Chapter Text
“Here are your keys,” the landlord said, dropping a silver key into Jason’s gloved hand. It was bound to a ring with a piece of flimsy plastic, the number 111 printed onto it. “There’s a spare in my storage unit. Give me a call if you need it.”
Jason nodded a thanks, boots clacking as he turned around and walked towards the elevator. He pushed the button for the twelfth floor, ignoring the sceptical, bordering frantic glances from the couple on the other side of the box. Their eyes kept trailing to the holsters at his waist — more specifically, the two guns that sat neatly inside them. Or maybe it was the rifle hanging across his back.
The woman nervously outstretched her arm to push the button for the seventh floor. All parties stared straight ahead, the couple concerned as if Jason would kill them if they spoke, or even moved. He guessed it was fair; it was surprising the landlord agreed to let Jason tenant a unit in his apartment complex in the first place — a man with no name, no face, and a deadly array of weapons on his person.
But then again, it was Gotham. And even more so, it was Park Row. Plus, Red Hood hadn’t made his grand debut yet. The landlord most likely assumed he was just another loon. You get accustomed to it, in Gotham. Jason huffed. If only they knew about the plans he had . The couple all but scurried out of the elevator. Probably get evicted, aye.
Considering the unlimited amount of money the Al Guhl’s supplied access to, he could have found a far better place to stay. Somewhere in Bristol — no way in hell, he’d rather go back than anywhere near there — or somewhere by the West, in other upstate districts. But that wouldn’t do. He needed to be somewhere close to the action in order to do what he needed to. A middle class, slightly run down apartment at the outskirts of Crime Alley, overlooking the upper east harbour, bordering the Bowery, was the perfect fit.
Jason sighed as he reached his room, the door number 111 staring back at him. As he went to unlock the door, a grey, wool doormat caught his eye. He squinted. Was that his? It was positioned in an odd place, somewhere between his apartment and the unit beside him, 112. But closer to his side. Thinking nothing of it, he used a boot to slide the doormat to his front door.
It probably belonged to no one anyway; that was another reason he chose this apartment in particular. It was on the richer end of Crime Alley, which didn’t say much, but most people with that kind of money wouldn’t want to live in this area. Good for them! You’d have to be insane to live in the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the world by choice.
Which, you know, Jason was.
The room was nice, quite a decent size with astounding storage space, perfect for Jason’s weapons, gear, and other crime lord necessities. The usual.
Jason laid all his equipment on the king sized bed that thankfully came with the room. He’d have to do more furniture shopping soon, because the apartment was mostly bare. And update his security too. His plan was to lay low for a while; clean up some drug organisations around the city, bust down any trafficking rings, avoid the Bats, at all costs. He’d make himself known, little by little. He’d make himself feared. Then, he could begin his big plan.
The first few nights were spent scoping out the area, looking for changes in the area since he died. The West end of Gotham seemed relevantly similar aside from the odd D—list villain popping up every once in a while, but nothing Batman and Nightwing couldn’t handle. The East, however, had turned to chaos. New drug organisations popped up like daisies. In the five years he’s been gone, the supply of Benzos, Opioids, and Heroin especially had become far more demanding. Not to mention the newly developed drugs Falcone had finally accomplished after years of experimenting. Those were distributed constantly, spreading like wildfire. Killing like wildfire.
And that was the problem.
The drug was named Siren because of how quickly it lured you in. In better words, it was highly addictive. Easily made. Easily accessible. Meaning they were being sold to kids. In the first month of patrolling, Jason had seen children as young as eight dying slowly on the street. It was at times like those when his vision flooded with green. He had to take it down.
So that was his current routine. During the day, he’d revisit and listen to all the deals he caught with the bugs he’d placed the previous night. When the sun fell, he’d leave the building to do some surveillance on shipments and distributions of Siren. Aside from his fortnightly pit—induced breakdowns, everything was going smoothly with no interruptions.
That was until two months later. As Jason left the room some time in the afternoon, the unfamiliar sound of his boot clanking on the wood led him to realise that his doormat wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Instead, it laid neatly outside 112’s doorway. Frowning, Jason slid the mat back to his own side. Strange, he thought, but dismissed it a minute later.
When he returned a couple hours later, the mat was back at 112. But that wasn’t all. A note was left at his front door, stuck on poorly with a batman sticker. Jason scowled as he read it.
“stop stealing my doormat >:(“
Usually, this would be something he ignored. He didn’t even know who was on the other side of the door, and it was in his best interest to avoid civilians. Stranger danger and all that.
But then he looked at the doormat again. And the annoying batman sticker that stuck the note to the door.
He slid the mat back to his side and flipped the paper over, mostly out of spite, writing: “It was on my side. It’s mine.”
He ripped the Batman sticker off the page and restuck it on 112’s door with some leftover tape from the box that delivered his new couch. He leaned back, satisfied at his work, then headed straight to bed and passed out.
Two nights later, there was a new note at his door, and a significant lack of doormat. “i’ve been here for 2 years, it's MINE.”
“Did you buy it?” Jason responded.
“no” came with a new piece of paper. Yet, the doormat was moved once again.
Jason huffed, sliding it back. “So it’s not yours then, is it?”
“asshole” was the response two days later. Jason snorted, amused. If only 112 knew it was the notorious Red Hood at the other side of the wall. I’d get to keep the doormat for sure , he thought, smirking to himself as he slid the mat over.
“Brat.”
By the next few weeks, the Red Hood had established a name in Crime Alley, and a very dangerous one at that. Black Masks’s henchmen shook at his arrival. So did certain members of the Martinez crime family, which Jason certainly gave a scare. Even C-List rogues didn’t dare cross him. A merciless killer with training from both Batman and Talia Al Guhl? They didn’t stand a chance.
He was a weapon, and a good one. Jason would hope so—he’d been one his entire life.
The guns he now used no doubt played a part in his reign. None of the Bat vigilantes would carry guns to a fight. None would fire. But Jason wasn’t a Bat. The Red Hood has beaten rapists and killers on the street. He’s killed them, too. He couldn’t be a hero with blood on his hands.
He wasn’t sure he was considered a vigilante, either. If you asked the citizens of Gotham City what they thought of the Red Hood, the title Crime Lord would most likely come to mind. It was fair game. Jason had made multiple deals with various crime bosses around the city, hell, he’d even gotten a VIP pass to the Iceberg lounge. That was the goal: to get friendly, make deals, that way no one would suspect him when he made them fall.
There was really only one person he knew who didn’t seem to be scared of him, and that was none other than 112—the most annoying, bad handwriting, doormat-stealer neighbour in history.
Seriously. The brat should get an award for their world-class insults.
“why do you care so much about this piece of rectangle anyway”
“It’s a square.”
“you’re a square”
“Was it you who caused the fire alarm yesterday?”
“oh you’re still alive (눈_눈)”
“Don't sound so disappointed.”
“hadn’t heard from u in a while and thought u burned in the fire”
“Nope. Still alive.”
“wishful thinking”
“Pardon? Did you set the fire?”
…
“Hello?”
And of course, the violently creative illustrations of what he would do to Jason once he found him. His favourite was the most recent. It was an illustration of two gingerbread men looking figures, one standing with an angry face ( >:( ) who he assumed belonged to his neighbour. Beside him was a giant pot—in it a ladle, and another figure with a very miserable expression. An arrow pointed towards the pot said “chilli crab soup,” and another in much bigger, bolder, angrier text pointing to the boiling figure said “YOU”. Jason didn’t mind—he liked chilli crab. Seemed like a pretty good way to go.
“Is that me?”
“take a guess”
“That drawing’s a real piece of work.”
“you’re a real piece of work”
World. Class.
Annoying neighbour aside, he was patrolling in the West of the Bowery on a particularly rainy night when he heard shouting from a near distance. On alert, he ran towards the noise and jumped across the rooftop to find three men towering over a hooded figure. One of the men was waving around a knife. He shouted at the figure until he backed up against the wall.
A mugging.
Jason sprung into action. First: take out the weapon. In seconds, he had the man in a chokehold. The knife clattered as it fell from the man’s stunned grip, which the hooded figure kicked away quickly with crazy reflex. It slid off the roof and into a gutter below. Good thing the guy’s not completely useless, Jason thought, not like he needed the help anyway. But he was still grateful nonetheless—who was he to deny help when given? Pfft.
The man with the knife knocked out with a single punch. The other two were a bit harder to take out; they’d definitely been trained. Not as well as Jason, though. He sparred with them for a few minutes, guns kept in his holsters. These low-level crooks weren’t worth his bullets. The second man took three punches before going down, and the third would have lasted a fourth, if Jason hadn’t spotted a glimpse of his wrist.
The man was kneeling on the ground with a gun to his head less than a second later.
“Who are you?” Jason shouted. He ripped the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a black, small, simple tattoo, glistening in the rain. One he’d seen many times before. Green creeped into his vision, the familiar course of venom prickling in his veins.
A fish with a mermaid’s tail. A Siren’s tail. Jason pushed the gun further into the man’s forehead. “You one of Flacone’s?”
The man trembled, awfully timid now that his life was on the line. “Please, Hood, Sir, I have a wife,” he begged, voice wavering.
“That’s not an answer.”
“—Listen, I’m just the security guy, okay? I don’t know anything else, please, I swear,”
Jason looked into the man’s eyes, pooled with guilt and fear. It was the truth, he didn’t know anything at all—just the security guy. That’s no help. He knocked the man with the side of his gun, who fell to the concrete with a thud.
The sight of movement at the corner of Jason’s eyes had his gun pointed at the figure before he even knew it.
“Hey,” Jason called, jerking the gun towards him. He was met with silence, aside from the noise of rain bucketing down. The figure slowly lifted his head, hood falling off and revealing dark hair that was tousled and shining from the rain. Droplets hung by the ends and trickled down his cheek, into a slash below his left eye; no longer bleeding, but still nasty red and irritated. Pit venom seeping away, the face regained its shape, like a film being developed. The boy’s lips were red, thin slits of blood pooling from dehydration. Under his eyes were a red tint. Rings of dark hues — no doubt due to sleep deprivation — coloured the his pale skin. There was a thin scar, sort of a slit in his left brow.
The last thing he noticed was the most striking. It was also the most devastating.
Shit. It’s just a kid. He has his gun to a kid’s head.
Jason lowered the gun, flicking the safety off with his gloved thumb. “Jesus, kid, you got a death wish?” Layers of static and depth masked his natural voice.
However, the kid didn’t seem to be concerned at all.
And his eyes. There was something so infuriating, yet so intricate in his eyes. Deep blue, like the ocean at night. Cold. Calculating. But still frustratingly impassive, even with a gun to his head. As if there wasn’t a soul behind them.
Jason always believed eyes were the window to the soul. He’d read many times of eyes of hate, eyes of fear, eyes of betrayal. Hell, he’d seen it.
The warmth that Dick’s once held, so trustful and entrancing. The little gleam of pride in Bruce’s whenever he solved a case. His mom’s beautiful almond eyes spoke of love. That told him everything would be okay, even with a single glance. He saw all sorts of anger, fear, and betrayal in every Gotham citizen, civilians and rogues alike. And pure evil in the Joker’s cruel green eyes. Something Bruce would never see.
But as he searched and searched the deep blue, he found nothing at all. It was the same, frustratingly impassive he’d seen even while his eyes glowed green. Nothing, but his own, twisted silhouette staring back at him. Jason clenched his jaw. Closed his eyes. But there was something else; the boy’s eyes were clouded, and he wasn’t looking at Jason, not really. Instead he looked through him, as if he was never there at all.
Jason frowned behind the mask. “Are you drunk?”
The boy slipped on a puddle, stumbling as he struggled to keep his body upright. His head hung towards his chest, as if it were too heavy to hold up. “Nooo,” he slurred, a hiccup cutting it short.
Yup. Definitely drunk.
Jason scoffs. “Sure kid. What are you doing in Crime Alley, huh? It’s too dangerous for someone like you.”
The boy didn’t respond. His hoodie which looked like it was once grey turned black from being drenched, plastered to his skin. The rain poured harder, and Jason heard the deep rumble of thunder nearing, louder than he’d ever heard before.
“You got anyone with you? Parents?” Jason shouted over it.
The boy lifted a hand to his throat and mimicked a slicing motion. He closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
Dead. Jason assumed so. No parent in their right mind would let their kid wander around Park Row like this. Let alone drunk at midnight.
The rumbling grew louder and the seconds passed, and the rain fell in buckets. There was no way it was going to stop any time soon. Jason sighed.
“What’s your name, kid?” Jason shouted.
The boy's reply was drowned out by the rain and thunder. Lightning struck behind a few buildings behind him.
“What’s that?”
“Tim,” the boy said, louder.
“Okay, Tim. I’m taking you home alright?”
At Tim’s drunken nod, he led the boy to his motorcycle, and took off his jacket to lay it over the shivering form behind him. Tim seemed to melt into Jason’s back, trying to extract as much warmth as he possibly could. After he was sure Tim wouldn’t fall off onto the road, he revved the engine. “Give me the directions to your place, okay?”
The city was busy at this time of night. If New York was the city that never sleeps, Gotham is nocturnal, only ever truly alive at night. Citizens ran on sidewalks for shelter. Police sirens, a constant at the East end of Gotham, blared from a close distance. There were no billboards or massive signs like those in the central area except the flickering of locally owned store signs — many of them a front for money laundering or drug dealing.
With Tim mumbling directions into his ear, they rode for over fifteen minutes, through roads Jason’s known since he was a kid. Not much had changed since he died. The world still turned, quite easily.
“Here,” the voice in his ear snapped Jason out of his thoughts. He looked up at the building before him. Hold up.
“You live here?”
“Yeahhh,” Tim slurred. He wined in protest as Jason unhooked himself from Tim’s grasp. Arm slung around Jason’s padded shoulders, he waddled towards the building, tripping over every few steps.
Some crazy coincidence, that they lived in the same building.
It was one of the only apartment buildings in Crime Alley within that price range. That meant that Tim had to have some source of income — from his appearance, he didn’t seem like he came from money. Jason assumed he had a job. Probably had to quit school to work full time too. But while a room in the complex wasn’t over-the-top expensive, it wasn’t cheap either. And that led him to the big question: Why Crime Alley?
Why not some better or safer city, like… Metropolis? They had Superman. Kids loved Superman. Superman was the pure embodiment of hope and joy. Who wants an emotionally constipated-coward furry bat as their protector? Honestly.
A halt in their step jolted him out of his thoughts. Tim, with shaky hands, brought his keys to the lock and tried to open the door. In his hazed state, it wasn’t a surprise the amount of times he kept missing. Jason rolled his eyes and took the key from him. As he looked down to the lock, something caught his eyes. Something grey, wool, and held a striking resemblance to Jason’s doormat.
Nooo.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he looked up at the apartment number on the door. 112. So it was true… “You’re the brat?”
Tim looked him dead in the eye, scarily accurate aim considering the lenses covering them. He tilted his head. “You’re the asshole?”
Jason scowled. “You've got some balls calling a crime lord an asshole.”
The boy shrugged. He took his shoes off and walked straight to the couch, ready to faceplant.
Jason caught him before he did. “Oh nonono, you’re taking a shower before you get—“
Tim fell into a coughing fit, swaying as he racked up his lungs.
“—yeah. Sounds about right. Come on.”
He led Tim to the bathroom and leaned him against the wall. “You okay to do this by yourself?” He asked. Tim gave him a thumbs up.
Jason raised a brow, even though he knew Tim couldn't see it behind the hood. “Won’t pass out?” Tim scrunched his nose. He looked up in thought, then gave Jason a double thumbs up.
That wasn’t very convincing.
A minute later, Tim’s head popped out the door.
“What’s up?” Jason asked.
“My clothes are wet,” Tim replied, sadly.
Jason snorted. Right. He’d completely forgotten. “I’ll get you some,” he said, then went into his closet to grab some clothes. It was locked. Huh. Strange, but whatever. It was none of his business, anyway.
Jason did have a spare change of clothes in his bag. Tim could fit in them… probably. He didn’t have much of a choice.
With Tim safely in the shower, Jason walked around to survey the apartment. Their building layout was almost exactly the same. He walked over to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Almost every cupboard he opened was bare, except for a singular drawer containing all his kitchenware. Jason stared at the singular fork and spoon taking up the entire cutlery drawer. His parents are dead, he lives alone , came flooding back to him. A familiar pang of something Jason couldn’t place washed over him as he stood over the sorry cutlery set. He closed it a bit harder than he meant to.
The fridge was nothing aside from the rest of the kitchen, almost completely empty. It held a few condiments, milk expired a couple days prior, and a 12 pack of energy drinks. Above it were two bowls of packaged instant noodles. Jason frowned. What’s a kid doing living alone with no food? He couldn’t be more than fifteen, judging from his size.
The state of the rest of the apartment was a mess. In the bedroom, there were bandages (which Jason wondered what they possibly could be for) littered across the floor. Various medical tools were left astray, equipment well more complex than a regular first aid kit. Empty RedBull cans stacked on the table next to a pot and a concerningly large bag of coffee beans. A pair of black headphones hung across the back of the desk chair.
He was filling a glass of water when Tim came out of the bathroom, almost drenched in Jason’s clothes. Jason’s sweatpants were baggy to the extreme on Tim, fabric pooling at his ankles. The old T-shirt he bought a while back hung well past Tim’s waist and the sleeves came almost up to his elbows. Jason snickered at the sight.
“Whaaaat,” Tim pouted, looking slightly offended as he whined. He stumbled as he took a step.
Well that answered the question of whether there was still any alcohol in his system. Jason laughed, ruffling Tim’s hair as he handed him the glass of water. “Nothing. You’re tiny.”
“You’re tiny,” Tim crossed his arms. Jason looked down at himself, fully equipped in armour and weapons standing tall at 6’2, then a head down at Tim. “I’m fifteen, I’m still growing!”
“Big dreams,” Jason teased, and Tim stuck his tongue out in response.
The way he waddled towards the couch, swamped in his clothes reminded him of a baby penguin. It was almost endearing, Jason thought, before quickly shaking the thought out of his head. What was he going to do again? Right. Questions.
“So, what were you doing out there, kid?” Jason took a seat on the chair opposite him, “it’s not safe.”
“I can handle myself,” Tim said.
Jason thought back to the empty fridge and set of cutleries. One fork, one spoon. A twinge of guilt washed over him. Had this kid really been living next door this whole time? By himself? How could he have missed this?
“Can you?” Jason asked.
Tim nodded eagerly, movements sluggish. “I can! I’ve been doing it my whoooole life, like, since I was…” he furrowed his brow, then moved his arm to level below his knees.
Jason bit his lip. “That’s a long time.”
Tim swayed, as if his body was too heavy to keep up, tipping forward. “Woahhh, okay buddy,” Jason quickly reached out to grab his arms. He pushed Tim’s body to lean upright, back against the couch. “How much did you drink?”
Tim tilted his head, then raised a hand to count on by one, eyes to the ceiling as he tried to remember. With all fingers up, he raised another hand. Seven? No. Eight, Tim settled.
“Eight? Eight of what?” Jason asked.
“Vodka.”
Jason whistled, “Damn kid. Where’d you get it from?”
“My dad’s closet,” Tim drawled.
Jason frowned. He swore Tim said…
“Oh no, he is,” Tim said, frighteningly nonchalant as he put a thumbs towards the ground. He blew a raspberry. Jason took a sip of water. Riiight. “I still own the manor so I went back to Bristol to get it.”
Jason choked, spraying water into the air. Tim tilted his head and stared at him as he coughed his lungs up.
Finally, he looked up from his elbow, inhaling deeply. “You have a manor?” He spluttered. And here Jason thought he was poor. “Why the fuck do you live here?”
Tim shuddered. “No manor. Too big. Too…” he trailed off.
“Too what?”
“I dunno,” Tim whined. “It’s too empty. And cold. I don't like it,” he giggled. At what, Jason didn’t know. He didn’t know anything at this point. “Coooold.” Then, Tim stared at Jason, head tilted. “How do you eat with that on?” He tapped his head, referring to Jason’s hood. Helmet. Whatever.
“I take it off.”
“Ohhh,” Tim awed. His mouth was agape in shock and his eyes wide, as if he never thought of the simple idea before.
Jason rolled his eyes. “And the Vodka?”
“It’s their two year anniversary,” Tim sighed as he leaned back into the couch. His lashes fluttered as he tried to keep them open.
Jason inhaled, an image of the note popping back into his mind.
“i’ve been here for two years. it’s MINE.”
So the kid must’ve been… thirteen when he began living alone. Thirteen years old and living alone in Crime Alley. And stealing Vodka from his parents’ mansion. Jesus.
It pained him a little, how familiar it all sounded.
Tim patted his cheeks. A hint of red tainted his otherwise flushed face, which he tried to cool down with his palms. Suddenly, he winced, and brought a hand down to reveal the bright red cut under his eye. Shit, Jason completely forgot.
Quickly, he stood up to grab the medical kit. When he got back, Tim was sitting up, looking slightly panicked. Jason noticed the way his shoulders sagged when he realised he’d come back.
“You okay?” He raised a brow, even though Tim couldn’t see it behind the mask.
Tim gaped up at him, “I thought you left.”
Jason lifted the med kit. “Your cut’s not gonna treat itself, is it?” He sat beside Tim on the couch and began laying out the equipment. “Move over.”
Tim obliged, eyes falling back to their sleepy state as they followed Jason’s gloved hands working skillfully around the kit.
Jason didn’t know what to think of the boy. Other than those creepy, empty eyes that he still decypher, his body language was quite telling despite his efforts to hide it; almost like a natural reaction.
Henchmen and loons cowered at the sight of the Red Hood. The kid however had a complete opposite reaction, shoulders relaxed and looking relieved to see the crime lord. It was all so strange, but Jason couldn’t let go of the hunch in the back of his mind.
Dead parents. Empty House. He wondered if anyone had ever cared for him in the last two years. If anyone had even spoken to him, even in the years before his parents’ deaths.
In the reflection of Tim’s eyes on that rooftop, he didn’t see the Red Hood, but a young, scrawny Jason Todd—barely thirteen years old and doing whatever he can to keep himself and his mother alive in these unforgiving streets—staring back at him. In the strange boy, he saw himself. He didn’t know how.
But while he didn’t have a trust fund or a multimillion dollar estate, he had Catherine. Beautiful, loving Catherine Todd, to which Jason owed every bit of his humanity to. It was her who shielded him from Willis’ beatings, who made him laugh to ease the hunger.
Who died in a dirty, uncomfortable alleyway in Park Row, shot up with heroin and other drugs that should not have been mixed together. Because Jason wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t tough enough to get them out of that shithole they called their home. Because Gotham didn’t have a protector who cared enough for street rats.
His stream of thought was cut off when Tim pulled back with a wince. “Shit, sorry,” Jason immediately let go of the gauze. His fingers twitched as he looked at the cut he must’ve been pressing far too hard on in his stressed state. The surrounding area slowly turned red as blood rushed towards it. Guilt rose quickly into his chest. Shit. Shit.
Tim closed his eyes again like it was nothing. Like Jason didn’t hurt him. “S’okay,” he whispered and curled into the couch, back open, like Jason wasn’t a monster.
The boy was out of his mind, letting a crime lord in his apartment so easily. He was drunk, too. Someone could have taken advantage of him, and that mugging… it could’ve gone a lot worse without Red Hood’s intervention. Jason scowled. Even if he was a retired rich boy, Crime Alley had been his home for two years. He should know the ropes by now. How could he be so careless? So trusting? There was only one conclusion.
He’s an idiot.
Jason looked down at the boy in front of him. Above the freshly bandaged cut on his left cheek, his eyes were closed, delicate lashes resting on his skin.
“Hey,” Jason said, gently flicking Tim’s forehead. He didn’t get a response, but the slow rise and fall of Tim’s chest was enough to tell him he was asleep.
Jason huffed a laugh at the complete ridicule of the situation. He meant to be across the wall at this time of night (well, morning), looking through surveillance footage or reloading his weapons.
The boy’s head rested gently on Jason’s knee, something he still couldn't comprehend. Although he couldn’t feel the contact over the kevlar of his suit, the weight felt like a blanket, holding him grounded. Rain continued to pour in a constant beat. Pitter—patter, pitter—patter, pitter—patter, as it hit the window, paired beautifully with the distant tune from a neighbour playing the piano downstairs. In the dim light, Jason felt the calmest he’d ever been in a long time.
He sighed, carefully moving Tim’s head off his lap to stand up. Jason walked over to the bedroom, pulled the comforter off the bed and laid it over Tim’s body, curled up like a kitten. After a while, with all the empty cans and old bandages, papers, and wrappers in a plastic bag—makeshift trash can and the heat turned on, Jason was done.
Almost.
He went back to the desk to grab a pen, paper, and that ugly, horrendous batman sticker sheet . Jason scribbled a note with handwriting that could rival a bomb threat. He peeled a Robin sticker from the pack and used it to stick the paper to Tim’s forehead.
Jason leaned back to admire his work. Quietly, he turned the lights off, closed the door behind him, and made his way back to the room next door.
But something was wrong. It had to be. Because even two hours later, while reviewing a surveillance tape on the shipment of Falcone’s new drug, Jason couldn’t shake the strange emptiness in his chest.
Hey Brat,
There are pills on the counter for the hangover.
Don’t be an idiot. Stop drinking and wandering around in Crime Alley.
Call this number if you get in trouble again.
(678) 999-8212
— RH