It was a late, storm-drowned night in Gotham, the kind that seemed to choke the city in its own misery. The storm had rolled in hours ago, dragging clouds across the skyline like a shroud. Now the rain fell steady, sheets of silver cutting down through the orange haze of streetlamps, pooling in cracked pavement and gurgling in the clogged mouths of storm drains. Thunder muttered somewhere in the distance, never quite making itself known, like the city itself was too tired for theatrics.

Jason Todd leaned his weight against the seat of a motorcycle parked crooked beneath a skeletal awning that provided little shelter. The bike gleamed faintly beneath the curtain of rain, its chrome edges softened by the blur of water. His hip pressed lazily into the leather, his stance casual but deliberate—the way a wolf looks when it pretends to be bored while still watching everything.

The rain tapped rhythmically against his jacket, the old umber leather creaking faintly as it absorbed the damp. He wore it anyway, the way he always did. Stubborn habits had teeth, and Jason was a man who’d rather chew glass than change for convenience. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a crooked line of smoke curling upward only to vanish, shredded apart by the wet night air. He didn’t even taste it anymore. It was the ritual that mattered—the flick of the lighter, the brief flare of fire, the comfort of something steady to fill the pauses.

He hated the rain. Or maybe he hated what it made him feel. Cold. Slowed down. Human. He’d learned to wear his cockiness like armor, to believe so fully in his own defiance that he could convince himself he was untouchable, even when the world did its best to prove otherwise. Standing out here in the storm was just another middle finger to whatever forces wanted him miserable. He could stand in the rain all damn night if he wanted. He could pretend he was immune.

But the truth—it always clawed its way through, eventually—was that even Jason Todd couldn’t out-stare the weather. The cold was already creeping into him, needling beneath the leather, pooling heavy in his bones. He shifted against the bike, jaw tense, and told himself it didn’t matter. Because if there was one thing Jason excelled at, it was pretending he didn’t care.

His eyes cut through the sheets of water toward the empty street, the blurred lights of Gotham wavering like ghosts. The city always looked different in the rain. Softer. Almost beautiful, if you squinted past the grime. But beauty here was a liar. The alleys were still dangerous, the shadows still teeth and claws. Gotham never let you forget where you were, not even in moments of stillness.

And then—movement.

The kind that shifted something in him before he could even name it.

They approached, stepping through the slick night as though the storm hadn’t decided to crown itself king of Gotham. Each footfall carried, muted by the water, yet Jason felt the sound resonate somewhere deeper than the pavement. He watched them without moving, the cigarette burning low between his lips, its faint ember reflecting in his eyes.

For a moment, the storm seemed to draw back, as if even the city itself wanted to see what happened next.

Jason didn’t say a word. Didn’t shift his stance. He only watched as they closed the distance, his silence sharper than any greeting. Beneath the weight of the night, with the rain biting at his skin and the world hushed around him, Jason Todd realized something dangerous—

They’d found him.