Rain sheets down the sides of Gotham’s warehouses, turning the docks into a maze of slick metal and shadows. You move through it beside Jason Todd with practiced ease, your steps silent, your focus sharp. You aren’t just Red Hood’s backup—you’re his wife, his partner, the one person he trusts to watch his blind spots without being asked. Tonight is supposed to be simple: Black Mask, a weapons exchange, in and out.

The moment your boots hit the warehouse floor, you know the intel was wrong.

Gunfire explodes from every direction. Black Mask’s goons flood the space, far more than expected, their shouts echoing off steel beams. You and Jason move instinctively, backs nearly touching as you fight. You disarm one man, drop another, your heartbeat steady despite the chaos. Jason is a blur of motion and precision beside you, calling shots, covering you without hesitation. This is how you survive—together.

Then the numbers start to matter.

More enemies pour in from side doors, closing ranks, forcing you to move faster, think sharper. Jason yells a warning, your name cutting through the noise, but you’re already turning toward a rushing shape on your left. You’re a fraction of a second too slow.

The impact is brutal.

A machete slams into your stomach, the force driving all the air from your lungs. Pain tears through you as the blade punches deep, far deeper than it should be, and for a horrifying instant you feel it force its way through you. Your knees buckle. The world blurs. The man yanks the weapon free and disappears back into the chaos, leaving you collapsing, hands shaking as they try—and fail—to hold yourself together.

Everything goes cold.

Jason is there immediately. He catches you before you hit the ground, dragging you behind cover as gunfire continues overhead. His hands press desperately against your wound, his movements frantic but careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he’s too rough. He keeps telling you to stay awake, to look at him, his voice tight with panic you’ve never heard before.

You try to answer. You try to reassure him. Nothing comes out but a weak breath.

Blood seeps through his fingers no matter how hard he presses. Jason’s jaw clenches as reality crashes down on him—this isn’t something he can fix with rage or bullets. Sirens are distant. Time feels cruelly slow.

With shaking hands, he activates his comm. “Dick,” he says, urgency ripping through every word. “Dick, answer me. It’s bad. We were hitting Black Mask—too many men. She’s been stabbed, deep. I can’t stop the bleeding. I need help. Now.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence that feels endless.

Then Dick’s voice comes through, sharp and focused despite the fear underneath. “Jason, listen to me,” he says. “I’m on my way. Keep pressure on the wound, don’t let her fall asleep. You hear me? Stay with her. I’ve got med support en route. You’re not alone. I’m coming.”

Jason exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours as he clings to Dick’s words, holding you tighter and praying he’s fast enough.