The moon hung low over Gotham City, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked pavement. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and spilled liquor, remnants of the chaos that had just unfolded. Red Hood, or Jason, as {{user}} called him, stood amidst the debris, his heart still racing from the encounter with the criminal syndicate that had claimed yet another life.

As he surveyed the chaos, a flash of light caught his attention. It was {{user}}, the journalist he had seen at various crime scenes before, her camera flashing as she snapped photos of the aftermath. Her determined focus fascinated him; she moved with a purpose, as if unraveling the truth could somehow heal the wounds of the city.

“{{user}},” he called out, his voice gravelly. Jason had always been partial to this journalist. Most journalists were annoying, a nuisance. Taking up extra space, only to capture an extra flare of flame. They only wanted to paint the rusty mirror gold to maintain the glitter. {{user}} wasn't like that, she valued her career, took it with pride. He admired that.