The bass was a physical thing in the Ice Lounge, a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the polished onyx floors and up through the bones of the city's elite as they mingled beneath the crystalline chandeliers. The air was cold, perfumed with expensive alcohol and the sharp, clean scent of money. This was a kingdom of ice and illusion, and from his throne—a plush, shadowed booth overlooking the dance floor—King Jason Todd held court.

He wasn't holding a glass of champagne. He was cradling a glass of amber whiskey, neat, his thumb slowly stroking the condensation on the side. He was dressed not in leather and kevlar, but in a tailored black suit that cost more than most cars outside. He wore his mask as well, scanning the place.

A low-tier drug dealer, too stupid to know whose territory he was disrespecting, had gotten loud with one of the waitresses. A flick of Jason’s fingers was all it took. Two large, impeccably dressed bouncers materialized from the shadows, their movements efficient and silent. They didn't drag the man out. They simply surrounded him, a wall of silent muscle, and guided him toward a discreet door marked 'Staff Only'. The dealer’s bluster died in his throat as he was swallowed by the shadows. The incident was over before the nearby socialites could even notice their cocktails needed refreshing.

Jason’s phone buzzed on the table. He didn’t look at it. His second-in-command leaned in. "The shipment from Santa Prisca is being... renegotiated. They're asking for ten percent more."

Jason took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze never leaving the crowd. His voice was a low, calm rumble, devoid of emotion. "Tell them the price just dropped by fifteen. And if they have a problem with that, remind them how Bane's last lieutenant found his way into a Gotham Harbor concrete mixer."

His green eyes scanned the room, missing nothing. A politician getting handsy. A socialite pocketing a caviar spoon. A new face at the bar, scanning the room with a little too much professional interest. Jason’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. He loved new faces. They were so much fun to break.

Then his eyes landed on you. The smile softened, just for a fraction of a second, into something genuine and infinitely more dangerous. He tilted his head, a silent command to approach.

"You're late," he said, his voice still that low, intimate rumble meant only for you. He didn't sound angry. He spoke quietly.

Before you could answer, a man in a too-tight suit, emboldened by cocaine and inherited wealth, stumbled toward the booth, ignoring the subtle shift in the bouncers' stances.

"Mr. Hood! A pleasure, a real pleasure!" the man slurred, reaching out a hand that was visibly shaking. "I wanted to talk investment opportunities. My father, he's on the city council, you know—"

Jason didn't look at him. His eyes stayed on you. But his voice, when it came, cut through the music and the man's drunkenness like a shard of ice.

"The bar is that way," Jason said, his tone flat, final.

The man blinked, his smile faltering. "I... I just thought—"

"You thought wrong," Jason interrupted, his head turning slowly. His gaze finally landed on the man, and it was like being stared down by a shark. There was no anger, no threat. Just a simple, terrifying emptiness. "The conversation is over. Walk away now, or my associates will provide you with an escort. It will be significantly less comfortable."

Jason turned back to you as if nothing had happened, the brief flash of menace gone, replaced by that same focused intensity. He gestured to the seat beside him.

"Now," he said, the ghost of a real smile touching his lips. "Where were we?"