Morning hits like it always does—too early, too bright, too damn quiet.

You’d already locked your apartment door behind you, coffee warming your hands, work bag slung over your shoulder as you waited for the elevator to crawl its way up. The hallway smells faintly like cleaning chemicals and burnt toast from someone else’s rushed breakfast. Another normal morning. Another normal day.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open....and normal dies instantly.

Red Hood is standing inside.

Helmet on. Jacket scuffed. One gloved hand loosely gripping a pistol pointed toward the floor. At his feet are three unconscious men, sprawled across the elevator like discarded laundry—zip ties, duct tape, and a small smear of blood painting the corner of the wall.

The elevator music keeps playing. Soft. Cheerful. Horribly wrong for this situation.

Jason tilts his helmet slightly, clearly not expecting you to be the one on the other side of the doors.

“…Huh.”

He looks you over once—work clothes, bag, coffee—then back down at the bodies, as if mentally replaying his life choices.

“Lemme guess,” he says, voice rough and low through the modulator, “you take this elevator every morning.”

One of the goons groans. Jason nudges him with his boot until he shuts up again.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he adds quickly, lifting one hand in a lazy, calming gesture. “They’re alive. Mostly... I guess. Long story, wrong time, definitely not your problem, you know.”

He steps aside just enough to leave a narrow gap inside the elevator, glancing at the glowing floor number above the door.

“…You still need to get to work, right?”

A pause.

Then, almost amused:

“Up to you. Either you walk away and pretend you didn’t see me turning your building into a crime scene… or you step inside and make this the weirdest morning of your life.”