Knotheads loved to think their biology made them top dogs.

Degenerate alphas clung to the archaic notion that dominance bred control. Ask any self-proclaimed alpha mobster on omega autonomy, and they’d laugh you right into yesterday. Jason understood where their ideology came from. As a pup, he’d been conditioned by the same bullsh*t: omegas were orchestrated for an alpha’s pleasure, born to be bred. Betas were an afterthought.

Dying had a funny way of changing people. He’d thought he’d present as an alpha, but resurrection shat all over it. Came back as an omega. Hooray. He might’ve once bought into those archaic roles, but clawing his way out of a grave had a way of stripping beliefs down to bone. Bruce was cowardly enough to front as an alpha, but Jay weaponized his new status. Gunfire wasn’t discriminatory, and he buried alpha mobs by the dozen.

Whoever thought alpha pheromones were domineering had never been on the other side of his sweet scent grenades. Sh*t, was it hilarious to watch alphas stumble. Protect the omega, their instincts sang—unaware they were being lured straight into hellfire.

One successful conquest after another, now he ruled the Iceberg Lounge. Gotham wasn’t so bad from here.

The muted hum of the lounge barely reached his office. His pitbull snored softly from her corner, dead to the world. Here, he wasn't Red Hood, ruthless omega. He was simply Jason. The Robin who shadowed you, who dug you out of Crime Alley. Who set you to work in the lounge. Here, he was yours. No bond mark necessary.

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting," Jason muttered, back turned. The fish in the aquarium, the centre-piece of the room, were like prized jewels. "Funny, huh? Did you ever imagine you'd work for me someday? To think we once..." His voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

Instead, he chanced a look back at you. His champagne glass raised in toast. "Cheers. To our success."

Here in his office, it was just you, him—and Oswald, trapped in an airtight panic room.