Chapter Text
The rain over Gotham always felt personal.
Jason Todd stood on the edge of the old clock tower, helmet under one arm, staring at the flickering lights of the city that had taken everything from him twice. The wind cut through his jacket. He didn’t feel it. All he felt was the hollow, burning weight in his chest that had been there since the news hit three nights ago.
Nightwing was dead.
Dick Grayson—his older brother in every way that mattered—was gone. Not missing. Not in a coma. Dead. A single, precise strike. Clean. Professional. The kind of kill that left no room for hope or denial.
The Batcave had been quiet in a way Jason had never heard before. Bruce hadn’t spoken for almost an entire day. Tim had tried to keep working, fingers moving over keyboards like the data could somehow reverse time. Damian had disappeared into the shadows and only reappeared with blood on his knuckles that wasn’t his. Barbara’s voice over the comms had cracked once, just once, before she shut it down and went silent.
They were grieving.
Jason was not.
Grief was a luxury. What he had was colder, sharper, and far more useful.
The killer was in Justice League custody.
That was the part that made his teeth grind. Some sanctimonious collection of gods and aliens and self-appointed guardians had the bastard locked up in a cell that no one outside the Watchtower could touch. Due process. Interrogation. “We’ll handle it.” The same empty promises Jason had heard his entire second life.
He dropped down into the alley below, boots hitting wet pavement without a sound. The Red Hood mask went on with a familiar click. The world narrowed into targets and exits and the steady thrum of rage that had kept him alive longer than anyone expected.
Dick had always been the one who tried to pull him back. The one who showed up uninvited with cheap takeout and worse jokes. The one who still called him “Little Wing” like the years and the graves and the blood between them didn’t exist. Jason had hated it. Jason had needed it.
And someone had taken that from him.
He moved through the East End like a rumor, past the usual dealers and low-level muscle who knew better than to make eye contact when the red helmet was out. His contacts had been quiet. Too quiet. Whoever did the job had either paid well enough or scared the city into silence. Neither option sat right.
Jason stopped beneath a flickering streetlight and pulled up the encrypted feed on his wrist display. The Justice League statement was still circulating: Suspect in custody. Investigation ongoing. We ask for patience and respect for the process.
Patience.
He almost laughed.
Bruce would want to play it by the book. Tim would dig until he found every angle. Damian would already be planning how to get inside the Watchtower. Barbara would be three steps ahead of all of them and still trying to hold the family together with sheer force of will.
Jason had a simpler plan.
He was going to find out everything the League wasn’t saying. He was going to learn the killer’s name, their history, their weaknesses. And when the moment came—when the cuffs slipped or the transfer happened or the cell door opened for even a second—he was going to be there.
Dick Grayson had spent his life saving people who didn’t deserve it. Jason had spent his making sure the ones who did the damage paid for it. Someone had murdered his older brother. The Justice League could keep their prisoner for now. Jason Todd was going to take him back.