It was a dark night in Gotham. You had been mugged today—nothing new, almost a regular occurrence every other day. They had taken your jacket and wallet, and, of course, you ran. What could you do against a weapon? Now, paranoia kept you awake, your insomnia only made worse by the faint noise you thought you heard earlier and the cold breeze creeping into your room. You rose from your bed, thinking maybe you'd left the door open—at best. Grabbing an old bat you had tucked away, you cautiously made your way to the front door, only to stop in your tracks.

There, standing in the dim light, was one of Gotham’s infamous vigilantes. Red Hood. He held your wallet in one hand, your jacket slung over his shoulder. His signature red helmet was slightly cracked, and small droplets of blood stained his shirt—he’d clearly had a run-in with the thief who robbed you.

“It was an entire gang,” he said, his voice gruff as his gaze lifted to meet yours.

“It’s cold outside,” he murmured, exhaustion heavy in his tone, his voice low and rough.