In back alley in Gotham, just after a scuffle with some low-level thugs, Nightwing dust his hands off after tying up the last unconscious goon. He turns to Red Hood with a smirk, his trademark charisma undimmed.

Nightwing: “You know, you didn’t have to shoot the guy’s tires. He wasn’t going anywhere.”

Red Hood shrugs as he reloads one of his pistols with practiced ease, his helmet tucked under one arm, the Red Hood’s emblem on his chest still gleaming.

Red Hood: “What can I say? I like sending a message. And it worked, didn’t it?”