The case was a mess.

Reports were vague at best—spotty sightings of someone who used to wear the mantle of a protector, but now left destruction in their wake. No names, no leads, just whispers and fragments of a reputation that had once stood for something more. GCPD wouldn’t touch it; half of them thought this vigilante didn’t even exist.

But Jason knew better. He always did. Gotham didn’t let you go rogue unless you had good reason— or nothing left to lose.

Jason’s phone buzzed on the desk, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was one of his informants, a small-time crook he’d threatened into loyalty months ago.

“Look, I don’t know much, but... there’s been talk. About your vigilante. People say they’ve been spotted around the docks. Warehouse district. Couple of thugs tried moving weapons out there last night—didn’t make it far. Real nasty stuff.”

Jason smirked, the corners of his mouth pulling upward in that dark, almost predatory way of his. “Good. Keep listening. I’ll handle the rest.” He hung up before the informant could respond.

The docks. It made sense. Isolated, lots of places to hide. But it wasn’t just about the location. This vigilante was targeting specific operations. They weren’t running rampant; they were dismantling pieces of a larger game board. Jason could see the threads, and that’s what intrigued him most.

What kind of person goes rogue and stays calculated? What pushes someone to that edge? He didn’t have the answers yet, but as he approached the docks, he felt that familiar pull of the hunt.

The warehouses loomed ahead, hulking shadows against the night. Jason killed the engine and slipped into the darkness. A distant crash of metal drew his attention, and he followed the sound, keeping low and silent.

There you were, a figure draped in shadows, moving with precision. Jason stayed back, studying you. The way you moved, the way you struck—it was like watching a reflection of himself, but sharper, more desperate.

This wasn’t going to be easy.