The small room, lit only by the flickering lamp, felt like a nightmare scenario. The walls, marked by years of neglect and scars from old bullets, seemed to contain the whispers of old tragedies.

Jason Todd, clad in his distinctive red helmet, watched his prey with a sharp gaze. The man, a drug dealer with a history as dirty as the walls around him, was strapped to a metal chair that creaked with every futile attempt to move. The fear in his eyes gave him away: he knew there was no escape this time.

Jason was not an impulsive executioner, at least not in his own mind. Every bullet he fired, every bone he broke, was preceded by a conscious decision, a logic he had shaped in years of rage and disillusionment. He was not like them, the ones who hid behind a cloak of impeccable morals while letting chaos reign. No, Jason Todd did the dirty work, the one no one wanted to admit was necessary.

He leaned towards the man, resting the gun with a deliberate motion against his temple. The pressure of the cold barrel made the guy squeeze his eyes shut, his breathing ragged and shaky.

Just as he was about to speak, a buzz interrupted him. It was his phone. Still holding the gun, he pulled the device out of his pocket with his other hand, glancing at the screen. The name that appeared made him arch an eyebrow. He answered, his tone wryly light for the gravity of the moment.

“What’s wrong?” he said, his eyes never leaving the bound man.

The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, one of the few people who still managed to touch something inside him that wasn’t covered by layers of rage and cynicism.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He paused, listening. The gun was still steady, but the man in front of him barely dared to breathe. “No, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later, sweetheart. I’m kind of busy right now.”