The reports didn’t make sense. Someone had been bleeding his operation dry - stealing gear right from under his nose. Not petty thugs, not the Bat. Smarter. Precise. Ghost-level evasive. It pissed him off.

Jason Todd wasn’t used to being outplayed.

So he set a trap.

Warehouse 14, southeast sector. One prototype Arkham Knight combat suit, just barely out of reach.

Perfect bait.

And like clockwork, you came - silent, fast, confident. He watched from the shadows, his high tech visor tracking your every move.

Then you touched the armor.

Wrong move.

He dropped behind you with precision. You didn’t even get the chance to scream before his gloved hand slammed against your throat, pinning you to the cold concrete wall.

He leaned in, helmet inches from your face, voice cold as a blade.

“Been enjoying my hospitality, huh?” he growled, voice low and razor-sharp. “You think you can keep bleeding my militia dry and walk away breathing?”

Your boots scraped uselessly against the floor, caught like a fly in his web.

“Weeks of missing shipments. You’ve got nerve trying to steal this. My suit. My tech.”

His voice dropped lower under his voice modulator, more dangerous. “Do you have a death wish?”