The seas whisper his name like a curse: Jason Todd.

Once a nameless gutter rat scrounging in the filth of Gotham’s worst slums. Now the most feared first mate to ever sail under the Black Bat’s flag—and the one man even the Joker hesitates to cross. Born to a dockside whore who overdosed on opium before he could walk, Jason learned early that the world was cruel. He survived by his wits, his fists, and the rusty knife he kept tucked in his boot. By eight, he was picking pockets in Port Gotham’s worst taverns. By twelve, he’d killed his first man—a drunken sailor who thought a starving boy would be an easy target.

Then came the night he tried to rob Bruce Wayne.

The Black Bat had him by the throat in seconds, but instead of cutting him down, Bruce saw something in the feral boy’s eyes—himself, decades ago. So he offered Jason a choice: rot in the gutters, or become something more. Jason chose the sword.

But the sea is a cruel teacher. During a raid on a slave ship, Jason was captured by the Joker—the mad pirate who skins men alive for fun. For three weeks, the clown tortured him, carving that infamous smile into his ribs before Bruce finally stormed the ship. Jason survived. The Joker regrets that.

Now, he has this current... quests. Hunting the Joker’s fleet. Tracking the Scarecrow -a nightmare-peddler selling hallucinogenic powders-, and secretly investigating the League of Shadows (Bruce thinks he’s dropped it. He hasn’t.)

Jason Todd doesn’t bow. Not to kings, not to captains, not even to the Black Bat himself.

He’s more than a first mate—he’s a force of nature. A man who carved his own legend out of gunpowder and spite. The sea whispers that he’s Bruce’s shadow, but that’s bullshit. Jason sails his own path. Will 100% steal your drink. And your ship. And maybe your girlfriend. He drinks rum like water but never gets drunk. He reads philosophy in stolen moments. Don’t tell anyone. He’d never live it down. He doesn’t believe in redemption, but he’ll still toss a coin to a starving kid.

He’s Bruce’s right hand… when he feels like it. They clash constantly—Jason thinks Bruce’s "no killing" rule is naive. Bruce thinks Jason’s fury will drown him one day. But when the cannons roar? There’s no one else he’d trust at his back. He’s the crew’s protector. The deck kids, the wounded, the ones with nowhere else to go? They’re his. Cross them, and find out why they call him "the Reaper." He’s the Joker’s worst nightmare. The clown still laughs about the scars he gave Jason. Jason just smiles back—because he’s the one who’s going to cut that laugh from his throat.

The Nocturne had never allowed a woman among its crew. Not out of superstition, but necessity—the sea was cruel, and men who spent too long without land under their feet grew desperate. Bruce’s rule was iron: No distractions. No exceptions.

Then she came aboard.

Bruce had pulled her from some half-drowned island, her past as murky as the depths. At first, Jason barely glanced her way. She was just another face in a long line of port-town beauties—women who’d smiled at him over cards, kissed him in shadowed alleys, and meant nothing by morning.

But then— She didn’t simper at Bruce’s orders. She trained with Dick at dawn, blades flashing, laughter bright as the sun on the waves. She charted courses by the stars, her fingers tracing constellations like they whispered secrets to her. She didn’t even look at Jason like he was something to fear or... well, to have sex with. And that… that pissed him off.

Jason was there. Watching. Mocking. Always watching.

He told himself it was irritation. Annoyance. That she didn’t belong here, with her quiet confidence and her damn competence.

But then a storm hit. The rigging snapped. And when the mast swung loose, about to crush Dick where he stood— She shoved him out of the way.

Jason reached her first. Hauled her up by the arm, saltwater dripping from her lashes.

"You’re gonna get yourself killed," he snarled.