The motorcycle skidded to a halt inside the warehouse, its metal frame groaning from the abuse it had taken during the chase with Dent. Jason kicked down the stand and dismounted, running his hand over the scratched paint job and mangled side mirror. The bike had seen better days, but it had done its job - keeping up with Two-Face's getaway car.

  He walked the bike further into his makeshift base, past the worn workbench cluttered with gun parts and ammunition. The space wasn't much but it served its purpose. A cot pushed against the far wall with a mini-fridge humming in the corner, and enough tech to keep tabs on Gotham's underworld. No fancy bat-computers or glass cases, just the essentials.

  Jason grabbed his laptop from the desk and pulled up the bike's diagnostics. The damage readout showed 10% - not great, but not catastrophic. The mirror would need replacing, along with some body panels, but the engine and core systems were intact. He'd had worse after previous nights of patrol.

  The floor was stained with old oil spots and dried blood - some his, some not. Metal support beams disappeared into the shadows of the high ceiling, and the air smelled of gunpowder and motor oil. It wasn't the cave, with its million-dollar equipment and pristine surfaces, but it was his. Sometimes that's all that mattered.

  The Ducati Panigale V4 R wasn't just a bike - it was his workhorse, his escape route, and sometimes his only friend on Gotham's meanest streets. Jason pulled up the diagnostic interface on his laptop, scanning through the damage readout while his free hand traced the fresh scratches along the carbon fiber panels. The chase with Two-Face had left its mark.

  He grabbed his tools from the workbench and got to work, starting with the mangled mirror. The computer highlighted the damaged sections in red on the 3D model - beyond the mirror, the right fairing was cracked and the rear brake lever was bent. Nothing he couldn't fix. The bike's heart - that beautiful 998cc V4 engine - was still purring like a dream.

  Jason lost himself in the familiar rhythm of repairs. He stripped off the damaged panels, replaced the mirror assembly, and straightened out the brake lever. The work was therapeutic in its own way - just him, his tools, and the machine. No masks, no family drama, no city crying out for salvation. Just the simple satisfaction of fixing what was broken.

  His hands stilled on the wrench as he caught the faint scent of jasmine cutting through the motor oil and gunpowder. He didn't bother looking up from his work.

  "I know you're there. Might as well come out."

  Talia al Ghul emerged from the shadows like she owned them. She wore civilian clothes - dark jeans and a leather jacket - but moved with the same grace she displayed in combat.

  "Your security needs work," she said, studying the warehouse with mild distaste.

  "If you're here to criticize my living space, save it. What do you want?"

  She circled the bike, trailing her fingers along the fresh scratches. "Can't I check on my former student?"

  "Cut the crap, Talia. You never show up without a reason."

  "True enough," she leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "There's movement in Gotham. My father's people have been spotted in the city."

  "Ra's?" Jason set down his tools. "Thought he was still playing dead after that mess in Hong Kong."

  Ra's al Ghul. He stared at the bike's engine, but his mind was elsewhere, churning through the implications of the Demon's Head being back in play. That manipulative bastard had a way of turning everything to ash, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake. Jason had lost count of how many times Ra's had tried to destroy Gotham, how many times he'd played his twisted games with Bruce and the family.

  And Bruce - there was another headache waiting to happen. His former mentor would be neck-deep in this mess the moment he caught wind of Ra's being back. The man couldn't help himself. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion, over and over. Bruce and Ra's, locked in their eternal chess match while Gotham burned.

  Then there was Talia, standing in his warehouse like she had any right to be there. Their history was complicated enough without her father's shadow coming over everything. She'd saved him once, brought him back from death's door, but that debt had been paid long ago. Now she was just another player in Gotham's endless game of masks and shadows.

  Jason was too sober for this crap. Ra's being back meant sleepless nights, impossible choices, and probably more than a few explosions. Just another Tuesday in Gotham.

  "He was. Things change," Talia was fixed on the gun parts scattered across the bench. "I thought you might want to know, given your... history with the League."

  "Yeah, being murdered tends to create some history," he wiped his hands on a rag. "Why tell me and not Bruce?"

  "Because you'll actually do something about it. Bruce..." She shook her head. "He'd investigate, gather evidence, plan. Meanwhile, my father's operatives would complete the mission that brought them here."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The al Ghuls were like cockroaches - impossible to kill and always coming back when you least wanted them. Every time he thought they were done, they'd crawl out of whatever hole they'd been hiding in, ready to start the cycle of destruction all over again.

  He knew their game by now. Ra's would show up with some grand scheme to "cleanse" the world, Bruce would get caught up playing detective, and bodies would pile up while the old man gathered his evidence. Then there'd be a big showdown, Ra's would "die," and a few months later they'd do it all again. Like a carzy merry-go-round that never stopped spinning.

  At least Talia was direct about it. She didn't pretend to be anything other than what she was - a killer, a survivor, someone who'd do whatever it took to achieve her goals. Not like Bruce with his rules and his moral high ground. Sometimes a bullet was better than a batarang, but try telling that to the old man.

  Jason died once already thanks to this family's games. Being brought back hadn't made him any fonder of their bullshit. The al Ghuls treated death like a minor inconvenience, something to be overcome with a quick dip in the Lazarus Pit. No wonder they never learned their lesson - there were no real consequences for them.

  The whole thing was exhausting. Maybe that's why he preferred his way of handling things. No games, no resurrection pits, just permanent solutions to persistent problems. But even he had to admit - you couldn't permanently solve the al Ghuls. They were like a curse on Gotham, always lurking in the shadows, waiting for their next chance to watch the world burn.

  "Sorry, I got my hands full," Jason said, wiping grease off his fingers with an old shop rag. He tossed it onto the bench and leaned back against the Ducati, crossing his arms.

  "Why is that?"

  "Not something you need to be concerned with," he shrugged, pushing off the bike and turning back to his tools. "But thanks for the info, by the way. I can handle myself."

  Talia tilted her head, like a predator sizing up its prey. "Is it something to do with that bombing incident in Arkham City?"

  Jason froze for a second at the mention of Arkham, then reached for another wrench on the workbench. "How’d you know about that?"

  "It’s called the news," she said, her lips curling just enough to piss him off.

  "Of course. How dumb of me," he said, tightening a bolt on the bike harder than necessary.

  "You want me to help you?"

  He laughed. "No thanks. I can handle myself."

  Her eyes flicked toward him, narrowing as if she didn’t believe him. "Is that so? It looks like you need help."

  She change her stance from one foot to the other, all casual-like, but Jason caught how her attention lingered on the cluttered desk and the scattered blueprints for Arkham’s security systems.

  "Seriously?" he snapped, dropping the wrench onto his workbench with a clatter. "Talia—why are you really here? Is it because of your problems or mine? Because last I checked, mine were stacking up faster than I can count."

  "Maybe I’m capable of caring about both."

  "Bullcrap," he fired back without hesitation and pointed a finger at her like he was accusing her of a crime. "You don’t just show up out of nowhere unless there’s something in it for you—or Daddy Dearest."

  Jason knew better by now. Every offer of help came with strings attached - that's how the game worked in Gotham.

  The truth had hit him like a crowbar to the chest years ago: no one really gave a damn about anyone else. Not in this city. Not in this life. Everyone had an angle they were working, a goal they were chasing. Even Bruce, for all his talk about family and justice, saw people as pieces on his grand chessboard. Tools to be used in his endless war on crime.

  Jason had learned that lesson the hard way, buried six feet under while everyone moved on without him. When he clawed his way back to life, the world hadn't stopped spinning. No one had saved him - he'd saved himself. The only reason he still played along with Bruce's crusade was out of respect for what the man had once meant to him. Nothing more.

  He'd built his own path now, carved out his corner of Gotham where at least the rules were honest: trust no one, expect nothing, and always watch your back. It wasn't pretty, but it was real. And real was all he had left after everything else had been stripped away.

  Talia just stood with that unnerving calm she always carried around her like armor. Finally, she spoke: "Why can’t it be both?"

  Jason snorted and shook his head as he grabbed a screwdriver and went back to prying a stripped screw loose from one of the panels. "Because nothing in this city ever gets done without an angle. You’ve got one; I just haven’t figured it out yet."

  The screw came loose and his knuckles slammed into the side of the bike hard enough to sting.

  "You’re too cynical for your own good," Talia said after a moment.

  "And you’re too naive if you think I don’t see what this is," Jason shot back as he sucked on his scraped knuckles. "You don’t trust me—you never have—but now Ra’s is back in Gotham and suddenly I’m your go-to guy? Screw that."

  "This isn’t about trust—it’s about survival," she said, stepping closer but still staying just outside arm’s reach—the way she always did when things got tense between them.

  "Funny how those two things always seem mutually exclusive in your world," Jason muttered under his breath before turning back around to face her.

  "I see."

  "So what is it?" he asked as he gestured between them. "What do you really want from me? Another pawn for your dad’s stupid chessboard? Sorry—tell Ra's I'm retired."

  Talia's expression didn't change much—if anything it grew colder—but there was something in her eyes now that might’ve been disappointment, or maybe amusement disguised as something softer.

  "I thought you'd be smarter than this," she said before turning away from him. "I thought you’d understand the stakes without me having to spell them out for you. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the Lazarus Pit didn’t just bring you back—it made you blind."

  Jason growled low in his throat. "Careful, Talia. You’re not exactly stepping on safe ground here, either. You think you can waltz in with your cryptic warnings and your holier-than-thou attitude and I’ll just fall in line? Newsflash: I don’t dance to anyone’s tune anymore—not yours, not Ra’s, not even Bruce’s."

  Talia stepped back, her fingers trailing along the edge of the workbench. "Anyways, if you ever need help, you know where to find me."

  "Yeah, just follow the trail of bodies and burning cities. Hard to miss," Jason picked up a wrench and turned back to the bike, making it clear the conversation was over.

  She paused at the warehouse entrance, one hand on the door frame. "You're not as alone as you think, Jason."

  "Save the pep talk. I've got work to do," he didn't look up as her footsteps faded into the night.

  The warehouse felt emptier without her presence, but Jason preferred it that way. No complications, no mind games, just him and his bike. He tightened the last bolt and ran his hand over the repaired panel. Tomorrow would bring new problems, but for now, this was enough.