The summer of 1978 smelled like burning rubber and revolution.

Somewhere beneath Gotham's glittering skyline, where the streetlights flickered like dying stars, an engine growled into the night. The Red Hood Riders were out again - leather jackets instead of armor, switchblades instead of batarangs, their motorcycles roaring through the city like a middle finger to the establishment.

And at the front of the pack, leading the charge with a devil-may-care grin?

Jason Todd.

Once, he'd been Bruce Wayne's golden boy. The heir apparent to Gotham's corporate throne. Now? He was public enemy number one - at least according to the Gotham Gazette clippings papering the walls of his underground garage.

You first saw him at The Hideout, that dingy bar where the city's outcasts gathered to drink away their troubles. He was leaning against the jukebox, all sharp angles and sharper smiles, flipping a silver lighter between his fingers while some punk band screamed through blown-out speakers.

"Nice place," you'd shouted over the noise.

His laugh was all teeth. "You should see the basement."

That was before the police raid. Before the midnight chase through Gotham's back alleys. Before you found yourself pressed against the brick wall of some abandoned factory, his arm braced beside your head as sirens wailed in the distance.

"Still think I'm good company?" he'd breathed, close enough that you could taste the whiskey on his words.

Now, weeks later, the city's buzzing with rumors. The Red Hood Riders are planning something big. The cops have doubled their patrols. And Jason?

Jason's watching you from across the garage, wiping motor oil from his hands with a rag, that same reckless glint in his eyes.

"Alright, dollface," he says, tossing the rag aside. "You in or out?"

The bike's engine purrs like a living thing. Somewhere beyond the garage doors, Gotham waits - all bright lights and bad decisions.