Sinners

The red helmet was a cold, unyielding mask of crimson steel, reflecting the neon grime of the Bowery. Jason Todd didn’t blink behind the white lenses. He didn’t care about the petty thieves he’d just left groaning in the alleyway with shattered kneecaps. He only cared about the mission. Gotham was a cancer, and he was the chemotherapy—aggressive, painful, and lethal.

"I know it’s you, Jason."

The voice hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in years—not since the smell of gunpowder and the taste of his own blood had become his only companions. He froze, his gloved hand hovering over the grip of his .45.

He turned slowly. Standing at the mouth of the alley was Rosie. She looked older, her face sharpened by the years, but her eyes were the same deep pools of grief and determination he remembered from their childhood. Back when he was a Robin with a smart mouth and she was the girl who lived in the shadow of Wayne Manor, bonding over lost parents and the cruelty of the city.

"Jason’s dead," he growled, the voice modulator turning his words into a metallic rasp. "You’re talking to a ghost."

Rosie stepped forward, ignoring the threat of his weapons. "A ghost wouldn't be wearing the same boots you used to steal from the manor's armory. I’ve spent years mourning you, Jason. I’ve spent years looking at your memorial in the Cave. Don't you dare lie to me."

Jason pulled the helmet off. The cool Gotham air hit his scarred face. His hair was darker now, a streak of white at the temple a souvenir from his trip to the grave. "What do you want, Rosie? I’m busy cleaning up the mess Bruce is too soft to handle."

"I want Silas Wren," she said, her voice trembling with a decade’s worth of suppressed rage.

Jason went still. He knew the name. Silas Wren was the drug lord who had executed Rosie’s parents in a botched robbery when she was seven. He was the man who had turned her life into a tragedy before she even knew how to spell the word.

"Wren is protected," Jason said. "He’s got the Penguin’s backing. He’s deep in the Iceberg Lounge."

"Then help me get him," she pleaded, reaching out but stopping just short of touching his leather jacket. "Dick won't do it. He talks about 'the system' and 'justice.' But you... you get results. You don't care about the rules anymore."

Jason looked at her—really looked at her. He saw the pain he’d felt when he crawled out of his own coffin. He saw the hunger for a closure that only blood could provide.

"Tonight," Jason said. "The Iceberg Lounge. Don't get in my way."

***

The Iceberg Lounge was a sensory overload of blue lights, overpriced gin, and the smell of expensive cigars masking the scent of cheap souls. Jason moved through the rafters like a shadow, while Rosie, dressed in a cocktail dress that served as a perfect disguise, tracked Wren from the floor.

They found him in a private booth, surrounded by bodyguards. Jason dropped from the ceiling, a whirlwind of flashbangs and precision strikes. Within seconds, the guards were down, and the music had stopped, replaced by the screams of fleeing socialites.

In the chaos, Jason grabbed Rosie, pulling her behind a velvet curtain. Their faces were inches apart. The adrenaline was pumping, a lethal cocktail of past nostalgia and present danger.

"You stay behind me," Jason hissed, his hand gripping her arm. "This isn't a game, Rosie. Wren is a cornered rat."

"I’ve waited twelve years for this, Jason!" she snapped back, her eyes blazing. "I'm not staying behind anyone!"

Before he could stop her, she wrenched her arm away. She saw Wren bolting for a back exit and vanished into the crowd.

"Rosie! Dammit!" Jason cursed, lunging after her, but he was intercepted by a second wave of security. By the time he cleared the room, Rosie was gone, and Wren’s men had closed the perimeter. He was trapped, and for the first time in years, Jason felt a cold spike of genuine fear. Not for himself, but for the girl who didn't know how deep the water was.

He had no choice. He pulled his comms unit and tuned it to a frequency he hadn't used in months.

"Nightwing," Jason rasped. "I need you. Now."

***

Two days. Two days of scouring every rat-hole in the Narrows. Two days of Dick Grayson’s silent, simmering fury directed at Jason’s back.

"If she dies, Jason," Dick said, his voice low and dangerous as they crouched on the roof of an abandoned chemical warehouse, "I don't care about our history. I will put you down myself."

"Save the lecture, Goldie," Jason spat, checking the magazine of his rifle. "You're the one who let her get so desperate she had to come to me. You were too busy playing hero to see she was drowning."

They broke through the skylight together—a blue streak and a red blur.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of rot. In the center of the room, Silas Wren had Rosie pinned against a rusted pillar. His meaty hand was clamped around her throat, her feet dangling inches off the floor. Her face was turning a terrifying shade of purple.

"Let her go," Dick roared, his escrima sticks humming with electricity.

Wren laughed, a wet, guttural sound. "The Boy Wonders come to save the girl? She’s a witness. She’s a loose end."

Jason didn't shout. He didn't warn. He fired a shot that clipped Wren’s shoulder, forcing him to drop Rosie. As she slumped to the floor, gasping for air, Jason was on him.

It wasn't a fight; it was an execution in progress. Jason's fists were hammers, breaking Wren’s nose, shattering his ribs, painting the concrete floor in crimson. Dick was occupied with Wren’s remaining thugs, but Jason only had eyes for the man who had ruined Rosie’s life.

Jason dragged the bloodied, semi-conscious drug lord over to where Rosie was shivering. He kicked a handgun across the floor toward her.

"Do it," Jason commanded.

Rosie looked up, her eyes wide and watering. "Jason..."

"He killed them, Rosie. He stood in your living room and took everything from you while you watched from the stairs. The police won't keep him. The lawyers will have him out in a week. This is the only way it ends."

"Jason, stop!" Dick yelled, having finished his fight. He moved toward them, but Jason leveled a gun at his chest.

"Stay back, Dick. This is her choice. Not yours. Not Bruce’s." Jason turned his gaze back to Rosie. "Pick up the gun. End the nightmare."

Rosie’s hand trembled as she reached for the cold steel. She gripped the handle, pointing it at Wren’s head. The man groaned, coughing up a tooth.

"Rosie, look at me," Dick pleaded, his voice soft, desperate. "If you do this, you can't come back. This isn't who you are. Don't let him turn you into him."

Rosie looked at the gun. She looked at the pathetic, broken man on the floor. Then she looked at Jason—the boy she had loved, now a man made of scars and vengeance.

"I can't," she whispered, the gun clattering to the floor. She collapsed into a sob, hiding her face in her hands. "I can't do it, Jason. I’m not like you."

Jason’s expression didn't soften. It grew colder, a mask of disappointment that cut deeper than any blade.

"Fine," Jason said.

Before Dick could react, Jason pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening in the hollow warehouse. Silas Wren’s head snapped back, his body going limp instantly.

Rosie screamed, a raw, jagged sound. Dick rushed forward, pulling her into his arms, shielding her eyes from the carnage.

Jason stood over them, the smoking gun at his side. He looked at Dick, who was staring at him with pure, unadulterated horror.

"She gets to sleep tonight," Jason said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You're welcome."

Without another word, Jason turned and walked into the shadows of the warehouse. By the time Dick looked up from Rosie’s shaking form, the Red Hood was gone.

***

The apartment in Blüdhaven was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock and the sound of the rain against the window. Rosie sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

Dick paced the room, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might snap.

"You lied to me," Dick finally said, his voice cracking the silence. "You went behind my back to a murderer."

"I wanted justice, Dick!" Rosie shouted, standing up, the blanket falling to her waist. "I wanted him gone! I couldn't live another day knowing he was breathing the same air as me."

"So you went to Jason? You know what he is! You know he’s unstable!"

"He was my friend!" she cried. "He was the only one who didn't treat me like I was fragile. He understood the dark parts of me that you try to pretend don't exist."

Dick stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression pained. "And look what happened, Rosie. He executed a man in front of you. He tried to force you to become a killer. Is that what you want? Is that the 'understanding' you were looking for?"

"I don't know what I want anymore," she whispered, fresh tears falling. "I just know that when I look at you, all I see is everything I'm supposed to be. And when I look at him... I see everything I actually am."

Dick shook his head, moving toward the door. "I can't do this right now. I need to go to the Cave. We need to find him before he kills someone else."

"He’s already gone, Dick," Rosie said, her voice dead. "He’s been gone for a long time."

Dick didn't answer. He walked out, the heavy thud of the door echoing through the empty apartment.

Rosie sat back down on the bed, staring at her hands. They were clean, but they felt stained. She closed her eyes and saw the flash of the muzzle. She heard Jason’s voice.

She was safe. Silas Wren was dead. But as she sat in the silence of the room Dick had built for her, she realized that Jason hadn't just killed a criminal in that warehouse. He had killed the last piece of her childhood, leaving her alone in a city that had no room for heroes or ghosts.