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Gunpoint
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Blind Trigger
Jason’s boots crunch over the gravel, and his chest tightens. This new syndicate’s makeshift compound — that Tim’s been yapping at him about for weeks — sprawls before them.
After years on the job, he’s developed that weird sixth sense for these things; he hates that it’s flaring now. Hates that his instincts are louder than Tim’s neat little spreadsheets and colour-coded contingencies.
He can feel the weight of everything hidden behind those walls: illegal biotech, cyber-weaponry, black-market implants, synthetic fear-toxins, human-modification experiments, all that fun stuff. His gut twists into a fist of cold metal.
Red Robin moves ahead with quiet precision, scanning the perimeter like a machine. Every intercepted message, every shipment trace, every darknet breadcrumb leads here, and yet none of it can get him inside the syndicate’s deeper systems. Not remotely. Not yet.
Batman’s far from Gotham on some League crisis. It’s just him and Tim. No reinforcements. No plan B. Unless you count Damian at the manor miserably doing the algebra homework he’s been instructed to catch up on if he wants to be let back out onto the field anytime soon. And, of course, Dick is off swanning around in Blüdhaven.
So yeah, no backup plan.
He doesn’t fucking like this.
Or the fact that he’s the one saying so.
Jason’s fingers brush the edge of his weapon. He hates feeling exposed. He hates feeling like he’s supposed to be the cautious one when everything screams that danger is inevitable.
He watches Tim with that familiar mix of admiration and irritation. Tim radiates preparation and confidence — the kind that assumes the universe is reasonable if you plan hard enough. He speaks calmly, laying out the objectives with surgical clarity: “Destroy the lab, secure the servers, rescue any kidnapped scientists, and identify the financier.” Tim says, voice calm, eyes scanning a camera across the compound.
The irritation comes easier than the truth would. Sarcasm always does.
Jason snorts. “Oh, sure. Simple. Nothing could possibly go sideways. Right?”
Tim shoots him a look, not annoyed, just unshakable. “Hood, I’ve got contingencies for every variable we know. You’ll survive this.”
“I’m not talking about contingencies. I’m talking about the unknown, Timbers. The stuff you can’t predict. That’s the stuff that kills people.” Jason grits his teeth.
Tim crouches by a low wall, motioning for Jason to follow. “Then that’s why we stay two steps ahead. Pay attention. Move quietly. No heroics.”
As if Jason needed the reminder. As if he hadn’t already swallowed the urge to do this the loud way.
“I don’t fucking like this.”
Tim exhales, patience bleeding into irritation. “Would you stop bitching? Why are you being so weird about this? It’s not like we haven’t done this kind of thing hundreds of times already between the two of us.”
Jason shrugs, shoulders tense. “Just… not feeling this one.”
“You can’t be serious,” Tim says, brows raising.
“Hey, I’m not backing out. I just… don’t like it,” Jason says, keeping his voice low.
“Damn straight, you’re not backing out,” Tim huffs, scanning the area. “But whining isn’t helping.”
Jason mutters, barely under his breath, “This better not blow up in my face.” He doesn’t mean it as a joke. His voice tastes bitter in his own mouth, the words a shield against the nerves crawling up his spine.
He swallows. The cold metal in his gut clenches tighter. He’s supposed to trust Tim. He does trust Tim. But still… he can’t pretend every fibre of him isn’t braced for impact, for betrayal by circumstance, for something to go sideways in the very first second.
Because when he feels like this, it usually does.
Jason shifts his weight, eyes flicking over every shadow, every camera, every stray piece of debris. A faint chemical smell hits him again, stronger this time. The hair on the back of his neck rises. Somewhere inside, danger is waiting. And despite every instinct screaming back away, he moves forward.
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. But he’s ready.
The chain-link fence thins, giving way to the compound’s perimeter. Shipping containers lean at odd angles, shadows pooling between them like ink. Jason’s boots are quiet now, measured, every step deliberate. He feels the subtle vibration of machinery beneath the concrete slabs, like a pulse warning him of the life humming inside. Tim’s scanning the area, a quiet machine of focus, and Jason knows any slip could be their last.
He adjusts the strap of his weapon, letting his eyes drift over surveillance cameras and motion sensors. None of it is unusual.
Jason swallows and nods at Tim. No words are needed; the unspoken rhythm between them is enough. Tim moves forward, and Jason slides into cover, feeling the weight of the moment press into his shoulders. He lets the compound fill his senses: the faint hum of cooling systems, the smell of burnt metal from distant generators, the way the light skims across pipes and vents. Every detail matters, and his body remembers each one.
A chain rattles somewhere ahead, distant and soft, barely audible over the hum. Jason freezes, his heart picking up pace. Tim glances back, a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes, and Jason knows they’re synchronised. Every nerve in him screams that they’ve stepped into the belly of a beast. And yet, the only thing to do now is move. Forward. Quietly. Deadly.
Jason signals with a subtle tilt of his head, and Tim moves toward the side entrance they’d identified from intercepted schematics. The corridor leading to the door is narrow, flanked by stacks of crates and coils of conduit. Shadows cling to the edges, shifting with the weak light spilling from the compound’s floodlamps. Jason presses against the wall, muscles coiled, senses stretched taut. Every step echoes faintly in his skull.
The faint hum of power grows louder as they near the entrance. Pipes vibrate beneath the floor, a low, insistent thrum that makes his teeth itch. Somewhere inside, machinery stirs, and the metallic tang of ozone drifts faintly into the night air. Jason inhales it through his helmet's ventilator and tastes it on his tongue. Tim is calm, moving deliberately, but Jason can feel the pulse of adrenaline under his skin, prickling along his spine.
He checks the surroundings one last time: vents, cameras, laser grids, tripwires that might be hidden in the shadows. Everything looks quiet, almost too quiet, and that’s when his gut clenches. The compound’s silence is too loud. He lets Tim take the lead anyway. The door is just ahead.
A soft click from inside the panel confirms what Jason already knows: Tim is at work. He’s never seen anyone move so fluidly over a keypad — except Bruce, but that goes without saying — fingers dancing like instinct. Jason shifts, ready, checking every angle, every shadow, every vent. The door slides open with a quiet hiss, and the corridor beyond is revealed, dimly lit, humming with life. Jason steps in first, scanning, rolling his shoulders, ready for the moment they cross fully from observation into action.
Tim disables the locks with clean, elegant efficiency, fingers dancing over the keypad like it’s second nature. The faint clicks echo softly in the corridor, each one a heartbeat of progress, deliberate and measured. Jason’s eyes never stop moving, scanning every shadow, every doorway, every potential threat. Annoyance simmers under his skin — he doesn’t like feeling like the junior partner, the bodyguard, the one always “covering.” He tells himself it’s tactical. He doesn’t believe it.
But he keeps it buried. Acting out now would be stupid. They’re in. There’s no turning back.
The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, walls lined with conduit and pipes that rattle faintly with the building’s mechanical heartbeat. Somewhere, an air vent hisses, sending a thin shiver of cold through the space. The hum of hidden machinery grows louder, a low, oppressive drone that makes Jason’s skin itch. He glances to the side as a flicker of movement catches the corner of his eye — a lone guard, pacing, too absorbed in a tablet to notice them yet. Jason signals, and Tim freezes, sliding into shadow behind a column.
They split for a moment, timing their movements carefully. Jason edges along one side of the corridor while Tim takes the opposite, both of them inching like predators, breath slow, senses on fire. The guard passes between them, oblivious, and Jason counts the seconds until he’s safely gone. Only then do they converge again, meeting silently at the far end.
Tim’s voice comes quietly through the comms, clipped, precise, calm. “Left corridor clear. Moving to the server wing.”
Jason grunts, his voice rough and perhaps vaguely protective. “Got it. Watch your back. I’m gonna be pissed if anyone sneaks up on you.”
He hates how sharp it comes out. Like anger instead of worry.
No response — Tim doesn’t need to answer. Jason knows he heard him. He keeps his steps silent, rolling his shoulders, tightening his grip on the edge of his weapon.
Every creak, every flicker of shadow makes his pulse spike, but he forces himself to remain calm, patient, ready.
This is why he doesn’t like teaming up with his family. If he were with Roy, with anyone else, there would be no need to rely on stealth so heavily. Not that he can’t be stealthy, he was Robin once, he knows the value of stealth better than most, but in recent years he’s become much, much fonder of the all guns blazing method.
There’s pressure here.
It feels distinctly like he’s expected to be on his best behaviour.
The corridor opens into a wider room, and Jason notices the subtle shift in the air: ozone, sharper now, electric and biting; the low hum of power layering over the generators’ distant drone. He can almost taste the energy, metallic and alive. Tim presses forward, pushing open the door to rows of servers, light from their panels reflecting across his face.
Then Jason hears it before he sees it: a faint click. Almost imperceptible, but his instincts scream at him.
Something powers up. Hidden. Silent. Undetected. Tim didn’t see it. The hairs along Jason’s neck rise, and his stomach twists. Every nerve in his body screams that they’ve just triggered something that’s about to make this whole mission a hell of a lot more annoying.
He’d known it. That familiar, irritating certainty settles in his chest.
Tim reacts instantly, voice crisp over the comms. “I’m staying. I need to dump as much data as possible. Cover the corridor. Go.”
Jason grits his teeth, irritation flaring, but he obeys. Splitting up feels wrong. Feels dangerous. Every instinct in him screams Don’t leave him. But he doesn’t hesitate.
He moves out, steps sharp and controlled, eyes flicking to every shadow, every vent, every reflective surface. Pipes shake faintly above, a reminder that this building is alive and ready to crush them if they slip. The hum of servers behind him grows louder, pulsing like a warning drum.
He hates being separated from Tim in here. Hates the vulnerability that crawls under his skin. Hates that his gut is screaming, something’s about to go wrong. But he keeps moving, steady, precise. Ready for whatever comes next.
Jason keys his comm once, hard enough that it clicks louder than necessary. “Don’t get comfortable,” he mutters, not sure if Tim hears it or not.
He hates this part— the trusting part. Hates being told to go while someone else stays behind to be clever. Hates that Tim always sounds so sure when he does it. Jason shoves the annoyance down and lets it sharpen instead, something hot and focused under his ribs. Fine. If Tim wants data, Jason will buy him time, the only way he knows how.
He rounds the corner, already braced.
Jason barely has time to register the movement before irritation snaps tight under his ribs.
Of course.
Two guards break from cover ahead of him—late, sloppy, loud. Not an ambush so much as a challenge. Jason exhales through his nose, grip tightening on instinct more than alarm.
Fine.
Jason pivots on his heel, elbows snapping into ribs, knees driving into knees, feet sweeping out the legs of one before the other can react. He moves like water, precise and controlled, each strike a conversation: They won’t be getting to Tim anytime soon, not if he can help it.
But then it shifts. The next wave hits differently — coordinated, almost rehearsed. Guards flank him, one trying to loop behind while another drives a baton toward his midsection. Jason spins, twisting just enough to let the baton glance off his shoulder, then rakes a thumb across the man’s eyes, forcing a stumble back. He’s still moving, still calculating — every block, every strike is aimed to hold them off without getting pulled away from the corridor leading to Tim.
He grabs one guard, shoulder-checks him into a railing, using the man as a living shield to block a second attacker’s swing. The first guard tries to recover, but Jason’s knee cracks into his thigh, forcing him down again. His breath comes sharp, precise — a metronome of violence. Under the helmet, he finds himself grinning. The rush of this never gets old.
It’s fun for a whole of ten seconds.
Another guard bursts from a side door, and Jason pivots, ducking under a swing, catching the man’s wrist, twisting it violently, letting the baton clatter to the floor. “Back the fuck off!” he growls under his breath, voice harsh, teeth clenched. Every shout, every movement is a distraction, drawing attention away from the server room. He can feel Tim inside, working fast, oblivious to the chaos, relying on him to keep the path clear.
Then something sharp presses against his neck, cold and sudden.
A jab.
He really needs to do something about that bare slither of skin between his helmet and his armoured shirt. It’s gonna get him into trouble someday.
He tastes metal, feels the sting, the burn, the chemical sliding in, and suddenly the world tilts. His vision swirls, edges blurring, but he fights to stay upright, fists clenching, sending punches that connect just enough to keep the guards on him.
Hands clamp over his arms and legs. The restraints lock with brutal efficiency. He struggles, claws at them, but it’s no use. The world tilts, tilts again, and a haze settles over his senses.
For fucks sake, Tim.
He knew this was a bad idea. He fucking knew it.
He spins another attacker into a wall, twisting his wrist to force a grunt, ducking under a kick aimed at his head, and shoving the man into the corner. “Not today,” Jason hisses, moving with the last vestiges of control as the toxin begins to cloud his reflexes. He feels his muscles stiffen, coordination slipping, but he forces himself to stay at the centre of the fight. Keep them on you. Keep them away from him.
Hands clamp over his arms and legs. Restraints snap into place with brutal efficiency. Jason fights, claws, wriggles, rolls — a flurry of limbs, of fists — but it’s no use. The haze of the chemical steals his balance, his vision stutters, colours bleeding into one another.
Through the fog, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye: figures breaching the server room. His stomach clenches. Panic spikes. His eyes widen. Tim… Tim’s server room.
And it’s empty.
Relief crashes over him like ice before the darkness swallows everything. Tim’s gone. Tim made it out.
Then everything tilts again. Darkness presses in from the edges, swallowing sound, swallowing motion, until there’s nothing.
Jason blacks out.
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Crossfire
Jason wakes in a cold, reinforced room.
The walls are thick concrete, slick with condensation, sterile and unwelcoming, pressing in on him as if the building itself were alive, intent on containment. It’s a weirdly tall room with an overhang, which could be a problem. He doesn’t see them, but he knows a vantage point when he sees one. He’s being watched, and at any given time, he’ll be about two seconds away from having a gun pointed at his head.
Fucking great.
The faint hum of the ventilation scratches across his ears, a low, metallic whisper that sets his teeth on edge. His head throbs in uneven pulses, a hammer of pain that makes the edges of the room blur, and every shallow breath tastes faintly of metal. Somewhere close, metal clinks, a chain sliding over a ring, the sharp click of locks, the weight of control he can’t yet see.
He distantly registers that he’s still wearing his helmet, which comes as no surprise; he ensured it was a fucking bastard to remove if anyone other than him tried to pry it off.
Shouting pierces through the fog in his skull. Voices, urgent, angry, muffled through walls he can’t identify. The cadence of panic and command twists his gut tighter, a coil of adrenaline and confusion fighting to rise. He tries to focus, to scan the room, but the haze clouds everything. Every shadow seems like a threat; every creak of the building a predator in waiting.
He has no idea how long he’s been out. That’s never a good thing.
Then the door slams open.
Red Robin is dragged in, limp, struggling, but clearly outmatched.
Jason’s stomach drops, cold and heavy. His chest tightens further. He wants to move, to fight, but his limbs still feel like lead; he’s betrayed by his own body. Still, he drags himself to his feet and realises then that not only is he cuffed but they’ve chained a damn leg to the wall. Where the hell do they think he’s gonna go in a room locked from the outside?
His first instinct is to call out, but he bites it down. In these situations, it’s never good to draw attention to any loyalty there may be between captives too early. Not until they’ve fully assessed the situation.
He watches, expression safely hidden behind his helmet, as Red Robin is deposited roughly in the opposite corner of the room, the guards shoving him down with enough force that his head slams against the concrete walls, pulling a pained grunt from his lips.
Bit unnecessary in Jason’s opinion.
Before he can even make a move to reach him, a presence fills the room. Calm. Calculated. Shark-like. This specific syndicate’s leader steps in, eyes assessing, every movement precise.
He’s just some guy. An annoyingly smug-looking guy.
His gaze sweeps over Jason and Tim. He tilts his head ever so slightly, the faintest smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, clearly amused by the spectacle. Jason dreads the moment he opens his mouth, not because he’s threatened — nah, fuck that — but because he’s so fucking done with wannabe mob-bosses.
“Well, what a funny coincidence,” the man says, voice smooth, honeyed but edged with threat that Jason isn’t inclined to take seriously. “Red Hood and Red Robin, both infiltrating my headquarters… on the same night.”
Okay, yeah. This might get messy.
Jason’s gut twists uncomfortably. And he remembers with a groan that he only just manages to repress: the Bats like to keep their association with him quiet. The criminal world doesn’t need to know he’s — mostly — working with them again. That secrecy had been a weapon, a shield, but now… that secrecy might be a liability.
He swallows, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the syndicate leader. Every instinct screams danger, every nerve screaming that one wrong move here could end more than just the mission.
The room smells faintly of disinfectant and sweat, metallic, sharp, a mix of fear and cold machinery. It’s not comforting to know they’ve clearly had someone in here before them. Someone who is no longer here.
The faint echo of Tim’s ragged breathing punctuates the silence, a rhythm Jason instinctively aligns with, each inhale a reminder of what’s at stake. He shifts subtly, testing his weight on his limbs, feeling the slow return of controlled motion, preparing for the moment when instinct must overtake calculation.
Jason’s eyes narrow, the metallic haze of the room sharpening into clarity. Every second stretches, tense and taut, as he waits, coiled like a spring, every fibre of his being screaming one undeniable truth: survival — and protection of Tim — depends on what happens next.
Before Jason can even speak, Tim jumps in, moving fast, words clipped, precise — damage control in motion.
“We’re not together,” he says, voice flat and firm. Almost insulted, even.
No hesitation. Like he’s answering a question that’s already been asked and settled. His tone is professional, almost bored, the way you talk about a variable you’ve already accounted for.
“I would never work with the Red Hood.”
Jason feels a flicker of irritation but keeps it in check. Tim’s voice doesn’t waver. It’s like watching a surgeon operate, precise and sharp. The helmet gives him cover to let the words land without reaction. Tim isn’t improvising wildly. He’s laying track.
The leader guy’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Is that so?”
Tim doesn’t look at Jason. Not once.
“He’s a killer,” Tim says, sharper now, each syllable deliberate. “Leaves corpses behind him. He doesn’t plan past the end of the gun barrel.” A beat. “Supposedly, he’s a vigilante but I don’t buy it.”
Jason’s jaw tightens, but he lets it ride. He recognises the strategy immediately. Tim is constructing a plausible narrative, a story that will keep the Syndicate from discovering the truth of their partnership. The description is calculated: not inaccurate enough to raise suspicion, not flattering enough to suggest loyalty.
He’s creating a buffer, a wall between Jason and the syndicate head’s perception.
Jason lets it stand.
“I work alone,” Tim continues, voice steady, analytical. “I’ve been tracking your Syndicate’s logistics for three weeks. Shell companies. Shipping routes. Your safehouses.” He finally lifts his gaze to the man in the suit. “Tonight wasn’t a partnership. It was an overlap.”
The leader’s eyes sharpen, interest piqued.
“Overlap,” he repeats.
“Hood was already sniffing around,” Tim says smoothly. “I followed him. Figured wherever he was pointing his guns, there’d be something worth stealing— or stopping.” A faint shrug. “Turns out, I was right.”
Jason feels a strange mix of relief and admiration. Relief that Tim is handling this, spinning the story fast enough to shield them both. Admiration because Tim’s mind works in ways the rest of them can barely match at times.
The suited man doesn’t answer Tim right away.
Instead, he turns fully toward Jason.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, sharp and predatory, studying Red Hood. He’s intrigued. A man deciding which nerve to press.
“Then I’ll ask him,” the syndicate head says mildly. “If you’re not connected to Red Robin… why are you here?”
The room stills.
Jason feels Tim go quiet across from him— not tense, not panicked. Listening. Ready to adjust, but deliberately not stepping in. This part has to come from Jason.
Jason tilts his head just enough to acknowledge the question. The helmet hides everything else.
“Business,” he says.
His voice is rough through the modulator, stripped down to something blunt and impersonal. No bravado. No threats.
The smug bastard raises a brow. “That’s vague.”
Jason shrugs, slow and careless. “So is your operation. I followed the noise.”
A few of the syndicate men stiffen at that. The bastard only smiles, amused. “You break into my compound because you’re curious?”
“No,” Hood says. “Because you’re expanding.”
The smile sharpens.
Tim must feel it then— the subtle shift. Jason isn’t just playing dumb muscle. He’s baiting. Showing just enough intelligence to be interesting without sounding informed enough to be dangerous.
Jason continues, tone steady. “New routes. New suppliers. Different security patterns.” A pause. “People don’t make moves like that unless they’re either desperate… or ambitious.”
The syndicate head studies him anew.
“And which do you think I am?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He lets the silence stretch, lets the men in the room feel it. “Ambitious,” he says finally. “Desperate people rush. You didn’t.”
Across the room, he sees Tim’s stillness, the kind that’s too steady, that means he’s repressing his own physical reaction. He guesses, maybe that was clean. Too clean. It sounded distinctly like it was the sort of discussion Red Hood has had in the past. That would be true. Jason is threading the needle.
The man in the suit chuckles softly. “You’re better spoken than I expected.”
Hood gives another small shrug. “I get that a lot.”
He circles him now, slow footsteps echoing against concrete.
“So,” he says, “you’re not here with Red Robin. You’re not here for justice.” A pause behind Jason’s shoulder. “And you’re not here to dismantle my operation— because if you were, bodies would already be on the floor.”
Jason stays still. He lets him walk. He lets him think. “I’m here to see if you’re worth dealing with,” he says.
That earns a few sharp inhales around the room.
Tim finally speaks— not to interrupt, but to underline the divide.
“And that,” he says coolly, “is exactly why I don’t work with him.”
The syndicate head stops. He looks between them. Two vigilantes. Same city. Same night. Completely different philosophies on display. And what follows is a slow, thoughtful nod.
“I see,” he murmurs. Then, to Hood: “And if I am worth dealing with?”
Jason turns his head just enough for the red lenses to catch the light.
“Then we talk terms,” he says. “If you’re not—” He waits a beat, for dramatic effect. He had to have taken something away from his years with Batman. “—I walk away. Or I don’t.”
The smug bastard laughs quietly at that. Not mockery. But appreciation. “Very well,” he says. “Then let’s say I’m interested.”
His gaze flicks to Red Robin— dismissive now, evaluating him as an obstacle rather than a threat. “And you,” he adds, “can wait.”
Tim inclines his head, expression cool and controlled.
Jason doesn’t move. But behind the helmet, his jaw tightens.
The lie has bought them space.
“He might still be salvageable,” the syndicate head says to his men, voice smooth, calculating, like he’s weighing a rare piece of prey.
Jason’s gut twists. Salvageable? That’s not a promise. That’s a warning. Every instinct screams that the moment this narrative slips, they’re dead— or worse.
The syndicate head makes a small, idle gesture with two fingers.
The cuffs around Jason’s wrists unlock with a sharp metallic click.
They don’t detach him from the wall.
Jason doesn’t miss that detail.
Freedom for the arms. No freedom for the body. Enough range of motion to hurt someone. Not enough to go anywhere afterwards.
This feels uncomfortably like karmic balance. He doesn’t like finding himself in this scenario with Tim of all people. The universe didn’t pick Tim at random. Jason knows that the same way he knows the weight of his own hands.
This is a test.
He rolls his shoulders once, subtly, recalibrating. Chains still anchored behind him. Concrete wall cold against his back. Two guards to his left, one to his right — submachine guns, safeties off. Another by the door with a shotgun. Elevated position on the catwalk above — at least two rifles, judging by the silhouettes.
Six in the room. Seven, if you count their weird leader guy.
Jason catalogues his losses automatically.
No pistols. No knives. No backup blades in his boots— they were thorough. No grapple. No smoke pellets. Even the spare mags are gone.
Just his hands. His weight. His training.
And Tim.
The weirdo in the suit smiles, thin and predatory. He’s venom shaped like a man.
“You wouldn’t mind doing me a favour, would you, Hood?” he says lightly, as if asking for a cigarette, which Jason wouldn’t give him anyway. “If you’re not working together, it won’t bother you to deal with Red here.”
Jason’s spine locks.
His voice, when he speaks, is steady— but careful.
“Depends on what you mean by deal with.”
The bastard chuckles. “Always negotiating.”
Jason tilts his head, just slightly. “You said you were interested. Figured that went both ways.”
A beat.
The bastard steps closer, hands clasped behind his back, clearly enjoying the tension.
“Since you’re already here,” he continues, “and I do need to verify both your claims.” He sighs theatrically. “Can’t just take your word for it, you see.”
Jason’s gaze flicks — brief and unreadable under the helmet— toward Tim. Then back.
“And,” the bastard adds pleasantly, “you might as well save my men the trouble of roughing him up. Before the first round of interrogation.”
There it is.
Jason feels it land like a punch to the sternum.
Cold dread crawls up his spine, roots itself at the base of his skull. His pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the lights.
This isn’t about information.
It’s about proof.
About forcing Jason to choose them— or nothing.
He turns his head, just enough to look at Tim.
For half a second, his brain runs exit routes on reflex. Disarm the left guard, swing into the right, use the chain as a weapon, get Tim moving—
No.
Too many guns. Too little room. Too much attention.
They wouldn’t make it five steps.
Tim meets his eyes.
Not pleading. Not apologetic.
The smallest, sharpest nod.
Do it.
It’s not permission. It’s acceptance.
Jason’s breath stutters in his chest.
Tim isn’t telling him it’s okay.
He’s telling him they’re out of options.
That this is the least bad version of what’s about to happen, and that Tim knows exactly what it will cost Jason to do it.
Rage flares hot under his ribs — at the Syndicate, at the leader’s smile, at the sick elegance of the trap. At the way it always comes down to hurting someone you care about so they don’t get hurt worse.
He forces it down. Forces himself to think like the man they want him to be.
He looks back at the syndicate head and lets his voice roughen just enough.
“You want a show,” he says. “Fine.” A pause. “But you don’t get to tell me how.”
The bastard’s smile widens. “Of course not,” he says. “Impress me.”
Jason steps forward.
Slow. Measured. No hesitation.
Every muscle in his body coils tight, hands flexing as sensation floods back into his wrists. He keeps his posture loose, predatory, and especially not reluctant. The kind of stance men like this recognise.
Tim stays perfectly still.
Trusting him completely.
Pretending to do the opposite.
His fists clench until his gloves creak.
He hates this.
Tim is bruised already. One eye darkening under the domino, split lip crusted with drying blood. His suit is scuffed, one sleeve torn where they dragged him. He looks exactly like someone who’s already fought and lost once tonight.
Jason stops an arm’s length away.
Close enough to smell copper. Close enough to hear Tim’s breathing, steady, controlled, and a fraction too shallow.
He watches as Red Robin slowly eases himself off the floor, not making any sudden movements.
“You got a real bad habit, Robin,” he says loudly, for the room. “Following people who don’t want you around.”
Tim lifts his chin, defiant even now. “Funny,” he shoots back, voice hoarse but sharp, “I was about to say the same thing.”
A couple of the guards chuckle.
Jason lets his lip curl. “You always this stupid, or did the bats teach you that?”
Tim shifts his stance— subtle, defensive, but ready. “You’re the one who walked into a Syndicate compound alone.”
“Wasn’t alone,” Jason snaps. “Till you tailed me.”
That one’s for the leader.
He steps in.
Jason swings.
Not full force. Never full force. But enough to snap Tim’s head to the side and draw a sharp hiss from between his teeth.
There was a time when he didn’t know how to stop.
There was a time when pulling a punch never even occurred to him.
That’s the version of himself he’s fighting now.
Tim stumbles, cuffs clanking as his balance goes. His hands are pinned together in front of him, metal biting into his wrists as he catches himself with his shoulder instead of his palms.
Jason steps in immediately, crowding him.
He’s been here before. Worse rooms. Worse circumstances. He doesn’t want to be here again — and yet the give of Tim’s body under his fists is painfully familiar. Too familiar. His hands remember this with sick precision. He wishes they didn’t. He wishes that after all this time, he could forget what inflicting pain on Tim feels like. Wishes that the memory of the Pit, of losing himself entirely, could be erased.
But it hasn’t.
The physicality hasn’t changed. Only the cost.
Tim commits fully to the performance — flinching, staggering, blood streaking from the shallow cut on his lip. Jason forces himself to watch closely. He needs to know Tim can take this. Needs to know where the line is, because if he crosses it, there’s no undoing it.
Tim moves like he always has: fluid, calculated. Predator pretending to be prey. His eyes flash with that razor-sharp Robin focus, scanning Jason’s stance, the Syndicate guards, the room itself — selling the lie with every breath.
How did this go so fucking wrong?
Jason shoves him.
Tim slams into the wall, breath knocked loose. He reacts on instinct, driving a knee up toward Jason’s thigh. It lands, weak but sharp, more defiance than damage.
A couple of the Syndicate men snort.
Jason sneers behind the helmet. “That it?” He grabs Tim by the front of his suit and yanks him upright. “You bats really are letting yourselves go.”
Tim twists, using the motion to ram his shoulder into Jason’s chest. It barely budges him, but it sells the struggle. Tim follows it with a headbutt — clumsy, off-balance, the cuffs throwing his timing off. The impact glances off Jason’s helmet with a hollow crack.
Jason staggers half a step despite himself.
“What the fuck was that?” Jason says, voice rough with fake contempt. “You’re not stupid enough to think your skull is thicker than the helmet.”
He hits Tim again, a body shot, pulled just enough. Tim folds forward, breath hitching, the chain between his cuffs rattling as he curls around the blow.
Jason hates how familiar the shape of it is.
Tim straightens anyway, always does.
“You always did think,” Tim pants, “that the helmet made you scarier than you actually are.”
Jason laughs— short and ugly through his helmet's modulator. “Worked on you.”
He swings again. Tim tries to slip it, but the cuffs slow him. The punch clips his shoulder instead of his head, driving him sideways. Tim stumbles, catches himself on the wall with his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood behind.
Jason closes in.
“You followed me,” Jason snaps. “You blew my cover.”
Tim jerks his head up. “You were already compromised.”
Jason slams him into the wall.
“You talk too much.”
Tim grits his teeth, then lashes out with a kick— low, awkward, aimed at Jason’s knee. It barely connects, but it’s something. Proof he isn’t just taking it.
Jason grabs him again, hauling him forward.
“You think you’re smarter than everyone else,” Jason says.
“And you,” Tim shoots back, breathless but sharp, “always think that means you’re right.”
Jason hesitates.
Just a fraction.
The helmet hides it, but the room feels it anyway. One of the thugs notices and mutters that “He’s holding back.”
Tim hears it too.
Jason sees it the moment Tim does.
The calculation. The pivot.
And Tim — ever the analytical little genius — must recognise the danger in that noticeable hesitation immediately. Before Jason can think to consciously land a harder blow, Tim is leaning into Jason’s line of sight, deliberately closing the distance, cuffs clinking as he leans into Jason’s space.
“What’s wrong?” Tim taunts, loud and cutting. “You lose the edge—”
He snaps his head forward.
The impact cracks loud and hollow, skull against reinforced plating. The jolt rattles through Jason’s teeth, flashes white behind his eyes. Pain blooms at the base of his neck, sharp and nauseating, and for a split second the world tilts.
Tim doesn’t stop.
Another reckless headbutt clips the helmet, harder this time. Tim knows exactly what he’s doing. He isn’t flailing—he’s escalating, turning himself into something Jason can justify hitting harder.
Because hesitation is louder than violence in a room like this.
“—or did you leave it in another pit?”
Jason freezes for the briefest moment.
The words don’t land in his ears. They land in his chest—between ribs, deep and bruised—right where the Pit still lives in muscle memory and scar tissue. Where breath once failed and never came back.
That’s off-limits.
They don’t talk about it.
And yet, here it is, thrown in his face.
Tim knows exactly what he just did. That’s the worst part. He didn’t say it by accident. He said it because it would work— because it does.
It fucking stings.
He grits his teeth. His fists tighten. He moves faster.
The blows come quicker now—shorter, uglier. Less measured. Tim staggers under them, twisting instinctively to take impact on muscle instead of bone, breath tearing loose in wet, broken gasps. Jason watches too closely, panic threading through his control: counting breaths, tracking weight shifts, noting the way Tim’s knees tremble but don’t buckle. Not yet.
Tim leans in close, just enough to whisper, voice raw but steady.
“Every time you look at me,” he murmurs, “you’re remembering what you did. That’s why you’re holding back.” A breath. “Don’t.”
Don’t hold back.
Don’t protect me.
Don’t make me the reason you fail this test.
Jason understands every word that isn’t said, and hates that it makes sense.
The words burn.
Jason lashes out harder — not deliberately, not consciously — but the next blow is real. It lands with a dull, sickening thud that he feels all the way up his arm. Tim stumbles, recovers with a controlled half-fall that’s part act, part necessity, shoulder clipping the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
He tilts his head, eyes flicking up at Jason, low and cutting.
“Face it,” Tim says quietly. “You’re not afraid of hurting me.” A pause. “You’re afraid I’ll prove you haven’t changed at all.”
Rage spikes, hot and roaring, burning up his throat.
Jason strikes again. This one connects too true.
He knows what Tim’s doing. He’s trying to make this easier for Jason. And it’s insane because it’s working. Tim knows Jason’s buttons because he’s had to learn how not to push them. To push them now is—
Tim coughs, bracing himself against the wall, breath tearing in and out of his chest. Jason’s mind flashes with memory — hands shaking, blood everywhere, Tim small and broken under him in another place, another life. Every time he’s almost broken himself on Tim. Every time he lost control. Every time, he wondered if his family could ever forgive him for what he’s capable of.
You promised yourself you’d never be that again.
Jason’s chest heaves.
Tim straightens slowly, shaking now, pain bleeding through the act, but his eyes are still sharp.
He raises his voice for the room.
“Come on, Hood,” he calls. “This is what you’re good for, right?” He spits blood. “You’re a murderer.”
The word hits harder than any punch.
Jason has been trying — trying — to be more than that. To be better. To be someone his family can stand next to without flinching. And hearing it from Tim — from his little brother — cracks something open in his chest.
What if they haven’t moved past it? What if Tim hasn’t?
The doubt digs in deep.
He’s built his life on the idea that what he did doesn’t define him anymore.
That it isn’t all he is.
He knows Tim’s saying this on purpose. Knows it’s meant to get to him. He knows that surely Tim doesn’t mean any of this. But—
He thought he was past this.
Now he’s not sure if that belief was ever mutual.
Rage coils tighter in Jason’s chest.
His next swing slows, hesitation creeping in again.
Tim leans close, just enough to murmur, breath hot and uneven.
“Keep pulling your punches,” he whispers. Then, softer. Meaner. “They all see it. Why can’t you ever fucking commit to anything?”
That’s not fair. That’s really not fucking fair.
Jason’s hands hesitate because they remember. They remember bone giving way. The sound it made. The way Tim stopped fighting once, long ago, in a different room with worse walls.
He’s not afraid of hurting Tim.
He’s afraid of proving that the only thing he’s ever been good at is stopping when it’s already too late.
“That’s why,” Tim adds softly, viciously, “no one in the family ever calls you first.”
Jason knows Tim doesn’t mean it.
That doesn’t stop it from hurting.
Tim wanted him angry.
He didn’t want him gone.
Something snaps.
Jason swings hard.
Too hard.
Tim goes down to one knee, coughing, fighting for air. He forces himself back up, shaking but upright, because that’s what sells it.
Jason is on him again before he even registers moving.
He slams Tim to the floor, pinning him, fists driving down. Tim’s head knocks back against the concrete with a sharp crack. The room blurs at the edges of Jason’s vision.
Rage and horror collide.
Jason’s hands snap around Tim’s throat.
His thumbs dig in, finding soft give under the suit, pulse fluttering wildly against his palms. Tim’s breath cuts off with a sharp, ugly sound. His cuffs scrape uselessly against Jason’s forearms as he jerks, boots skidding on concrete.
Jason doesn’t hear the room anymore.
The world narrows to pressure and heat and the sickening familiarity of it— how easily it fits, how right it feels in the worst possible way. The Pit roars back to life in his veins, screaming finish it, screaming this is what you’re good at.
Tim’s eyes go wide— not with panic.
With calculation.
Jason tightens without meaning to.
That’s the moment. That’s the line.
Another half-second and Tim would black out. Another second and something in Jason never comes back.
His grip locks.
His arms tremble, not from doubt, but from restraint, fighting instinct at full force. Every muscle in his body is screaming to complete the motion, to end the noise, to make the room go quiet forever.
Tim’s chest spasms. No air. His vision starts to glaze at the edges—
“J—” The sound dies in his throat. He swallows hard, coughing once, wet and broken. “…Jason,” he forces out so quietly no one else hears, barely breathing at all.
Jason doesn’t hear his name.
Tim’s lips part again. Nothing comes. His throat works desperately, a reflex with no oxygen behind it.
Then— soft. Shredded. Exactly where it will hurt.
“Hh—” A failed inhale. “Bet— you—” He chokes, the words collapsing in on themselves. “…wish—”
Another convulsive gasp that doesn’t fill his lungs.
“—you had— something—” A pause too long. Darkness pressing in. “…other than— your hands— for this.”
The room swims.
Then, quieter. Slower. Each syllable dragged out of him like it costs blood.
“I d-don’t— know…” A rasp. Almost nothing. “M-maybe—” His throat spasms, sound cracking apart. “…maybe— something—”
A last, brutal effort. The knife goes in. “…like— a crow—bar?”
His world tilts.
The Pit screams.
The words slam into him like a crowbar between the ribs. Memory floods in — too fast, too vivid — the warehouse, the laughter, the sound of bone giving way, the way he didn’t stop.
His hands convulse.
For a heartbeat — just one — he doesn’t know if he can let go.
That’s the hair. That’s how close it is.
Then something inside him breaks the right way instead of the wrong one.
Jason gasps like he’s the one drowning and wrenches his hands back, stumbling away hard enough to nearly fall. Tim collapses to the floor, coughing violently, sucking in air in ragged, burning pulls, shoulders shaking.
Jason stares at his own hands.
They’re still curved like they’re holding a throat.
A guard yanks him backwards.
Jason reacts on instinct— too late, too hard. He explodes into motion, fury and terror and self-disgust, tearing loose at once. Fists fly. Bone cracks. Someone goes down screaming. Weapons come up. The room erupts.
Through the chaos, the syndicate head watches, perfectly still.
“Good,” he says calmly, almost pleased. “Not partners. That’s clear.”
Jason’s chest heaves, every heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He finds Tim through the chaos: bruised, bleeding, shaking, but conscious. Their eyes lock through the helmet and mask. Why would he say that? Of all the things, why would he say that?
Tim gives him a small, precise nod.
It had to be done.
Jason swallows hard. Rage and adrenaline still thrum through him, but underneath it all, guilt and horror coil like a living thing.
He almost lost himself.
Again.
Tim had pushed him to lose himself, again.
Suddenly, a different kind of rage is burning through his veins because how fucking stupid—
The room is loud. The fight is real. And the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity is the knowledge that Tim is there, and he’s hurt, but he’s conscious and staring at Jason with an intensity he can’t understand right now. Tim made a call for both of them, and they’ll get through this — even if it means Jason had to put his hands on Tim again. Even if it means shattering Jason in the process.
“You’ll forgive me for not letting you finish the job. I can see how much you wanted to—” He can’t stop the flinch that wracks through him, “---I do, in fact, need him conscious in some capacity for my men to interrogate him.”
Jason doesn’t answer.
Behind the red helmet, he’s barely holding himself together, and the only thing keeping him upright is the knowledge that Tim is still breathing, still watching, still in this with him.
•·················•·················•
Misfire
This motherfucker gestures for Jason to follow.One slow, deliberate wave of his hand, like Jason’s a dog being called to heel, and Jason knows there’s no choice. Every instinct screams don’t.
They leave Tim behind, standing in the corner of the reinforced room, restrained, gaze sharp but tense, calculating. Jason can’t see the exact expression over the distance— and he doesn’t try to. He knows. Tim is alive. For now.
Jason latches onto the thought like a lifeline. Alive. I didn’t kill him. He doesn’t let himself think any further than that.
Adrenaline hammers through him like a drum — bright and sickening, his stomach twisting into knots. It’s electric, sickening, stomach-twisting into knots, and it doesn’t subside. Every step toward the bastard in the suit feels heavier than the last. The reinforced walls echo faintly with the sound of their movement, metal scraping, breath shallow, heartbeat loud enough to feel it in his throat.
He notices the cold of the room creeping into his fingers, seeping through the gloves, wrapping his knuckles in icy tension. Every nerve is taut, straining, like he’s about to snap in half.
His mind races despite the weight in his chest. Wrong. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of trap that kills people.
But he moves. He obeys. Fists clenched, muscles coiled, eyes flicking to every shadow, every flicker of motion. The syndicate head’s calm, measured stride pulls him forward like a predator dragging its prey — and Jason lets it happen.
Jason’s stomach churns, adrenaline humming and sickening, every step a reminder that leaving Tim behind is a risk he hates taking— and one he can’t avoid. Panic claws at his chest, screaming at him to turn, to fight, to pull Tim out of this.
Because this is the only way he gets back to Tim.
The overseer’s office is a stark contrast to the rest of the compound. Clean lines, cold lighting, every surface reinforced, every panel humming with embedded tech. The walls gleam with polished steel; cables and conduits snake like veins beneath translucent panels. It feels like the heart of a machine, and Jason can feel it thrumming under his skin, low and insistent, a vibration that sets his teeth on edge.
Jason registers it all without quite feeling present in it, like he’s watching through thick glass.
Two guards shove him into a chair across from the syndicate head’s sleek metal desk. Jason lands with a muted clink, stiffly upright, every muscle coiled.
The chair is solid under him. Too solid. His hands still remember pressure they shouldn’t.
A wall-sized display flickers to life behind the desk, glowing with shifting diagrams — DNA helices twisting like animated snakes, anatomical overlays pulsing, toxin simulations running across screens in delicate, horrifying detail. Jason doesn’t understand half of it. The rest presses in too close, blurring together. He lets it.
Weaponry, in any form, always sends a signal straight to the gut. And his gut is screaming.
The suited-bastard takes his time, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, studying Red Hood like a scientist inspecting a volatile sample. Every twitch, every microexpression noted. Then, finally, he begins, voice smooth and eerily reverent.
“Marrow is the future,” he says, letting the words hang. “Not an enhancement. A reconstruction.”
Jason slouches in the chair, arms crossed, feigning boredom. Inside, everything is too loud. The screens. The hum. The way his hands still remember Tim’s throat. He’s itching to understand what Tim risked everything to stop. He can feel the pulse of danger in the room, sharp and tangible.
The smug motherfucker opposite him gestures, slow and deliberate. An assistant slides a reinforced case forward and unlocks it. Inside, vials of pale, swirling fluid glimmer, almost alive, suspended in a ghostly shimmer. Jason’s stomach knots instinctively. Logic has nothing to do with it, the instinct that this stuff is wrong hits him first.
“It integrates with the skeletal system,” the bastard continues. “Strengthens it. Replaces it. Rewrites it. Bones become unbreakable. Regenerative. And the subject becomes—” He pauses, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “—obedient.”
Jason stiffens imperceptibly. The man opposite him notices, eyes flicking like a predator tasting hesitation.
“Think of it as a reset button for a human being,” he says. “No more hesitation. No more doubt.” He tilts his head, sharp, calculating. “Imagine what you could do with that, Hood.”
Jason leans back, sardonic, masking the pulse of fear and curiosity behind a wall of attitude. “Sounds expensive.”
“Our clients don’t care about cost,” the syndicate head replies, tone smooth and absolute.
A pause. A loaded look. Jason feels the weight of it. “You strike me as a man with ambition, Hood. And history. Men like you make… excellent candidates.” For half a second, Jason feels very far away from his body. There’s a flicker of something predatory in his eyes, the kind that makes Jason’s fingers twitch against the arms of the chair.
Jason knows he needs more. He needs the bastard talking long enough to get back to Tim and get them out. He clamps down on everything else. Tim. Get back to Tim.
He leans forward, voice low, feigning interest. “If you want me to buy in, I need to know exactly what this stuff does.”
The syndicate head grins, shark-sharp, teeth catching the cold light. “Luckily for you…” He snaps his fingers. A panel in the wall slides open with a quiet hiss, revealing a reinforced glass chamber. “…we’ve already tested it.”
Jason’s eyes snap to the chamber. Inside, someone moves— but not normally. Twitchy, jerky, too fast, limbs reacting slightly out of sync. The bone structures beneath the skin shift and writhe as if trying to escape, a grotesque dance beneath living flesh.
His blood runs cold.
This isn’t something you punch. This isn’t something you burn down in a night. Jason has no idea how to fix this — and for the first time, that terrifies him more than whatever this piece of shit can do to him or his brother.
Every instinct screams: this is not safe. This is not controllable. It’s instantly clear that the product, no matter what that bastard claims, is volatile. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Not enhancement. Not upgrade. Something closer to a human crackhead with superhuman strength.
Jason swallows. Tightens his grip on the chair. The hum of the office, the chill of the steel, the sharp, mechanical scent in the air— it all presses in. He can feel it under his skin, a warning pulse through his veins. This is why Tim came here. This is why they risked everything.
And now Jason knows just how close they are to losing control.
The test subject slams against the glass, over and over, like an animal testing the limits of its cage. Jason can’t stop thinking of Tim, restrained in another room, jaw tight, eyes sharp, calculating survival. The sound makes Jason flinch, though his expression stays neutral. The bones don’t break — the glass does. Microfractures spiderweb across the surface in a glittering lattice, catching the cold light of the room. The scent of ozone and sweat fills the air. Deep in him, something recoils, visceral and involuntary.
The syndicate head doesn’t flinch. He ignores the subject’s ragged, terrified breathing, the frantic clawing at the cracked glass, the way it quivers under the sheer force of inhuman strength. He speaks smoothly, almost academically.
“He was a dissident scientist,” he explains, voice calm. “We needed him compliant. Marrow makes him so.”
Jason’s jaw tics. Kidnapped scientists. Exactly as Tim predicted. Every warning, every lead, every calculation Tim made comes flooding back.
“He’s strong,” Jason says, voice rough, masking disgust with grudging appraisal.
“Feral,” the syndicate head corrects. “But directable. Primed for loyalty once the final stage is complete.”
Another slam. The glass groans and bulges, small shards rattling like tiny screams. The guards tense, hands inching toward weapons, muscles taut— but the syndicate head doesn’t even turn.
“Imagine an army of men like him,” the bastard continues, voice low, predatory.
Jason lets out a low whistle, playing the part, keeping his expression measured. “Pretty impressive.”
The bastard steps closer, pacing just inside the boundary of the broken glass. “You, Hood… you’ve been damaged,” he says calmly. “And whatever did it didn’t finish the job. Men like that are always interesting. They adapt. They harden.”
Jason’s vision flashes anyway— crowbars, dirt, the raw, gasping terror of being broken and forced to survive. His chest tightens. He keeps the mask of nonchalance in place, letting none of it show.
“All I’m saying,” the syndicate head murmurs, voice almost intimate, “is that you’re already halfway to what we make here.”
Jason’s fingers drift subtly toward the guard closest to him. A weapon hangs loosely on the man’s belt, a lifeline if he can create the right distraction. Every nerve in him screams this is the moment. Tim is somewhere behind these walls — restrained, injured, maybe worse. He can’t waste this opportunity.
He forces a smirk, voice slow and deliberately casual. “If you want me as your lab rat…” He rolls his shoulders, flexing just enough to appear nonchalant. “…you’re gonna have to earn it.”
The bastard laughs softly, the sound like a blade sliding against stone.
And then— the reinforced glass cracks loudly, a single jagged line splintering across the centre. Alarms blare, shrill and sudden, echoing down the sterile corridors.
The guards spin, attention split between the chaos and their prey.
Jason feels it — permission. A fracture in the plan he no longer believes in. Heart hammering, gut cold and tight, adrenaline spiking in a razor-wire hum through his veins.
This is it.
This is his chance.
The guards rush toward the containment chamber, feet pounding against the steel floor, voices sharp, weapons drawn. Just what Jason needs. His pulse hammers, nerves coiled like springs, every sense screaming opportunity.
He rises, pretending to stumble as if startled by the alarm. Heart racing, shoulders loose but controlled. The guard next to him reflexively grabs his arm to steady him—perfect.
Jason moves. Fast. Clean. Fluid. A blur that passes as instinct rather than training. He twists the guard’s wrist, hearing the subtle snap of bone in the joint, and slips the pistol from the holster with a practised flick. He clubs the man with the butt once, twice. The man drops, helpless and groaning.
Another guard shouts, and Jason fires upward—not to hit, but to shatter the overhead lights. The room explodes into darkness, a sudden void broken only by flickering emergency panels and sparks from broken wiring. Screams echo, alarms scream, glass cracks, and the test subject thrashes in its containment. Chaos is a blanket Jason melts into.
He bolts for the exit, senses blazing. Every movement calculated, every breath a weapon. Before he reaches the doorway, he snatches what looks like a portable drive from the overseer’s desk, a small, sleek rectangle that vibrates faintly in his hand. Instinct screams that it matters—might even be the key to what Tim risked everything to stop.
The corridor is a blur of shadows, broken light, and sirens.
Jason hits the door to the holding room hard enough that it slams open against the wall. The lock must’ve disengaged with the alarm — he doesn’t slow down to question it.
His eyes flick up automatically.
Overhang. Corners. Catwalk.
No silhouettes. No muzzles trained on the floor.
Then —
Tim.
Still on his feet.
That’s the first thing Jason registers — and the second is how much effort it’s costing him.
He’s worse than when Jason left him. Bruises bloom dark along his jaw and throat, deeper now, fingerprints purpling his skin. His wrists are raw where restraints have been tightened and loosened again, the skin broken, angry. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth — not fresh, but not old either.
Worked over. Systematically.
Jason’s chest tightens.
Tim turns at the sound, focus dragging itself into place like it has to cross a distance to reach his eyes. When it does, there’s that same sharp spark there — dimmer, but intact. Calculating. Still working.
“Go,” Tim rasps, voice hoarse, strained. “Security’s going to seal off the lower floors.”
Of course, that’s what he says. Not I can’t stand. Not they hurt me. Logistics first. Exit routes. Time.
Jason crosses the room in two strides and catches him just as Tim’s knees finally give.
Tim’s weight hits him hard — heavier than it should be. Dead weight for half a second before Tim forces himself upright again, clinging to Jason’s armour like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.
Alive.
Jason breathes for the first time since he left him.
“They asked you questions,” Jason says quietly, not really asking.
Tim huffs something that might be a laugh if it didn’t end in a cough that bends him forward, breath tearing loose. “Yeah. You know. Small talk.”
Jason’s grip tightens, careful around the ribs, around the wrists. Rage burns hot and clean through his veins, sharp enough to steady him.
“They didn’t get anything,” Tim adds, low and certain, even as he shakes. “Whatever you’re thinking — no.”
Jason closes his eyes for half a heartbeat.
He held.
Jason’s voice comes out like gravel dragged over steel. “After this,” he says, hauling Tim fully against him, “we are absolutely having a conversation.”
Tim gives a weak, pained laugh, shaking his head despite the bruises and fatigue. “Can’t wait.”
Jason tightens his grip, hauls Tim to his feet, and they move. Every shadow, every echo of the alarm, every flicker of the emergency lights is a threat, but he doesn’t hesitate. Not now. Not ever.
Adrenaline hums in his veins, cold metal in his gut, every muscle ready. They are not out yet— but for the first time in hours, Jason feels the tiniest spark of control.
They move.
Smoke bombs hiss and bloom across the corridors, thick and choking. Gunfire crackles off the metal walls, ricochets singing sharp in Jason’s ears. Sparks flare as bullets tear into exposed conduits, showering the floor with light.
Jason shoves Tim ahead of him, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other sweeping the corridor in tight, practised arcs. Every shadow is a threat; every reflection could be a scope. He flicks his gaze up automatically — catwalks, overhangs, observation slits — half-expecting the red glint of a rifle sight.
Nothing. Not yet.
Adrenaline hammers in his veins, sharp enough to hurt.
A guard gets too close.
Jason slams him into the wall hard enough that the impact reverberates down the hall. The man crumples with a wet groan, already forgotten. Tim coughs violently, hacking on the acrid smoke, shoulders folding in on themselves.
“You’re overcompensating,” Tim rasps, breath shredded.
Jason snaps back without looking at him, voice tight and feral. “Shut up.”
They hit the emergency exit. Jason kicks it open, and the metal screams against its hinges. Cold night air floods in — rain, asphalt, ozone — clean and biting after the chemical stench inside.
Tim stumbles.
Jason catches him automatically, arm locking around his shoulders, taking more than half his weight. Only then does he clock the cuffs—still locked, heavy, biting into raw skin. No key. No tools. Jason swears under his breath.
Later. Alive first.
He scans their surroundings on instinct—rooftop angles, fire escapes, sightlines. No pursuit yet. That won’t last.
They’re light. Too light.
No weapons. No comms. Just the suits on their backs and the knowledge of exactly what they’ve left behind. Bat-tech in the hands of weapons engineers makes Jason’s jaw clench hard enough to ache.
“They took everything,” Tim mutters, like he’s confirming a hypothesis.
“I know.”
A beat.
“We’re coming back,” Tim says quietly, like he’s stating a law of physics.
Jason doesn’t argue. He just nods once. “Yeah. But not like this.”
A beat.
“We should’ve called it in,” Jason adds, voice low. Not an accusation. Fact.
Tim exhales, slow and controlled. “I know.”
Justice crisis be damned. If they’d let Bruce know they were in trouble, he would probably be here. Too late for that now.
They don’t stop until the compound is a distant glow behind them, swallowed by alleys and shadowed streets.
Only then does Jason halt.
He drops to a crouch in front of Tim, hands firm on his shoulders, grounding himself through contact. His chest heaves — adrenaline, exhaustion, rage all tangled together. His hands are still shaking.
The anger hits him then. Sudden. Relentless.
“You made me do that,” Jason says, voice low and raw, and embarrassingly— shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “You made me hurt you. Again.”
Tim meets his gaze. Bruised. Exhausted. Still soft, still apologetic. “I meant none of it, Jay. None of it.”
Jason flinches at the nickname. The intimacy lands wrong, sharp and exposed.
“…Did you?” he asks quietly. “Because some of it felt real.”
Tim’s expression folds inward. Shame pulls his shoulders down, his gaze dropping. “I’m sorry I made you do it.”
A beat.
“It was the only way to keep you alive,” Tim adds, voice strained but certain.
Jason swallows hard, throat tight. “There had to be another way.”
Tim doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
The silence settles heavy and cold between them — heavier than the gunfire, colder than the rain soaking into Jason’s sleeves. The adrenaline drains slowly, leaving behind the ache: every strike, every slam, every calculated choice he made in Tim’s name.
Jason keeps his hands on Tim’s shoulders, steadying himself as much as Tim, breathing in the rain-slicked air, trying to anchor himself in the now.
For the first time in hours, the fight isn’t around them.
It’s inside.
And Jason hates that this is the part he can’t just muscle through.
•·················•·················•
After the Shot
The door slams behind them, metal echoing through the empty safehouse.
Jason barely registers it. He gets Tim to the couch on momentum alone, easing him down harder than he means to, hands already moving, already scanning. The room smells faintly of old coffee — clean, controlled, nothing like the compound — and the contrast makes something in his chest twist.
“Sit,” Jason orders, more reflex than intent.
Tim obeys. Too quickly. Too neatly.
Jason notices that immediately.
He drops to a knee and reaches for the cuffs.
They’re still on.
Heavy, reinforced restraints, bolted together at the wrists with a locking mechanism Jason recognises and hates. The skin beneath them is angry and raw, rubbed close to breaking. One wrist is already bleeding again, where the metal has bitten back into softened skin.
Jason swears under his breath.
“Hold still,” he says, and hates that it sounds like something he’s said before tonight.
Tim doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even flinch when Jason brings the cuff-breaker down between the locks and twists. The metal shrieks, protests, then gives with a sharp crack.
The cuffs fall away.
Tim exhales like he’s been waiting for permission to breathe.
Jason doesn’t look up. He can’t. He catalogues instead — the way the wrists tremble now that they’re free, the stiffness in Tim’s fingers, the faint delay before they curl and uncurl.
Nerve compression. Circulation compromised. He files it away automatically, because if he doesn’t, he’ll start thinking about why.
He helps Tim out of the suit next. Carefully. Methodically.
Piece by piece, the armour comes off, and the damage underneath reveals itself in layers.
A split lip, swollen and cracked. A bruise blooming deep and dark along the jaw where someone struck with intent, not spectacle. Fingerprint bruises around his upper arms — not Jason’s. Too wide. Too controlled. Injection marks along the inside of one elbow, angry and inflamed. Thin abrasions along his ribs where restraints or hands dragged him back into position.
Jason’s hands slow.
He can’t tell where his damage ends and theirs begins.
That’s what finally makes him stop.
His gaze catches on Tim’s throat.
The bruising there is darker, more concentrated. Thumb-shaped. Too familiar.
Jason’s hand hovers uselessly in the air.
For a second, he can’t make himself touch it.
Tim notices. Of course he does.
“It’s okay,” Tim says quietly, immediately. Too fast. “You can—”
“I know,” Jason cuts in, sharper than he means to. He swallows. Tries again. “I know.”
He doesn’t say I did that. He doesn’t say I almost killed you. The space between his fingers and Tim’s skin feels charged, like static before a strike.
When he finally presses two fingers lightly to Tim’s neck, it’s clinical. Checking swelling. Pulse. Responsiveness.
Tim doesn’t pull away.
He’s alert. Too alert.
Jason’s used to post-capture shock. The fog. The delayed reactions. The way people go soft once they’re safe.
Tim doesn’t.
He’s too focused. Too present. Like he’s still braced for someone to come through the door.
His eyes track Jason’s hands constantly. His breathing regulates around Jason’s movements. When Jason reaches for antiseptic, Tim already angles his shoulder to give better access.
It unnerves him.
“You should be crashing right now,” Jason mutters.
Tim blinks. Shrugs, a little too stiff. “Later.”
Jason doesn’t like that answer. He presses a clean cloth to the cut over Tim’s eyebrow, and Tim hisses despite himself, breath catching.
There it is. Proof of pain.
“Sorry,” Jason mutters, and means more than the word can cover.
He works slowly after that. Cleans wounds. Closes what needs stitching with practised hands that still shake. Wraps Tim’s wrists carefully, padding beneath the bandages so nothing rubs.
At one point, Tim sways — just slightly — and Jason’s free hand snaps up automatically, fingers digging into Tim’s side to steady him.
Tim freezes.
Jason freezes too.
They stay like that for half a second, both of them too aware of the contact.
Then Tim exhales, leans into the support, and Jason realises he’s gripping him like he’s afraid to let go.
That’s when the anger finally runs out of places to hide.
“You’re a stubborn idiot,” Jason mutters, voice low, sharp with frustration. He presses a clean cloth to the cut over Tim’s eyebrow that refuses to stop dripping.
And he can’t help it, he has to be selfish, “Do you have any idea what you put me through back there?”
His jaw locks. The words stack up behind his teeth with nowhere to go. Tim’s calm scrapes at him. Feels wrong. Feels impossible.
Tim flinches, not from the pain, but from the tone. “Jay—”
“Don’t. Don’t start,” Jason snaps. His hands shake slightly as he works, mixing antiseptic. “You could’ve died. And I’d have—” He stops, the words thick in his throat. “I don’t even want to finish that sentence.”
Tim swallows, voice rough. “I know. I didn’t mean for you to—”
“Didn’t mean?” Jason’s voice rises, tinged with hurt. “You put yourself in their hands. Fuck— in my hands. You got hurt because of me. Again. Do you know how that feels?”
Tim’s eyes meet his, pained and apologetic. “I made choices, too. I knew what was at stake. I—”
“You made me do it,” Jason interrupts, voice raw. “I had to fight for you in the worst fucking way possible. I had to hit you. I had to hurt you. And for what? For you to end up like this?”
Silence hangs. Rain taps against the windows, a rhythmic echo of their shared tension. Tim reaches out, tentative. Jason doesn’t move.
“I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, hoarse. “I never wanted you to—”
Jason flinches. The apology doesn’t lessen the anger, doesn’t erase the fear. “I know,” he says finally, voice quieter, trembling slightly. “But knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, it makes it worse.”
Tim exhales sharply, trying to steady himself. “I meant none of it, Jay. None of it. You did what you had to do. I trust you. I’ve— I’ve… trusted you for a long time.” If it were anyone else, Tim would have said always, but it’s not anyone else; it’s Jason, and trust is a complicated thing for them.
Jason looks at him, and something inside twists — anger, relief, guilt, something sharp and raw. Jason opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
After a moment, “You call this trusting?” He gestures vaguely to the bruises, the cuts, the chaos they barely escaped. “You’re lucky I didn’t lose it completely back there.”
“I know,” Tim admits, voice cracking, faint smile pulling at his lips despite the pain. “And I’m grateful. Every single second. But… I had to keep you alive. I couldn’t risk anything else.”
Jason snorts, not buying the calm. “What makes you so sure they would’ve killed me?”
“Did you see the, uh… project they’ve been working on?”
“That marrow bullshit? Yeah. Fucking nasty.”
Tim goes quiet. Not his usual thinking-silence — this one is heavier, ashamed. Jason doesn’t notice at first; he’s too focused on disinfecting the cut on Tim’s shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration. But eventually the silence stretches long enough to feel wrong.
Jason glances up.
Tim’s face is pinched, scrunched in a way that’s half pain, half something he’s desperately trying not to admit.
It stops Jason cold.
And then it clicks.
“You thought they might use that shit on me.”
Tim’s jaw works. He doesn’t confirm, but he doesn’t deny either.
“You would’ve been useful to them like that,” Tim murmurs, small and hoarse. “And I thought you stood a better chance of not facing that if you were anything other than a convenient, unresisting captive.”
Jason leans back a little, the fight draining out of him. “They could’ve pulled that on you too, dipshit. If they hadn’t been stupid enough to show off their pet science project — and cause their own containment breach — you would’ve been the next best thing.”
Tim hesitates. His eyes flick away. “I’ve got Batman tied to my image, don’t I?”
Jason’s stomach tightens.
“And you…” Tim swallows. “Don’t.”
Jason’s expression twitches — hurt, anger, understanding all tangled into one sharp exhale.
“If something had happened to me,” Tim continues, voice barely above a whisper, “they’d have had to face Batman. And we know they’re discreet enough to avoid that at all costs. But you—”
“I don’t have Daddy Bat waving a protective cloak around my shoulders publicly and threatening to rain hell on anyone who fucks with me,” Jason finishes for him, voice edged and brittle.
Tim flinches. Not because Jason’s wrong, but because it hurts to hear.
“You didn’t want to be under his jurisdiction,” Tim says quietly.
“Yeah, I know,” Jason mutters. His voice softens, but only barely. “Guess I just never thought about how that might suck sometimes.”
This wouldn’t usually bother him. He knows it's fundamentally a business agreement. The images they each want to project to Gotham’s underworld are distinct from one another and don’t work if they’re publicly tied. Jason knows that. He knows it’s nothing more than that.
He thinks— knows that Bruce would go after almost anyone for him. But that’s another can of worms. And he’s sick of having his fucked up worries shoved back in his face today.
Tim doesn’t say anything. He just watches Jason with that open, wounded honesty that always hits too close.
And Jason hates — hates — how much truth sits between them in that moment.
Jason swallows hard, staring at his hands as they rest uselessly in his lap, still trembling despite his effort to control them. The anger is gone. It didn’t fix anything.
“…There had to be another way,” he mutters.
Tim doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
And Jason knows that — knows it in the same quiet, awful way he knows Tim survived because he calculated every angle and chose the one that hurt the fewest people except himself. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it finally loosens its grip, slipping into something heavier.
Jason exhales, long and shaky.
Before he realises he’s doing it, he leans forward.
It’s not graceful. It’s not planned. One moment he’s sitting there, jaw tight, and the next his hands are gripping Tim’s shoulders, fingers curling tentatively into the skin like he needs proof that Tim is real. That he’s here. That he’s breathing.
Tim stiffens in surprise — just for a second — and then his arms come up around Jason, careful at first, then firmer when Jason doesn’t pull away.
Jason presses his forehead into Tim’s shoulder.
The sound he makes is quiet and wrecked, dragged out of him before he can stop it. His grip tightens, arms locking around Tim, feeling that if he lets go, something catastrophic will happen. He clings — unapologetically, desperately — the way he never lets himself cling to anyone.
Tim shifts, bracing them both, one hand settling between Jason’s shoulder blades, the other at the back of his neck, grounding him.
“I don’t blame you,” Tim says quietly, immediately. No hesitation. No conditions. “Not for any of it.”
Jason shakes his head, breath hitching. “You said—”
“I know what I said,” Tim cuts in, just as soft. “And I didn’t mean any of it. Not one word. I knew exactly where to hit, and I hate that I used it.” His hand presses more firmly against Jason’s back. “But I don’t think you’re a monster. I don’t think you failed. And I don’t think you’re like them.”
Jason’s shoulders tremble.
“You scared me,” he admits, voice muffled against Tim’s shoulder. “I almost— I almost—”
“I know,” Tim says again. Steady. Certain. “I’m still here.”
That’s what breaks it.
Jason’s grip tightens one last time, his breath stuttering as he clings to Tim like a lifeline, like the only thing anchoring him to the present. He doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t pull away. He just lets himself stay there, wrapped around his brother, shaking, alive.
Tim holds him without comment.
No judgement. No flinching. Just there.
Eventually, Jason’s breathing slows. The tremor in his hands eases. The world stops tilting quite so violently.
They stay like that for a long moment — bruised, exhausted, held together by shared damage and stubborn survival.
When Jason finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant. He scrubs a hand over his face, jaw tight, eyes red and furious at himself for caring this much.
“…We’re still talking about this,” he mutters.
Tim huffs a weak, fond breath. “Wouldn’t dream of dodging it.”
Jason leans back against the couch, shoulder pressed to Tim’s, still close. Still there.
For the first time since the compound, he lets himself believe — really believe — that Tim doesn’t blame him.
And for now, that’s enough.
Jason looks down at his hands — steady now — still wrapped around Tim like he’s afraid to let go.
Jason knows this isn’t over.
Not the Marrow.
Not the things Tim said.
Not the way his hands still remember.
But Tim is here.
And for now, Jason holds onto that.