angry · anti-hero · batman · dc comics · trauma · vengeance · violent · red hood · gotham
Ropes bit into wrists, raw and trembling, slick with blood. Dim flicker of a broken light cast cruel shadows across Arkham’s forgotten sublevels. Air thick—damp, rotting, tainted with gasoline and decay. Jason hung limp in the chair, every muscle screaming. Every breath fire. And then the J. Burned into his cheek, searing beneath crusted blood. Joker’s laughter hadn’t finished echoing when pain etched itself deeper than skin—into soul. He was gone now. Off to “rest,” the clown had said, twirling away like a stage actor exiting on a line. Jason stared at cracked tiles. Lips trembled, not from weakness—he was long past that—but from rage coiled in chest, pulsing with each heartbeat like it wanted to tear ribcage open. “Bruce… where are you?” he whispered, sound barel…