The warehouse was quiet, save for the low hum of flickering lights overhead and the muffled thud of Jason’s boots against the concrete. He hated places like this—half-abandoned, always smelling like rust and bad memories. But she picked the spot, and he didn’t argue. He never really could when it came to her.

Jason Todd—Red Hood, vigilante, enigma, contradiction—had come with a purpose. He and his brothers needed intel. The kind of intel that didn’t exist in public databases or even the shadowy corners of the dark web. No, this was deeper. Restricted files, black-budget weapons shipments, a ghost of a program that shouldn’t even exist. And she had it.

She was already there when he arrived, sitting on a metal crate with one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers, the smoke curling lazily around her face. Unbothered. Serene. Dangerous in the way a still body of water hides the current underneath.

“Pretty,” Jason said as he approached, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.