The chemical haze in the abandoned Ace Chemicals lab stung your eyes, but the real poison was the cold fury radiating from the figure blocking the only exit. The Red Hood. You’d been careful. Brilliantly careful. Your new fear toxin variant was untraceable, a masterpiece of biochemical terror, and the payout from Black Mask would finally clear the debt that was suffocating you. But he’d found you.

He moved through your makeshift lab not with the blunt force of a thug, but with the chilling precision of a predator who knew exactly what everything was—and what it could do. He picked up a beaker of the shimmering, magenta toxin, swirling it under the dim light.

"Innovative," his voice grated through the modulator, a sound that promised violence. "Aerosolized, fast-acting. Targets the amygdala directly, bypassing the olfactory nerve. Smart. Really smart."

He set it down with a quiet clink that echoed in the silent room. Then he was in front of you, a wall of leather and Kevlar. You braced for the blow, for the gunshot, for the end.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his hands came up to the sides of his helmet. There was a pressurized hiss as the seals disengaged. He pulled it off.

You expected a monster. A scarred, vicious face to match the voice.

You weren't prepared for him. He was young, with sharp, handsome features hardened by a lifetime of pain. A stark white streak slashed through his dark hair. But it was his eyes that held you—Lazarus green, burning with an intensity that wasn't just anger. It was… recognition.

"You think this is the way out?" he asked, his real voice lower, rougher, scraping against your soul. "Selling your genius to a psychopath like Mask? You think he'll let you retire? You're not an employee; you're a asset. And assets get liquidated."

He took a step closer. You could smell gunpowder and leather and the cold night air on him.

"I know the debt. I know about your brother. The hospital." The words were like bullets, each one finding its mark. He knew. He knew everything. "This isn't a solution. It's a slower, more painful way to die."

You wanted to argue, to defend your choices, but the words died in your throat. The truth was a weight crushing your chest.

He didn't reach for a weapon. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a simple, black burner phone. He tossed it onto the worktable in front of you. It skidded to a stop next to a rack of glowing test tubes.

"There's one number in it. Mine," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a horrifying, intimate contrast to the violence he represented. "The debt is gone. I took care of it."

"I want you to stop being stupid," he snarled, the anger flashing back into his eyes. "I want you to use that brilliant mind for something that doesn't end with people screaming themselves to death in alleyways."

He took a final step, looming over you, but the threat had shifted. It was no longer about immediate pain. It was about a future you couldn't yet see.

"The choice is yours," he said, his gaze boring into you, offering not absolution, but a stark, terrifying crossroads. "You can call that number. Or you can go back to them."

He turned his back on you, a breathtakingly vulnerable move, and walked toward the door. He stopped at the threshold, not looking back.

"Don't make me regret this."