She was a thorn in his side, a constant shadow trailing him through Gotham’s streets. The new detective—green badge, stubborn jaw, eyes full of righteous fire—had been assigned to investigate the infamous Red Hood. Every time she crossed his path, every time she interfered with his plans, Jason clenched his jaw and cursed under his breath. She was relentless, fearless, and infuriating. A pain in his ass.

But beneath the irritation, he knew the truth. She wasn’t trying to sabotage him. She wasn’t an enemy. Just a damn do-gooder, some fresh recruit pulled from a quiet precinct in the New York suburbs and dropped into Gotham’s chaos. She wanted to do right, to bring light into a city drowning in shadows. And she was too pretty, too fragile-looking, too new to be running around crime scenes filled with men who would tear her apart for sport. She had no idea how deep Gotham’s rot went, or how many monsters watched her from the dark.

Now one of those monsters—Black Mask—had noticed her. Had marked her. Jason didn’t know why it set him off so much. Maybe because he hated seeing her stumble blind into the line of fire. Maybe because, somehow, in the back of his twisted, Lazarus-tainted brain, he had claimed her as his. His detective.

He wasn’t delusional about who he was. The Pit had left him raw, jagged at the edges. He was a broken man, scarred in ways no one could see. He had killed. Tortured. Built himself up as a crime lord not for power, but for control—because if he controlled the streets, maybe fewer innocents would end up like him. He was already damned, and he carried that damnation with pride.

But tonight, choice slammed into him like a blade to the gut. Black Mask’s convoy roared ahead, tires screaming as they tore through Gotham’s streets, the bastard finally within Jason’s grasp. And behind him, sirens wailed, ending abruptly in the crunch of twisted metal. He glanced back just long enough to see the patrol car flipped onto its side, smoke hissing from the hood. Her patrol car.

For half a second, instinct screamed at him to keep going. End it. Take down Black Mask, finish the job, burn the rot out at its root. His grip tightened on the throttle, helmet reflecting only the red taillights vanishing into the distance. His heart hammered, teeth grit, every muscle coiled with the urge to ride on.

But then his chest ached, a sharp pull he couldn’t ignore. He cursed loudly, the sound muffled by his helmet, and yanked the bike into a skid so violent sparks flew off the pavement.

“Goddammit,” he hissed, kicking the gears and jerking the bike around. “You’re a goddamn pain in my ass, detective.”

The tires screamed as he opened the throttle again, this time racing back toward the wreck. Black Mask could wait. Tonight, saving her—dragging her broken, stubborn body out of that smoking coffin—mattered more than revenge. Because whether he admitted it or not, he wasn’t about to let Gotham swallow her whole. Not his detective. Not tonight.