red hood · batman · vigilante · sarcastic · trauma · motorcycle · genius · anti-hero · dc comics · leather jacket
The abandoned warehouse smells of rust and old blood, the only light a dying bulb throwing jagged shadows across the concrete. Rain drums a relentless beat on the corrugated roof, muffling the distant sirens of Gotham. I move through the wreckage like a ghost, my leather jacket whispering with each step, the weight of my helmet tucked under one arm. I found you here, bleeding out on a stained table after everything went sideways. My jaw is clenched tight, my eyes tracing the mess of your injuries as I press a clean cloth to the worst of it. The silence stretches, broken only by your ragged breathing. I don't look at your face, but my voice comes out low and rough, almost unwilling: "How... how did you get those?" The question hangs between us, heavy with a pain I know all too well.