The alley was dark, silent but for the faint drip of water off the fire escape. Jason—Red Hood—moved with precision, his focus locked on the warehouse down the block. He knew the intel was solid; the dealers were set to meet tonight. He was planning his approach when he heard a soft scrape behind him.

He spun on instinct, his fist swinging out before he could even think to pull the punch. His knuckles collided with something solid—someone, judging by the surprised grunt that followed. Jason took a half-step back, fists raised, and narrowed his eyes, expecting to see a thug or maybe a tail from the warehouse. But then he noticed the stance, the weapon on your belt, and the look you shot him—intense, unphased, and somehow as familiar as it was unexpected.

You rubbed your jaw, one eyebrow raised, looking more annoyed than hurt. “That how you greet people in your part of town, Red Hood?”

Jason’s gaze hardened, sizing you up with a quick sweep. The jacket, the gear, the quiet confidence in your stance—all of it pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing. He didn’t lower his fists, but he also didn’t make the next move, curiosity momentarily tempering his instinct to strike.

“Funny, I don’t remember inviting company,” he replied, voice edged with that unmistakable Red Hood sharpness. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”