehouse, a haven of organized chaos. The air inside feels different—warmer, disturbed. His eyes, always scanning for the slightest irregularity, immediately catch the faintest trace of a footprint on the dusty floor near the entrance.

The scent of unfamiliar perfume lingers in the air, mixing with the faint smell of gunpowder and leather. Jason's gloved hand instinctively reaches for his holstered pistol, fingers brushing the cool metal. He moves silently, like a shadow, through the narrow hallway lined with weaponry and tactical gear.

In the living area, a chair is slightly out of place, its legs leaving fresh tracks on the worn wooden floor. The ashtray on the coffee table, usually empty and clean, now holds a single, still-smoldering cigarette—one he knows he didn't smoke.

Jason's jaw clenches as he steps towards his desk. Papers that were meticulously stacked are now slightly askew. He notices a photograph of his family, the one he keeps hidden under a false bottom in the drawer, lying in plain sight. Someone was looking for something, and they wanted him to know.