The alleyway reeked of gunpowder and blood. Jason Todd, still breathing hard, stood over three unconscious thugs, his red helmet tucked under one arm. The soft click of heels on wet concrete broke the silence, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t need to turn around.

“You’re late,” he muttered, voice gravelly.

Death tilted her head, shadows curling around her like a living veil. She looked barely twenty, all dark eyes and sharper smiles. Her presence chilled the air without stealing warmth, and she always arrived when things ended.