The stranger stopped a few feet away, head tilting slightly as if examining him through invisible eyes.
"And who might you be?" Jason asked, his voice slurred but laced with defiance. He was barely holding onto consciousness, his vision flickering at the edges, but he refused to sound weak.
The figure's reply came low and rasping, like sandpaper dragging across concrete. "Who I am is of no importance," the voice said, slow and deliberate, as if savoring each word. "Rather, you should be asking yourself that question."
Jason's brow furrowed beneath his helmet. His hand flexed against the chain, muscles tensing despite the dizziness. "Choosing to keep the mystery act going, huh? Then why drain my blood?" he asked, trying to buy time—trying to think.
"To weaken you, of course." The figure's tone didn't waver, didn't rise. It was calm, almost conversational. "At full strength, you might have been capable of setting yourself free."
Jason stared back, the words sinking in. The bastard wasn't wrong. In his normal state, he could've broken free, no question. But what bothered him wasn't the accuracy of the statement—it was the certainty behind it. Whoever this was, they knew what he was capable of.
Jason's fingers curled into a fist as he glared at the figure. His heart pounded slow but steady, pushing against the dizziness clouding his head. The question gnawed at him harder than the pain or the blood loss.
How the hell did this guy know about his strength?
Jason let out a weak exhale, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Okay," he said, his tone flat but edged with irritation. "You somehow managed to kidnap me and circus boy over there." He nodded toward Nightwing, who was still slumped on the floor across the room, unconscious. "What do you want?"
The figure didn't answer right away. Instead, he began pacing slowly around the cellar, each bootstep soft but deliberate against the dusty floorboards.
The dim light flickered above them, casting his shadow long against the walls. When he finally spoke, his tone was calm, unnervingly calm. "It's about time you and I had a little chat," he said, his head tilting diagonally in that same unsettling way—like he was looking directly at Jason, even though he had no visible eyes.
Jason felt a chill crawl up his neck. There was something deeply wrong about the man's presence, the way he moved, the way he watched without actually seeing.
"What I want," the stranger continued, "might be a bit difficult for you to understand. But what I need is for you to remember."
Jason's brows furrowed beneath his helmet. His voice came out rough, skeptical. "Remember what?"
"Your fractured and concealed memories," the man replied, his tone dropping lower, slower.
"My what?" Jason muttered, blinking at him, trying to gauge whether this was some kind of drug-induced hallucination. Maybe the dart Scarecrow shot him with hadn't worn off yet. Maybe he was still trapped in one of those toxin nightmares.
"Your memories from the past three years," the stranger said, his movements smooth and deliberate as he leaned back against one of the cellar's wooden beams.
"The pieces of time you're missing." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The faint sound of a lighter flicked in the silence that followed.
Jason's entire demeanor shifted. The humor drained from his tone as suspicion took over. His gaze fixed on the bandaged figure, muscles tensing despite his weakened state. "Alright," he said quietly, his voice sturdy. "Answer me this—who the hell are you? How do you know that about me? And how much do you really know?"
The stranger exhaled a thin stream of smoke from the painted mouth on his wrappings. "I know enough," he said in a raspy voice, his words slow and deliberate.
"Enough to know that sometimes, you put on the hood, step out into the night for your usual crusade…and then wake up in a place you don't remember going to." He flicked ash onto the floor, his head tilting again as though studying Jason's reaction.
"You never recall how you got there. Sometimes your weapons are missing—or worse—covered in blood."
Jason's heartbeat slowed. His eyes narrowed behind the white lenses of his helmet, trying to read the man's tone, but it remained eerily casual.
The stranger took another drag of his cigarette. "Other times, you wake up in your bed, suit intact, telling yourself you must've just been too tired. Stress, maybe. You call it sleepwalking, brush it off, and keep going. But deep down, you know something's not right."
Jason's stomach turned slightly. The words hit too close. He had noticed things—gaps in memory, flashes of something wrong—but he'd buried them under excuses. Fatigue, trauma. The usual list. Now this stranger was saying it all out loud, like he'd been there watching the whole time.
"I want you to reach into that head of yours," the man said, his tone almost mocking, "and remember what really happens during those missing hours."
Jason's voice hardened. "Or what?"
The bandaged fella tilted again. A faint smile crept under the red-painted lips.
"Straight to business. I like that." He lifted his cigarette slightly, pointing it at Jason like a lazy threat. "Or you and your circus friend over there die."
Jason leaned back against the wall, the chain at his neck clinking softly. "Yeah, see, here's the thing," he said with dry amusement, brushing a gloved hand along the chin of his helmet as if thinking it through. "You're asking me to remember something I don't even remember forgetting. So, forgive me if I'm not exactly sure where to start."
He paused, pretending to think, then added with mock sincerity, "Sorry, bud. Not coming to me. I'd love to recover my memories too, really, but you might've kidnapped the wrong guy for that therapy session."
The man let the silence stretch before finally speaking again. "Start from the Galante family."
Jason's head tilted slightly, the lenses of his helmet glinting faintly. "What about them?"
"Don't you remember what you did to them to get your way?"
The figure pushed off the beam and began to walk toward him, slow and deliberate. Jason could practically feel the weight of that gaze through the bandages. His muscles tightened instinctively.
"He didn't agree to your terms," the man continued, his tone dropping lower, quieter. "Didn't give you the respect you thought you deserved. So, how did you respond?"
Jason's jaw tightened. "I don't—"
"Don't give up before you even try," the stranger interrupted, voice pressing into his mind. "Just think."
Jason's hands curled into fists, his patience thinning. "Hold on," he said sharply, forcing his voice to stay level. "They're my memories. What's in it for you?"
The stranger chuckled under his breath, the sound rough and dry. "Don't worry," he said, flicking ash off his cigarette. "You'll find out soon enough."
Jason gave a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. "If you're not willing to tell me that much, then I fail to see why I should cooperate with my mysterious kidnapper-slash-stalker." His tone was casual, but his eyes—what little could be seen through the lenses—were locked and firece.
"So why don't you start by telling me who you are, and how you know all this about me?"
The man stopped walking. His posture shifted slightly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a darker edge. "You seem to misunderstand your current situation."
The temperature in the room felt like it dropped a few degrees. His tone wasn't loud, but the air around him seemed to thicken with the weight of it. Jason felt the hair on his arms rise beneath his jacket.
The stranger wasn't bluffing; there was something beneath that calm exterior—a quiet, dangerous power that made Jason's instincts flare to life.
He straightened slightly, the chain rattling as he tensed. "Yeah?" Jason muttered, voice low. "Why don't you enlighten me, then."
The stranger took one last drag of his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, the ember dying out against the cold floor.
When he finally spoke again, his tone was almost a whisper—but it carried with it enough weight to clearly be recognized as a threat.
"Because right now, Jason Todd, your life—and his," he said, nodding toward Nightwing, "hang on the thin thread of how much you can remember." Refusing to be intimidated or blindly give in to the demands of his stalker, Jason decided to probe for information—anything that could give him a hint as to who this person was beneath all that bandage.
His voice came out low but edged with defiance. "Am I somehow responsible for what happened to your body?"
"In some way, yes." The stranger's tone carried a rasp that sent a chill through the air. He closed the distance partially, his movements stiff, jerky—almost like his body didn't quite know how to move right.
The dim light bulb hanging from above swung gently, casting long, twitching shadows across the cellar walls, and the faint creak of the wooden floorboards followed his every step.
He crouched down on one knee until he was at Jason's eye level. The bandages tightened slightly over his face as he tilted his head. "Now… think," he growled, his voice deepening, rumbling from somewhere dark.
The change in the air was immediate. Jason felt his chest tighten as if the oxygen had thinned. His heart started pounding harder, each beat echoing within his ribs like a drum.
Sweat formed along his brow, and his breathing quickened despite his attempts to keep it steady. The whole room seemed to close in—walls bending, the air heavy, suffocating.
'Scarecrow's toxin from that dart must still be lingering in my system,' he realized grimly, gritting his teeth. He could feel the creeping sense of dread inching up his spine, whispering that he should be afraid.
But he refused to acknowledge it. Fear was a weakness he couldn't afford—not here, not now.
"THINK!!! THINK!!! REMEMBER!!" the figure suddenly roared, the sound reverberating through Jason's skull like the world itself was screaming. Every word was heavier than the last, pressing down on him like invisible hands crushing his chest.
Jason clenched his jaw, fighting through it, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him break. His muscles trembled under the strain, the chain around his neck rattling softly as his breath came in short, sharp bursts.
The figure leaned closer, his presence oppressive. The smell of smoke and old blood filled the air. Jason's head throbbed. He could almost hear whispering beneath the roar—a low, distorted echo of memories that didn't quite form.
Then suddenly, the pressure stopped. The stranger straightened, turning toward the faint sound of movement from the far end of the room. Nightwing was starting to stir—his fingers twitching, his eyes fluttering open slowly as he let out a weak groan.
"I'll be back," the figure muttered darkly. The words hung heavy in the air as he turned and climbed the stairs, his boots thudding softly against the wooden steps until the door creaked shut above them.
"Jase?" Dick's groggy voice came through after a few seconds. He blinked, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. "Oh great… what have you got me involved in this time?" His voice was hoarse, half annoyed, half tired. He tugged at the chain around his neck and sat up with a small grunt, leaning against the wall.
Jason huffed. "I could ask you the same thing. Who'd you piss off this time, birdbrain?"
Ignoring the jab, Dick scanned the room with a skeptical frown. "Which one of Gotham's psychos managed to pull this off? I mean, seriously—Red Hood and Nightwing, both bagged and dragged down here? Someone's really trying to make a name for themselves." He gave a tired smirk, clearly trying to mask the unease in his voice.
"Some creep covered in bandages," Jason said casually, his tone dry.
Dick blinked. "Are you saying we got kidnapped by a goddamn mummy?"
"Worse," Jason said flatly. "Makes mummies look like a damn starter pack on the creep scale."
Dick sighed. "Last thing I remember was fighting Killer Croc. I felt something sting me right below my ear—dart maybe—and then everything went black. Now I'm here, sharing some creepy basement with you."
"A cellar, actually," Jason corrected without missing a beat.
"Hmm?"
"You heard me." He leaned his head back against the wall, refusing to repeat himself.
Dick rolled his eyes faintly. "You know, I was actually glad when I found out you were alive. Your death—it really messed with everyone. Especially Bruce. He—"
Jason cut him off sharply, voice low and cold. "And how about after you found out I'd become Red Hood? The guy who doesn't play by your no-kill rule? The so-called crime lord you were chasing across rooftops a few weeks ago?"
Dick paused, the words hanging heavy between them. He exhaled quietly, his shoulders slumping. "Well—" he started, but his voice faltered. His head drooped slightly, and then he began to nod off mid-sentence.
Jason narrowed his eyes beneath the helmet. A faint hiss filled the room. Gas.
Within seconds, Dick's body went limp, collapsing sideways to the floor with a soft thud. Jason looked up, noticing the faint, almost invisible mist curling from a vent in the ceiling. He was lucky—his helmet's filtration system kept him unaffected.
"Nightwing," he called, but there was no response.
Jason exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but edged with irritation. "Perfect. Just perfect."
He glanced toward the stairs, knowing whoever that bandaged freak was, he wasn't done yet.