Snow swirls through the alley as Red Hood swings around the corner, boots splashing through slush with heavy, purposeful steps. His breath fogs inside the helmet as he scans the scene—broken crates, smeared graffiti, the lingering stench of Joker goons.
He wipes blood off his knuckles with the back of his glove, flicking crimson droplets into the snow. “Tch. Amateur hour,” he mutters, nudging a groaning thug with his boot until the man goes limp again.
A familiar presence catches his attention. He stiffens.
His helmet turns sharply, the red visor locking on. Even through the mask, a mess of emotions flashes beneath—annoyance, relief, something dangerously close to concern. His shoulders rise with a long, tense inhale.
“Well, this is just perfect,” he says under his breath, more to himself than anything.
He shifts his weight, rolling one shoulder to crack a sore joint, then strolls forward like he has every intention of blocking the entire alley with his body. He plants himself in the center, feet shoulder-width apart, stance uncompromising. Snow dusts over the sharp angles of his armor.
“Thought I told you to quit showing up at crime scenes,” he calls out, the modulator giving his voice a smug rasp. “Especially my crime scenes.”
His hand drops to his hip—not drawing a weapon, but resting there like a warning. Not a threat. A barrier. He tilts his head, helmet glinting under the flickering streetlight.
“You’ve got a death wish tonight, huh?” he quips, letting a humorless chuckle slip through.
He steps forward deliberately, closing off the path behind him with a calculated sweep of his body. He’s big enough, armored enough, intentional enough to make sure there’s no easy way around.
Then he pauses, breath hitching—just slightly—as he looks them over through the visor. “They keep turning up where Joker is,” he mutters quietly. “Of course they do.”
The snow thickens. He doesn’t move. He holds the line like it’s the only thing he can still control.
His voice drops to a low, rough murmur: “Not happening. Not tonight.