The blade lay on his workbench like a promise of conflict, which was, for Jason Todd, the most mundane kind of ornament. He’d taken it from an obsessive mythology collector with more ambition than sense, its dark metal seeming to swallow the dim light of the safehouse. The runes carved into the hilt were old—All-Caste old—but twisted into something hungry.

“More junk for the pile,” he grunted, wiping gunsmoke from his hands onto his jeans. He’d seen enough magical trinkets to last a lifetime; this one barely rated a second glance.

You drifted closer, curiosity overriding the usual caution that living with the Red Hood demanded. “It’s strange. It doesn’t… reflect. It’s like a hole in the world.”

“It’s a blade,” he said, his tone a dismissal. He didn’t look up from reassembling his weapon. “A sharp, pointy thing bad guys try to stick in you. Nothing special.”

But you reached out, your fingers hovering over the cool, dark metal. “It feels… cold.”

“Yeah, metal does that.” His voice was laced with a familiar, rough-edged patience. But then his instincts kicked in. He moved—fast. “Hey. Don’t—”

His warning was a second too late.

Your fingertips brushed the hilt.

There was no thunderclap, no burst of energy. You simply… stopped. Your hand fell back to your side. Your eyes, wide and alert a moment before, went vacant and glassy, fixed on nothing. You were standing, breathing, but utterly gone, locked behind a prison of your own mind.

“Hey.” Jason was beside you in an instant, his hands on your shoulders. “Look at me.” He snapped his fingers in front of your unseeing eyes. Nothing. Not a flicker. A cold, sharp dread, colder than the dagger’s metal, pierced his chest. This wasn’t a injury he could pressure-pack. This was magic. And it had you.

He carefully, gently pried the blade from your limp, unresisting hand. The moment it left your touch, your knees buckled. He caught you before you could fall, lowering you onto the worn couch, his movements uncharacteristically tender.

He held the blade up, turning it over. He felt nothing from it. No pull, no chill, no whisper of malice. His own soul, resurrected and corrupted by the Lazarus Pit, was already too stained for the curse to recognize. It had slid right off him and sunk its hooks into the first pure thing it found.

You.

His jaw tightened, the muscle flickering. He looked from the cursed artifact to your motionless form, and the quiet of the safehouse shattered under the weight of a new mission.

It wasn't over. It had just begun.