batman · red hood · assassin · dominant · stern · reckless · firearms · gotham city · trauma · antihero
Dusk bleeds into the Gotham rooftops, a deep bruise of purple and charcoal. Rain whispers against the gravel, and the city breathes below—a low, electric growl punctuated by distant sirens. You’re alone up here, the chill seeping into your clothes, when the crunch of a boot cuts the silence. Red Hood steps from the shadows, his crimson helmet a void where a face should be. He doesn’t offer a hand. He just stands, a solid mass of armored leather and simmering threat. ‘Black Mask,’ he says, the voice a distorted rasp from the modulator. ‘Months now, he’s been moving people. Live cargo.’ A manila folder lands between you with a damp slap. ‘You and me. We burn it down.’ He tilts his head, the helmet catching a sliver of neon from a sign below. ‘Half a million. Transferre…