[Jason Todd's POV]
The door gave a soft creak as Jason stepped into his apartment, the faint smell of gunpowder and rain still clinging to his jacket. The place was quiet—too quiet—but that was how he liked it.
Tossing his keys onto the small table near the entrance, he kicked off his boots and made his way toward the bedroom, each step heavy with fatigue. He'd just come back from a twenty-four hour diner where he went to clear his head as he couldn't get any sleep—though by the time he got back, it was already morning.
The first thing that caught his eye was the full-body mirror across the room. He stopped in front of it, letting the faint orange glow of the rising sun spill across his reflection. His shirt hung open, showing streaks of dried blood and bruises blooming like ink under his skin.
He studied himself with the kind of detached calm that only came from habit. Other than the deep gash in his leg from that trap, most of the damage wasn't too bad—just some nasty bruising across his ribs and shoulders.
He'd been up against a damn machine gun at close range in a half-lit room. The fact that he wasn't in a morgue right now said a lot about his reflexes—and his armor.
Still, the impact spots where the rounds had hit his body armor throbbed like hell. His muscles ached every time he moved, and the stitched-up wound on his leg burned under the bandage. He bent down slightly, touching the edge of the wrappings, remembering how close that trap had come to snapping his bone clean through. If it hadn't been for the thick leather of his boot, he might've been limping for life.
He sighed quietly and stripped off his upper gear, tossing it aside before limping into the bathroom. The small fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed faintly as he sat on the counter's edge, unwrapping his bandaged leg. His movements were steady but tired, his eyes sharp even through the exhaustion.
He cleaned the wound and started rewrapping it with methodical precision.
His body healed faster than most—something he still wasn't sure was a blessing or a curse—but even with that edge, he knew better than to jump into another fight just yet. One wrong move, one kick or sprint, and he could tear those stitches wide open again.
As he secured the new bandage, a voice echoed in the room—low, direct, and too close for comfort. "Look at you," it said, the tone dripping with mockery. "All bitched up by Black Mask and that cock-sucker who calls himself 'Beast.'"
Jason froze. The scissor in his hand was immediately raised, his body snapping into fight mode. His eyes darted around the bathroom, searching every corner, every shadow. The air felt thicker now, pressing in. Then his gaze landed on the mirror again—and his breath hitched. His reflection was staring back at him, but it wasn't him.
The figure in the glass had jet-black hair, the streak of white gone completely. Its skin looked almost lifeless, pale with faint veins tracing beneath. Its eyes were wrong—dark pits with a faint red glow beneath. There was something feral in the smirk curling at its lips, something that didn't belong to Jason anymore.
Jason exhaled through his nose, lowering the scissor slightly, his pulse steadying. "You again," he muttered, almost sounding bored. The tone wasn't surpris—it was annoyance.
The reflection grinned wider, voice smooth and venomous. "Yes, me again." Jason's jaw tightened. The faint hum of the bathroom light filled the silence between them. He stared at the figure for a long moment—like he was trying to decide if it was real, or just another ghost clawing at the edges of his sanity.
And for a second, as the morning light crept into the room and washed across the mirror, it almost looked like the reflection was smiling first.
"You've been gone for quite some time," Jason muttered, his voice calm but edged with irritation as he continued rewrapping the bandage around his leg. "I actually thought you were gone for good."
The reflection chuckled darkly, its voice carrying that familiar blend of mockery and venom. "Try all you want to convince yourself, Jase, but you can't get rid of me.
You're nothing without me—just a weak little bitch pretending to be Gotham's new big-bad."
Jason didn't even look up this time. "Could you stop with the foul mouth? You're starting to get on my nerves." His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, his patience wearing thin.
"Oh, am I?" the reflection sneered. "You were wounded and outsmarted by Black Mask and KGBeast, of all people. How much more pathetic can you get?"
Jason's eyes flicked up briefly, a small, humorless smile tugging at his lips. "For that, I'll give KGBeast some credit. He set up a solid trap—I didn't spot it at first glance."
The reflection's smirk widened, its blackened eyes gleaming faintly under the fluorescent light. "You mean until you got caught in it."
Jason let out a slow breath, forcing down the irritation simmering in his chest. "If you've got nothing useful to say, then get the hell out of my head," he muttered, focusing on tightening the bandage around his leg. "I'd rather step on that damn trap again than sit here listening to myself get talked down to by my own reflection. Cut me some slack—for all it's worth, you're me."
The reflection let out a sharp, dismissive laugh—a cold, rasping sound that made Jason's shoulders tense. "Pffft!"
Jason raised an eyebrow, glancing at the mirror. "What was that for?" he asked, tone flat but with a flicker of annoyance. "No matter how much you deny it, you are me. End of story." His voice softened slightly, like he'd already come to accept that truth, whether he liked it or not.
The reflection tilted its head, a wicked smile curling across its pale lips. "At some point, I was," it said slowly, savoring each word. "But during those three years after the battle at Lian Yu… I became something more."
Jason's hands froze mid-motion. The bandage hung loose between his fingers as the words sank in. The reflection moved along the mirror's surface like it was pacing a room Jason couldn't see.
Its movements were smooth, ghostlike—shifting from one side to the other as if it actually had space to roam. The real Jason's reflection was gone, replaced entirely by the thing wearing his face.
"When you returned to Gotham," it continued, "I gained an identity of my own—separate from Jason Todd."
Jason forced himself to stand upright, his weight leaning on the counter. The muscles in his jaw twitched. "Who are you?" he asked, keeping his voice calm, though his tone carried a quiet warning beneath it.
The reflection laughed—a harsh, unhinged sound that filled the small bathroom and seemed to rattle in his head. "You and I may share the same body, Jase," it said, leaning close to the mirror with an almost feral grin. "But we're not the same."
Jason's gaze hardened. "That still doesn't answer my question," he shot back, irritation breaking through his composure.
"What's this so-called identity of yours?"
The reflection just smiled wider, baring its teeth like it knew something Jason didn't. It didn't answer. It didn't need to. The silence itself was a tool of he's. Jason could feel the pull—an old, familiar darkness pressing against the edges of his mind, trying to make him doubt, to make him crack.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face before muttering, "You're not real."
But deep down, the truth clawed at him—because every time he said that, the reflection seemed to smile a little wider.
Jason finally looked up, locking eyes with the thing in the mirror. His patience had worn thin, and the silence between them stretched until it became something thick. The reflection tilted its head, that unnerving smirk still plastered across its face.
"Don't worry," it said, voice slick with mock amusement. "I'm not so heartless that I'd leave you without an answer. Though, watching you rack that messed-up brain of yours does sound entertaining." It tapped a finger against its chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider the idea like a scientist toying with a lab rat.
Jason stayed quiet, refusing to give it the satisfaction. His expression was calm, jaw locked tight, though the faint pulse in his temple betrayed the irritation simmering beneath the surface.
"Damn," the reflection sighed, rolling its eyes. "You're no fun." It leaned closer to the mirror, its tone shifting to something darker, quieter, almost intimate.
"You think you've been in total control. You think you buried me in the darkest corners of your mind and left me to rot. But no, Jase. I've been here all along. Where do you think your sudden strength came from? The speed, the endurance, the near-superhuman tolerance for pain? You really think that's all you?"
Jason blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "What? I thought Ra's—" The reflection cut him off, its voice rising with sinister amusement. "You may have been kissed by Lady Death, but that doesn't make you super human. You think you know the truth, but you know nothing."
The grin that spread across its face was slow and unnerving, stretching wider until it looked almost inhuman. "You've been living in a fog, Jason. I've been the fire keeping you alive in it."
Jason's expression hardened. "For once," he said, voice low but edged with frustration, "can you just give a straight answer instead of talking like a low-budget Riddler?"
The reflection laughed softly, an eerie, broken sound that seemed to echo in the small bathroom. "Temper, temper," it teased, waving him off with an exaggerated flick of its hand. "You'll find out soon enough."
And just like that—it was gone. The dark reflection faded, and the mirror once again showed only Jason's own exhausted face staring back. The faint buzzing of the overhead light filled the silence that followed.
Jason exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. "That crappy bastard," he muttered under his breath. He leaned in closer to the mirror, studying his own tired eyes as if searching for any trace of what he'd just seen. There was nothing—no trace of darkness, no voice, no movement. Just him.
He finished wrapping the last strip of bandage around his leg and tightened it, wincing slightly at the sting. The bathroom smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron, a mix he'd grown too used to. As he stood up, he tested his weight on the injured leg. It still hurt like hell, but it would hold—for now.
His thoughts wandered back to the words of that twisted reflection. If even half of what it said was true, then something inside him—something born from before and within his missing years—was festering beneath the surface.
He shook the thought off, though the unease lingered. There were more immediate things to focus on. Black Mask would soon make his move to break Joker out of Arkham, and Jason needed to be ready—no matter what state his body was in.
As he left the bathroom and limped back toward his room, the last thing he saw in the mirror's edge was the faintest flicker—barely there, but enough to make his gut tighten.
For just a second, the reflection had smiled again.
- - -
Damian descended the long steel steps into the Batcave, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. The air was cool and heavy with the familiar scent of oil, metal, and the faint hum of machinery. The massive cavern stretched around him, bathed in soft blue lighting and shadows that reached up the jagged walls.
He had just returned from his solo patrol—a long, uneventful night spent monitoring rooftops and chasing false alarms. But when he reached the main floor, he realized something was off. The cave was silent.
Empty.
His father was nowhere in sight. He frowned, glancing toward the Batmobile's empty parking space before activating his comm.
"Father, where are you?"
Batman's voice came through a second later, low and steady as always. "Already on my way back."
Damian exhaled, a mix of relief and mild annoyance in his tone as his father seemed to be having an eventful night. Of course, he wasn't worried. His father was Batman, after all—practically untouchable.
Still, there were nights when even the Dark Knight needed someone to double-check that he hadn't been ambushed by some lunatic with a death wish. In their line of work, one moment of bad luck could turn either of them into the next casualty.
A few minutes later, the distant roar of the Batmobile echoed through the tunnel, followed by the sight of the black vehicle sliding into its berth. The canopy opened, and Batman stepped out, cape swaying lightly as he headed toward the main console.
"Where have you been all night?" Damian asked, crossing his arms as he approached, sounding more like a nagging parent than the son of Gotham's most feared vigilante.
Before Batman could reply, Nightwing appeared from behind him, removing his mask and running a hand through his messy black hair with that ever-present grin.
"Made a stop at the hospital," Batman said, his tone clipped as usual. "Had to interrogate the mayor's associates."
"Did you get anything out of them?" Damian pressed, his voice firm and analytical. "Confirmation that Red Hood was the one who attacked them?"
Batman didn't answer right away.
Nightwing, leaning casually against the console, took over. "Not even close. Those guys kept their mouths shut and pretended they didn't see a thing. Claimed everything happened too fast." He smirked slightly. "Even when Bruce here applied a little… pressure—literally, they played the victim card…literally."
Damian's eyes narrowed. He could tell his father had held back. Political officials—people with connections and power. Batman was always careful with them, always aware of the line he couldn't cross. Damian, however, had no such restraint. If it were up to him, they'd be talking within five minutes.
Before he could comment, the calm hum of the cave was shattered by a blaring alarm. Red warning lights flashed across the cave, reflecting off the polished vehicles and metal surfaces.
"What's happening?" Nightwing asked immediately, the lighthearted tone vanishing from his voice as he turned toward the massive monitor.
Batman was already typing on the console, his fingers moving with habitual precision. "Explosion reported. Midtown sector."
The main screen came to life, showing shaky footage from a nearby traffic camera. The three of them watched as a bright flash lit up the street, followed by a roaring shockwave that sent cars flipping and debris scattering across the road. Flames engulfed the scene, but what came after made even Damian's expression harden.
People—civilians—were attacking each other. Tearing at one another like animals, their movements jerky, looking scared, angry and unnatural.
Nightwing leaned forward, disbelief etched across his face. "What the hell…"
Batman switched to the police scanner, and the cave was suddenly filled with frantic noise—gunfire, screams, and the desperate voice of an officer cutting through the chaos.
"Help! I need backup now! There are—there are things down here! Hideous monsters all over!"
Damian shot a quick glance toward his father. "Monsters? In Gotham?" His tone carried more confusion than disbelief, though his hand was already moving toward his utility belt. The signal crackled again. More gunshots.
Then a sharp cry.
"Help!!"
The line went dead, leaving nothing but static. The sound filled the cave like a low, steady hum, matching the tension that now hung thick in the air.
Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl as he straightened. "There's only one criminal in Gotham with that kind of M.O.," Batman said, his voice low but certain enough to make the cave feel even colder.
"Scarecrow."
Nightwing's head snapped toward him, disbelief clear in his eyes. "Scarecrow? No way. He's locked up in Arkham."
Batman didn't look away from the screen, the chaotic footage reflecting off the white lenses of his cowl. "Then either he escaped," he replied, his tone clipped, "or someone out there is recreating his work."
On the monitor, the madness unfolding across midtown grew worse. Civilians were tearing each other apart in the streets—swinging pipes, smashing bottles, clawing at anything that moved. Others were convulsing on the ground, screaming at things that weren't there. Police officers were firing into the crowd in panic, unable to tell friend from foe.
Damian stood beside them, his face set in a frown as the glow from the screen flickered over his sharp features. "They're attacking each other," he muttered under his breath, unable to look away. "It's like they're possessed."
Batman said nothing. His jaw tightened beneath the mask before he finally stepped back from the console and turned toward one of the reinforced glass cabinets built into the stone wall. The cabinet hissed as it unlocked. Inside, neatly arranged vials of liquid shimmered under dim blue lighting.
He took several of them and tossed two toward Nightwing, who caught them effortlessly.
"What are those?" Damian asked, stepping forward. "And why am I not getting any?"
"They're antidotes," Batman said, tucking a few into his belt compartment.
"Counteragents for Scarecrow's fear toxin—assuming he hasn't altered the formula." He turned toward Damian, his tone shifting from neutral to firm. "And you're staying here. You've never fought Scarecrow before, and this situation could turn lethal fast."
Damian's brows furrowed, irritation flickering in his expression. "I can handle myself, Father."
Before Batman could respond, Nightwing spoke up, voice calm but serious. "He's right, kid. If you get hit with that toxin, I don't even want to imagine what it'd make a kid like you—do." His usual teasing tone was gone; this was pure honesty. "Stay put. You'll do more good here monitoring the situation."
Damian clenched his fists, clearly biting back the urge to argue. His pride didn't take orders easily—especially not when it came to being benched.
"But I can—" he started.
"Stay here, Damian." Batman's tone cut clean through the air, direct and absolute. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "We may need your help remotely, but until then—stand by."
The silence that followed carried Damian's quiet frustration. His eyes trailed after them as Batman gestured for Nightwing to move. The older hero gave the young Robin a reassuring look before sliding into the passenger seat of the Batmobile.
"Just when I was getting pumped up for the Titans party." Nightwing muttered, hoping they catch the culprit in time for him to make it to the party in two days time.
With a low growl of the engine, the sleek black vehicle shot forward, the roar echoing off the cave walls as it disappeared into the tunnel.
Damian stood there for a moment, his jaw tight, the glow of the console screens painting faint shadows across his face. "Experience," he muttered under his breath, glaring slightly at the spot where the Batmobile had been moments ago.
The cave was quiet again, except for the hum of the computer systems and the faint chirp of bats deeper in the dark. He exhaled sharply through his nose, turned back to the monitors, and brought up the live feed of midtown. If he was going to be benched, he'd at least make himself useful—and maybe find something his father missed.