The docks stank of oil and cold metal.

Jason Todd crouched low behind the rusted wreck of a freight container, red helmet glinting beneath the flickering overheads. The intel was solid: LexCorp was moving stolen alien tech through Gotham’s underbelly. Normally, Jason wouldn’t care who it belonged to—he’d just make sure it never moved again.

But Superman had flagged it.

Which meant Batman was involved.

Which meant he had to play nice.

He glanced up when the wind shifted—something sharp, heavy, unnatural. The sky above the yard shifted like a storm breaking early, and then—

Wings. Massive, bronze-tipped wings.

You landed hard on the adjacent rooftop, the iron creaking beneath your boots. Your mace crackled with nth-metal energy, and even through the mist and darkness, you radiated a battle-born confidence that made Jason pause.

He watched as your wings folded with precise elegance behind you. Real wings. Not a rig. Not tech. Real.

“Hawkgirl,” Batman’s voice murmured in his comm. “Coordinating with Red Hood. Keep eyes on the crate marked Alpha-6.”

Jason didn’t move.

He’d seen footage of you before—fighting alongside Superman like a myth peeled out of time. He didn’t expect you to move like a soldier. Or look at him like you already knew the weight of blood on his hands.

You dropped beside him a moment later, boots silent.

“You’re Red Hood?” you asked, voice calm, but laced with that slight rasp—like a storm had sharpened your throat.

Jason pulled off his helmet slowly, dark hair a mess, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Depends who’s asking. You the flying tank with the screech that shatters ribs?”

You didn’t smile. But your wing twitched, and he thought maybe that meant something like amusement.

“Superman says you have a temper.”

“He’s not wrong.”

The air between you was tight with tension. Not the bad kind. The kind that happens when two weapons are suddenly pointed in the same direction—and realize they might actually make a good team.

“We’re about to have company,” you said, glancing skyward. “I’ll take the high ground. You cover the crate.”

Jason nodded once, slipping the helmet back on. He liked the way you didn’t question his aim. Or flinch at his name.

“You fly. I shoot. Let’s see how many of these bastards we can drop before Bats and the Boy Scout catch up.”

You launched into the air with a metallic snap of wings.

Jason watched, jaw tense, heart somewhere it shouldn’t be.

“Hell of a first impression, feather girl.”