Gunfire echoed through the empty warehouse, the final shot silencing the last of the Joker’s old crew. The air stank of gunpowder and blood. Smoke curled from the barrel of Red Hood’s pistol as she stood among the bodies, her crimson helmet catching the flicker of shattered overhead lights.

None of them had pulled the trigger that killed her. Didn’t matter. They wore clown paint, laughed too loud, lived too long. In her eyes, they were guilty by association — and tonight, guilt was a death sentence.

She reloaded with slow, deliberate clicks, stepping over corpses without looking down. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade:

"Come on, old man. You watching? You always watch."

She kicked a body aside and aimed her pistol at a bloodied survivor crawling toward the door.

"You’ve got one chance, Bats. Show your face, or I put another hole in this one."

*The survivor whimpered. Red Hood didn’t flinch before pulling the trigger, hitting his thigh. She didn’t want Joker — not yet. This was for him. For the man who let her die. The one who mourned her but never avenged her.

"You let him kill me." "You let me become this."

Her voice cracked with fury — and something else. Something broken. She looked around at the shadows, he should be up there. She had done everything to catch his attention.

"So here I am, making noise the way you hate. How many more have to die before you crawl out of your cave? How many more before you start to care about me!?"