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Jason looked down into the chaotic streets of Gotham, a city turned frantic with excessive energy in the wake of tonight’s events. Francis, the gargoyle who had long been his silent companion, perched motionless to his left. In his right hand, his gun cooled from recent use, the residual heat bleeding into the cold night air. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—rage and satisfaction, grief and relief—all swirling together in an uneasy truce. And yet, for the first time in five years, since he had clawed his way out of that godforsaken grave, something within him felt calm. Centered. Whole.
Below, the streets pulsed with an energy so foreign to Gotham it was almost unsettling. Laughter rang out, loud and uninhibited, cutting through the usual weight of the city's oppressive gloom. People clutched one another as if afraid to let go, terrified that this moment—this fleeting miracle—might dissolve if they did. Alcohol flowed freely, dulling the last remnants of terror that had gripped them mere hours ago. For the first time in their lives, they celebrated like they truly had a reason to.
It wasn’t surprising. Their fear had been justified—brutally so—until tonight. Amazing, really, how much the world could change in just a matter of seconds.
Seven hours ago, the Joker had been reported missing from Arkham. Another escape, another bloodbath waiting to happen.
Six hours and thirty minutes ago, Jason had steeled his resolve. No more hesitation. No more waiting. He would do what he should have done the moment he set foot back in Gotham.
Three hours and twenty minutes ago, he had walked into Amusement Mile, stepping into the twisted carnival of his nightmares, to face his greatest demon one last time.
Exactly one hour ago, he put two bullets in each of the Joker’s legs—for Barbara—before bringing a crowbar down on his body over a dozen times—for himself.
Forty minutes ago, he had dragged the maybe-corpse out into the most crowded streets of Gotham, tossed it into the mob like a sacrifice, and watched as the city rendered its verdict—for those who had died.
Thirty-seven minutes ago, every single citizen who had ever known fear at the hands of the Joker took out a decade’s worth of terror and frustration on the monster who had haunted them.
Fourteen minutes ago, an enraged mob—the broken, the vengeful, the survivors—had mounted the now unquestionably dead body on a pike and set it ablaze—for those who had lived. The police had neither intervened nor joined in. They stood back, a silent, unmoving barrier between the roaring inferno and the rest of the world. The fire reflected in their eyes, but none of them spoke. They, too, had been victims.
Jason gazed down at the blazing pyre, its flames licking hungrily at the night sky. It was so bright, so vivid, that it almost seemed sacrilegious under the watchful moon. Maybe it was. Maybe this was his baptism by fire, a cleansing of the rot that had festered for too long. He had never been a religious man, but now seemed as good a time as any to start believing. No one dared to say it aloud, as if speaking the words might shatter the fragile beauty of this moment, but the truth shone in their faces. It burned in their eyes. Hope.
Hope, in Gotham. Who would have thought?
It was ironic, in a way. That reliving one of the worst days of his life had led him to what might be the best. When Bruce had taken him back to Ethiopia, Jason had thought of nothing beyond the relentless screaming in his head—the anger, the betrayal, the unyielding sense of abandonment.
But standing before the charred remains of the warehouse where he had once been tortured and killed, the memories had come flooding back with brutal clarity.
The fear.
The helplessness.
The desperate need to protect his mother.
And in the end, that had been enough. Enough to remind him why he had returned. It had never been about revenge. Not really. It was about making sure the Joker could never do to anyone else what he had done to him. To others like him.
Bruce would never understand. Jason smirked as he imagined his former mentor’s reaction. After everything he had done to stop Jason from killing, it had been Bruce himself—his stubbornness, his refusal to act—that had finally pushed Jason over the edge. Might as well have handed him the gun and pulled the safety off.
But it didn’t matter now. Bruce’s opinions, his morality, his grief—they didn’t matter. Jason had made his choice. He had chosen the path of the Red Hood over the shadow of the Bat, and for the first time in a long time, he felt no regret.
Reaching into his belt, Jason pulled out a small pocket knife and flicked it open with practiced ease. With careful precision, he cut away the stitched bat symbol on his chestplate. It peeled away like dead skin, exposing the raw truth beneath. Once the fabric was fully severed, he folded it into the knife and stood up.
Drawing his arm back, he let the items fly, sending them in a perfect arc toward their final resting place.
The cloth landed at the top of the pyre, and within moments, the fire hungrily consumed the stitches. The metal of the knife glinted briefly before disappearing into the inferno.
Jason watched until there was nothing left but embers. Then, turning his back on the liberated cheers of Gotham, he walked away, leaving the past to burn behind him.