#pelawennight

Hey bestie 😘

Thank you so much for all the love and support. I took my original one-shot and turned it into a full series, because how could I not?

This one's got ghost fights, Bat-boy chaos, sibling drama, and Jason Todd catching feelings after getting his ass kicked by a therapist.

I’m having way too much fun—hope you are too!

(See end of post for more notes!)

The unassuming town of Amity, Illinois, shimmered under the afternoon sun, a picture of Midwestern normalcy that belied the chaotic ectoplasmic reality hidden beneath its surface. Fields of corn stretched to the horizon, dotted with the occasional farmhouse and a smattering of forgotten industrial structures. Perched precariously in the skeletal remains of an abandoned grain silo overlooking the town, Jason Todd (Red Hood), Dick Grayson (Nightwing), and Tim Drake (Red Robin) meticulously scanned FentonWorks through high-powered optics. The silo, a relic of a bygone agricultural era, offered a wide, if exposed, vantage point over the residential streets, and the bizarre, anachronistic structure that was the Fenton residence.

Back in Gotham, Bruce Wayne was receiving real-time feeds, his typically unreadable face betraying a rare flicker of concern that had only deepened over the past month. His adopted daughter, Cassandra Cain, their usually stoic and emotionally distant sister, had been… different. Her guarded shell had cracked, revealing glimpses of a lightheartedness they rarely saw. Her smiles, once a fleeting glimpse, were becoming more frequent, openly genuine. Her phone, once a mere communication tool for mission-critical updates or quick nods of affirmation, was practically fused to her hand, constantly buzzing with messages from "Danny." They’d seen video calls where Danny, radiating an easy charm and a slightly goofy grin, made Cass laugh—a soft, breathy sound that was music to their ears. She’d even tried to teach him some basic martial arts moves over video, a sight that had nearly given Bruce a heart attack, until he saw Danny’s endearing, clumsy attempts and Cass’s patient, gentle corrections.

The Fentons, Bruce had quickly compiled, were notorious for their "mad scientist" tendencies and their penchant for accidental chaos. Their files, compiled from fragmented news reports and obscure online forums, painted a picture of brilliant, if utterly unhinged, researchers obsessed with the paranormal. It was a bizarre narrative, but one that had surprisingly impressed the usually unflappable Dark Knight when he saw how effortlessly young Danny Fenton navigated their bizarre inventions and antics during the initial Wayne Enterprises visit. He’d even witnessed a brief, bewildering video snippet that Cass had saved from one of their chats: Danny accidentally phasing through his own bed, eliciting a silent, delighted laugh from Cass that had resonated deeply with them all.

Now, with talks of Cass actually visiting this "Danny" in Amity, Bruce had dispatched his most reliable (and, Jason would argue, expendable) sons to get a read on the situation. The directive was clear: observe and report. Assess the kid, the town, and any potential threats. The Justice League, financed largely by Bruce, prided itself on global awareness and preparedness for every conceivable menace. The idea that a hidden variable—an entire town, perhaps—especially one affecting a member of his own family, could exist without their knowledge was an anomaly he couldn't abide. It was a gaping hole in their intel.

"Still nothing," Tim grumbled into his comm, his voice a low drone of frustration. He adjusted the focus on his binoculars, which were currently trained on the quaint, slightly tilted house labeled 'FentonWorks.' The building itself looked like a cross between a suburban home and a low-budget research facility, complete with strange antenna dishes and what appeared to be a giant, metal, archway-shaped device in the backyard. "No known meta-activity, no rogue League members hiding out. Just… corn. And a surprising amount of lawn gnomes. My sensors are barely picking up anything anomalous. It’s like the whole town is a dead zone for standard readings, and then suddenly bursts of high-level… something that my instruments can’t even categorize." He gestured vaguely at the flickering readings on his wrist-mounted console.

"She's been talking to him for over a month, Tim," Dick reminded him, his voice softer, yet firm. He leaned against a rusting metal beam, scanning the horizon with his own optics. "Cass doesn't open up to just anyone. There has to be something here. Something more than corn." He sighed, remembering a recent video call where Cass was patiently showing Danny a complex martial arts move, their heads close together, eyes sparkling with shared amusement. The simple, unburdened happiness on her face was worth the trip alone. It was a rare, precious thing.

Jason snorted, wiping dust from his helmet with a gloved hand. "Yeah, something called 'teenage infatuation.' Or maybe the kid's a master manipulator. My money's still on him being a serial killer who uses 'quirky mad scientist parents' as a cover." He glanced at the makeshift thermal map of the town on Tim's tablet, which showed perfectly normal, if slightly too warm, readings from the Fenton residence. "Seriously, this town is flat. No decent vantage points, no shadows. It's like it's designed to be inconvenient for us. Bruce must hate this place."

Their initial assessment, however, was spectacularly, spectrally, wrong.

Their first night was supposed to be a quiet data-gathering session, a routine observation punctuated by the incessant chirping of crickets and the distant croaking of frogs. They watched Danny help his parents, Jack and Maddie, wrangle what looked suspiciously like a giant, glowing toaster into a specially reinforced shed behind their house. It hummed with a low, unnatural thrum. Jack, a man built like a barrel with wild black hair, nearly tripped over his own feet, sending the glowing device wobbling precariously. Maddie, sharp and focused, barked instructions that sounded like a mix of particle physics and enthusiastic culinary advice.

"Are those… Ghostbusters props?" Tim whispered, incredulous, zooming in on the glowing appliance. "That's clearly not an appropriate use of government grants, even if they're independent. And that's a lot of ectoplasm showing up on my ambient scanners now. It's like it just appeared. And it's not a known energy signature. My instruments are having trouble filtering it out, it’s saturating the air."

Suddenly, the air directly in front of the Fenton house shimmered, twisting like heat haze off asphalt, growing denser and more opaque. A portly, spectral figure, vaguely humanoid but unmistakably translucent, materialized with a dramatic WHOOSH. He wore a cardboard box for a hat and gestured dramatically at a stack of ordinary moving boxes next to the front door. His eyes glowed a sickly green, and his form rippled like heat in a desert. "I am the Box Ghost! Beware! Beware of my cardboard wrath! For I control all things… rectangular!" he boomed, his voice echoing with an unnatural resonance that vibrated through the silo, rattling loose bits of grain and dust.

The Bat-Brothers froze. Jason instinctively reached for one of the Red Hood's hidden firearms, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. Dick narrowed his eyes, analyzing the spectral form, recognizing it as something entirely outside their established threat parameters. It wasn't a meta-human, not an alien they knew, and definitely not a magical construct of any known earthly origin. Tim, ever the analyst, frantically typed notes on his wrist-mounted computer, trying to cross-reference the apparition with any known meta-human, alien, or magical profiles. Nothing matched. His systems, usually so robust, were sputtering, struggling to even categorize the energy readings that spiked wildly around the spectral entity. "He's… he's literally made of… ghost?" Tim whispered, his voice a mixture of awe and utter disbelief.

Before they could fully process the utter absurdity of the situation, a blur of white and black shot out of the Fenton house. Danny, now glowing with an eerie green aura, his hair a shocking white, intercepted the ghost mid-boast. "Oh, come on, Boxy! It's Tuesday! Don't you have a convention to haunt? Or a basement full of empty Amazon boxes calling your name? I’m seriously trying to get to bed before midnight for once!"

What followed was a brief, utterly bewildering aerial skirmish. Danny, or rather "Phantom," as the ghostly figure was now audibly calling himself, effortlessly dodged a flying stapler, phased through the roof of the shed to avoid a spectral filing cabinet, and fired glowing green ecto-blasts from his hands. The Box Ghost, for his part, tried to overwhelm Phantom with an onslaught of spectral packing peanuts and a haunting pronouncement about the perils of square footage. Then, with a weary sigh that carried clearly even to the silo, Phantom summoned a glowing thermos, aimed, and with a loud thwump, sucked the glowing Box Ghost into it. The spectral energies dissipated, and the air cleared.

Phantom then reverted to his human form, his hair returning to black, the green glow fading. He wiped a hand across his forehead, looking utterly exhausted. "Right. That's done. Time for homework," he muttered, trudging back into the house, a faint hum of ecto-energy lingering in the air.

The Bat-Brothers exchanged stunned glances. The silence in the silo was deafening, broken only by the chirping crickets, now sounding remarkably normal.

"Did… did he just fight a ghost?" Jason finally managed, his voice laced with utter disbelief, his hand still hovering over his weapon. He felt ridiculous for even considering drawing on that. His Gotham training offered no counter-strategy for a sentient cardboard box.

"And he's a ghost himself?" Dick added, eyes wide, still processing the sheer impossibility of what they'd just witnessed. "He just… transformed. Like a meta-human. But… into that. And he's Cass's boyfriend. Bruce, are you seeing this?"

Tim's fingers flew across his keyboard, his usual rapid-fire data processing overwhelmed. "My sensors are going haywire. Ectoplasmic signatures off the charts. Energy readings… they're not registering on any known scale. And the town… it's like a low-level static on every wavelength. This whole town is radiating anomalous energy! This isn't just a localized event; it's systemic." He pulled up a map, now overlaid with pulsing green hotspots, emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Every block, every home, seemed to have its own faint, bizarre signature. "And this 'Phantom' is the epicenter of it all. He's part of it."

Over the next few days, their surveillance became a rapid descent into the utterly absurd. Their strategic observations turned into bewildered spectator sports, where the main attraction was the seemingly endless parade of bizarre, intangible threats, and the perpetually tired teenage hero who fought them. They ate lukewarm energy bars and watched Amity's daily paranormal circus unfold.

They witnessed battles, often several times a day, sometimes in the middle of the school day, sometimes late at night. There was Ember McLain, a spectral goth girl who controlled music, turning pop hits into ear-splitting screeches and shattering windows with a sonic wail, demanding to be recognized. There was the Lunch Lady ghost, a monstrous blob made of school lunch residue, oozing through the cafeteria walls, furious about nutritional guidelines. There was Skulker, a towering, armored hunter ghost, who engaged Phantom in brutal aerial dogfights over the local diner, always demanding a challenge. And then there were the countless minor annoyances: a hyperactive poltergeist with a penchant for pranks involving flying pizza and turning all streetlights green; a towering, skeletal cowboy who rode a ghostly steed through Main Street, lassoing parked cars for target practice; even a sentient, haunted sandwich that tried to steal the local bakery's bread.

Each time, "Phantom" swooped in to save the day. He’d phase through walls with casual ease, fly at impossible speeds, fire ecto-blasts that shattered spectral forms, and always, always end the encounter by sucking the spectral menace into a thermos. He’d do it with a sarcastic quip ("Seriously, Meat-head? Still trying to make me eat those soggy tacos?"), a weary sigh ("Can we just not today, Spectra? I have a calculus test."), or a muttered complaint about being late for class or needing a shower. He looked perpetually tired, a dark smudge under his eyes that no amount of sleep could fix. His movements were precise, practiced, almost elegant despite the raw power he wielded. He was clearly a veteran, a phantom in his own right, fighting a war no one else seemed to notice.

The Bat-Brothers, seasoned veterans of Gotham's bizarre underworld, found themselves utterly out of their depth. Their gadgets, designed to counter conventional threats—criminal gangs, meta-human villains, even the occasional alien skirmish—were useless against beings that could simply phase through them, or were themselves intangible. Their training, honed against human and meta-human adversaries, didn't account for incorporeal combatants. They had to rely on Phantom to indirectly save their hides more times than they cared to admit, often without him even knowing they were there.

One afternoon, while trailing Danny from school, they tried to get a closer look at a glowing, green portal that had spontaneously appeared in the town square. Before they could get within fifty feet, a ghostly, furry creature with glowing red eyes and razor claws burst through it, shrieking like a banshee. It looked like a monstrous wolf, all teeth and shadow. Jason immediately engaged, firing a warning shot from his non-lethal sidearm, but the creature simply phased through the bullet, its shriek growing louder as it lunged for him. Just as it was about to rip into his tactical gear, a blur of white and green intercepted it, Phantom slamming into the creature and sending it howling back into the portal with a resounding thwumph. The portal blinked shut.

"This isn't 'stalking a potential threat,'" Jason grumbled into his comm later that night, patching a new rip in his sleeve that had mysteriously appeared from an invisible ghost's claw. "This is getting our asses handed to us by… lunch lady ghosts and whatever the hell that 'Wulf' thing was. And he just teleported to save my ass. Again. For the fifth time today! My armor's getting more ectoplasm than bullet holes!"

Tim, perpetually exhausted and running on lukewarm coffee and sheer stubbornness, just stared blankly at a thermal reading of a haunted toaster that was currently causing a minor electrical fire at a local diner, making toast pop out of the toaster at impossible speeds. "My brain can't process this. Gotham has Joker. Amity has… a sentient toaster. And a Box Ghost. What is happening? More importantly, how long has this been going on, and why doesn't the Justice League know? Bruce, the League is global. How could an entire town of active, pervasive supernatural phenomena be completely off their radar? Has he been doing this for years? Decades? The sheer volume of spectral energy radiating from this place should be a flashing beacon in space!"

Dick, despite the overwhelming chaos and the genuine danger they faced, found himself increasingly fascinated. "He's genuinely good, though. He protects this town, and he does it alone. He's tired. He moves like a veteran, a ghost himself, but he’s still just a kid. And his parents… they're building the very things that seem to attract and contain these entities. How is his family stuck in the middle of all this? Is it accidental? Deliberate? And he died, didn't he? Bruce, the files said something about an accident with the portal. He's a kid, Bruce. Just a kid, doing this every single day." He watched Phantom, currently battling a giant, spectral dragon high above the town, his movements precise and practiced, almost elegant despite the raw power he wielded. The weight of his burden was palpable even from this distance, etched onto his tired, ghostly face.

Bruce's voice, gravelly and analytical, came through the comms, cutting through the static of their bewilderment. "The energy signatures are unique. Unquantifiable by known League metrics. This warrants further investigation. Continue observation. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary for your own survival. A full League debrief will be required upon your return. This… changes things. Everything."

"Too late for 'not engaging,' B," Jason muttered, eyeing another glowing entity floating past their silo, a grinning spectral clown juggling spectral bowling pins. "He's already had to save our asses three times this week. And what the hell are we supposed to tell the League? 'Sorry, we found a town full of ghosts and a teenage half-ghost who's been doing your job for who-knows-how-long, and we accidentally stumbled into his girlfriend's bizarre homelife'?" He felt a strange mix of annoyance and grudging respect for the kid. This Danny kid, this Phantom, was a force of nature, a one-man clean-up crew for an entire supernatural epidemic. And he was tired. A growing sense of dread about explaining any of this to the League settled in Jason's gut. He could already hear Diana's questions about mythological entities, Arthur's skepticism about land-locked anomalies, and Clark's cheerful but ultimately unhelpful suggestions about offering a "friendly hand."

Unbeknownst to them, their covert surveillance had not gone unnoticed. Jazz Fenton, Danny’s older sister, was many things: a psychology prodigy with an unnervingly keen eye for human (and spectral) behavior, fiercely intelligent, and burdened with an acute awareness of her parents’ scientific negligence and her brother’s impossible secret. She had navigated their dysfunctional, ghost-obsessed household with a mix of academic detachment and unwavering protectiveness for years. She'd known about Danny's powers since he first accidentally phased through the living room wall; she'd been the one to help him figure out his abilities, to keep his secret, to pick up the pieces when their parents' experiments went awry. She knew he'd died and come back, half-ghost, and she knew the terrifying weight of his secret, the constant battles, the bone-deep exhaustion that perpetually shadowed his eyes. And she’d accepted it, managing it the only way she knew how: with structure, copious therapy notes (for everyone but herself, of course), and a perpetually vigilant eye on her baby brother.

When Danny started getting giddy texts from "Cass," Jazz had been cautiously optimistic. A normal connection! A lifeline to something outside their paranormal circus. But then, the phone calls turned into video chats where she'd glimpse shadowy figures in the background on Cass's end, figures that moved with a certain predatory grace. A few carefully placed, anonymous searches about "Gotham vigilantes" and "masked figures operating in secret" sent a chill down her spine. The blurry images she found were enough. Men in tactical gear, lurking in the shadows, always near Cass. And now, Danny was talking about Cass visiting Amity. The pieces clicked into place with an alarming, horrifying certainty. Her baby brother was being drawn into a world of costumed psychopaths and brooding billionaires.

No. Absolutely not.

Jazz had enough on her plate with her parents accidentally summoning interdimensional demons on a bi-weekly basis. Her baby brother, who had already faced death and embraced a terrifying power to protect their bizarre town, was not going to be drawn into the theatrics of self-appointed, spandex-clad vigilantes. Especially not by masked men who seemed to be stalking him and, by extension, her family. Her protective older sister instincts, honed by years of parental neglect and ghostly emergencies, flared into a protective inferno.

She had been tracking the anomalous energy signatures they'd been giving off since they arrived. They were subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone not actively looking for them – a faint technological hum, a barely-there electrical discharge, traces of unique fabrics. But Jazz’s custom-built ecto-scanners (hidden inside a seemingly innocuous psychology textbook in her backpack) had pinged their unique wavelengths for days. Tonight, the readings were concentrated right above the old grain silo. Perfect. She slipped out of the house, a grim determination in her eyes, leaving her parents blissfully unaware, as usual.

The Bat-Brothers were deep in their comms, debating the feasibility of using sonic disruptors against an entirely incorporeal foe, utterly oblivious to the approaching storm. Tim was frantically trying to input new parameters for ghost classification, while Dick was contemplating if a full-spectrum light bomb could affect spectral beings. Jason was just grumbling about the existential dread of sentient pastries. A soft thump echoed from behind them. They spun, their trained reflexes kicking in, dropping into defensive stances honed over years in Gotham's darkest alleys.

Standing calmly in the dim, dusty light of the silo, a redheaded young woman in sensible jeans and a crimson hoodie looked at them. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, narrowed as she took in their tactical gear, their masks, their very presence. She knew exactly what they were. The "training wheels Justice League" as she'd mentally dubbed them.

"So," Jazz Fenton said, her voice cutting through the tension, surprisingly calm given the circumstances. "You're the creepy stalkers who've been tracking my little brother." Her tone was deceptively light, but the underlying steel was unmistakable, a prelude to the psychological onslaught she was about to unleash.

Jason, Red Hood, ever the impulsive one, took a step forward, his hand subtly going to a holstered weapon. "Look, lady, we're just—"

He never finished the sentence. Jazz moved with a speed that belied her unassuming appearance. It wasn't the fluid, almost dancing grace of a trained martial artist like Cass, but something sharper, more direct, born of exasperation and years of dealing with literal monsters. She didn’t aim to injure, but to assert, to make a point with undeniable physical force. With a fluid movement that surprised even Nightwing, she executed a perfect roundhouse kick. It connected squarely with Jason’s chest, the muffled thwack audible even through his armor. He grunted, surprised, and stumbled backward, losing his footing on the rickety wooden planks of the silo's observation deck. He tumbled over the edge, disappearing with a surprised "oof!" into the tall grass and shadowy debris below.

Dick, Nightwing, and Tim, Red Robin, stared, dumbfounded, their defensive stances momentarily forgotten. Their comms, for once, were utterly silent.

"Jason!" Dick yelled, rushing to the edge, peering down into the darkness.

"He deserved it," Jazz declared, calmly dusting off her hands, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "Trying to intimidate a psychological professional. Amateur. Honestly, the posturing is a textbook defense mechanism for deep-seated insecurities." She turned her gaze to Tim, who immediately took a more guarded stance, feeling oddly exposed despite his mask. "And you," she pointed a finger at him, her voice holding a note of exasperated concern, as if addressing a particularly difficult therapy patient, "you look like you're perpetually stressed. Dark circles. Caffeine addiction, I'd wager. You probably need a nap. And a less demanding job. Perhaps a hobby that doesn't involve lurking in dilapidated structures."

Tim, genuinely flustered by the pinpoint accuracy of her assessment, stammered, "I—I'm fine. Who are you?"

"I'm Jazz Fenton," she announced, her voice firm and clear, projecting an authority that made them both instinctively pause. "Danny's older sister. And if you think you're going to drag my baby brother into your little cape-and-cowl drama, you've got another thing coming." She then fixed Nightwing with a steely, unblinking glare that pierced straight through his domino mask. "And you. You look like the leader. You need to tell whoever you work for – Bruce Wayne, I presume, given his daughter's… particular circle of acquaintances – that if they lay one gloved hand on my brother, if they try to interfere with his life or, God forbid, try to recruit him, I will personally dissect their psychological profile and expose every single one of their neuroses to the entire city. I will publish it. I will lecture on it. Your mysterious lives? Over. Capiche?"

Dick, usually unflappable, the master of de-escalation, the one who could talk down angry villains and comfort traumatized victims, could only gape, his mouth slightly ajar behind his mask. "What the fuck is wrong with this town?" he muttered under his breath, utterly bewildered by the sudden, unexpected, and terrifyingly competent civilian intervention. This wasn't just a threat; it was a deeply personal, meticulously planned, psychological ambush.

Before Jazz could deliver another psychological threat, a new presence shimmered into existence beside her, a flash of white and green. Phantom materialized, his white hair a mess, his glowing green eyes wide with panic as he took in the scene: Jazz, mid-rant, and two bewildered masked figures, with a third, even more bewildered one, slowly rising from the ground below. He'd been battling a particularly persistent spectral clown that kept turning innocent citizens into balloon animals, and his ecto-sense had just screamed at him that Jazz was about to do something drastically embarrassing.

"Jasmine!" Danny, as Phantom, hissed, his voice laced with mortification, his spectral glow flickering with agitated energy. He saw Red Hood slowly picking himself up from the ground below, rubbing his chest. "Oh my god, Jasmine! Tell me you didn't just punt-kick an ex-crime lord off a roof! Please, please, please tell me you didn't!" He turned to the two masked figures still on the platform, his glowing eyes widening apologetically. "I am so sorry about her. She's… very protective. And a bit dramatic. She means well, mostly." He floated slightly, wringing his spectral hands. "Look, I know this is weird, and I know you guys are… well, you guys. Could you please, please not send Batman here? He'd just make things worse. He’d probably try to analyze the ghosts, or worse, put them in Arkham. And honestly, we've got enough problems with the actual ghosts without adding a brooding vigilante and his highly trained, hyper-competent-but-currently-traumatized family to the mix."

Red Hood slowly looked up from the ground, brushing himself off. The dust of the silo stuck to his armor, and he felt a phantom ache in his chest where the kick had landed. He saw Phantom hovering, a kid in a ghostly suit, clearly mortified by his sister's actions. He then saw Jazz, arms crossed, looking at Danny with a look that clearly said, 'He started it, little brother, and frankly, I'm proud.' A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up Jason's neck, spreading beneath his helmet. "Huh. She's… got a good kick," he mumbled, a strange, new thought blooming in his very confused mind. She had audacity. And she was protecting her brother. And that red hair… yeah.

Red Robin, however, was already done. He clutched his head, eyes wide with a mixture of exasperation and existential terror. "I'm so done. I'm taking a sabbatical. To a deserted island. With no internet. And no ghosts. Or highly articulate, psychologically astute older sisters who can apparently punt highly trained vigilantes into next week."

Jazz, a triumphant smirk gracing her lips, ignored Danny's mortified apologies. "Now," she said, cutting across him, her voice resonating with finality, "if you'll excuse us, my brother and I have actual interdimensional threats to deal with, largely thanks to our parents'… enthusiasm. You boys have fun with your… whatever this is. And seriously," she added, her voice echoing as she pulled a still-apologetic Danny (who was still trying to explain that the kick was "an accident, mostly," and that Jason was "probably a nice guy, underneath the ex-crime lord thing") by the ear, "therapy. It helps. And communication. You need better communication skills. That's a foundational principle, people."

Danny, still red-faced, gave one last frantic, apologetic wave to the bewildered Bat-Brothers before Jazz dragged him away, both of them dematerializing and disappearing into the Amity night, leaving two very confused, and one very intrigued, masked vigilantes behind. The hum of the ecto-energy, once a strange anomaly, now felt like the heartbeat of the most bewildering town they had ever encountered. Gotham had nothing on Amity, Illinois.

📌 Bonus Notes (at the end of the post):

I love when Jazz goes full big sister mode and Danny panics like “NOOO DON’T KICK THE BATMEN.”

Because what do you mean you yeeted Red Hood off a silo... and he liked it 🤣🤣🤣

This one-shot that follows Ghostly Welcome Wagon. You don’t need to read the others to follow this, but it helps for context. This fic focuses on Jazz Fenton and Jason Todd teaming up (very reluctantly, very flirtatiously) during a supernatural incident at Arkham Asylum. Expect action, banter, emotional whiplash, and Red Hood realizing he has a very intense protective streak when it comes to one Jazz Fenton. Also: yes, the thermos still works. Yes, Phantom is dramatic. And yes, Jason is down bad. Life is a bit of a rain storm right now, I hope this one-shot made you laugh as much as I did. I don't own anything but the plot and strangely Eris and Crimson who I adore, every princess needs a sidekick.

Gotham had a rhythm. Sirens in the distance, a melancholic wail against the thrum of the city. Concrete hissed after the rain, steaming faintly under the wan glow of streetlights. The low, deceptive pulse of a city pretending it could sleep. Red Hood moved with it, a shadow among shadows, silent and deliberate, his heavy, reinforced boots skimming along the rooftop ledge like a ghost that knew better than to haunt, knew better than to be caught.

He wasn’t chasing a lead tonight. Not exactly. His comms were quiet, the usual patrol routes clear. He was tracking a… curiosity. A soft, unexpected anomaly in Gotham’s relentless static.

There she was.

Third time this week he’d found himself drawn to this particular stretch of East End.

Jazz Fenton, a vibrant splash of color against the city's grim palette, wrapped in a long, almost defiant burgundy coat that swirled around her knees. Her practical leather bag was slung securely across her chest, and she marched down the cracked sidewalk with an almost reckless confidence, as if the city didn’t try to chew people like her up nightly. Most civilians wouldn’t walk through East End after ten. Definitely not after midnight. But then again, most civilians hadn’t survived growing up in Amity Park — or, he thought, a familiar ache blooming in his ribs, dropkicked him off a silo mid-argument.

He rubbed the spot on his ribs out of instinct, a phantom ache. Healed. Months ago. Still annoying.

She hadn’t meant to do it. He knew that. She’d panicked, reacted to a ghost he was grappling with. But that didn’t mean he’d stopped watching. Not after she’d somehow managed to dislodge him with a single, unpracticed kick, sending him sprawling into the field below while calmly trapping the poltergeist he’d been chasing.

There was something about her. Besides the obvious ghost royalty thing, the whispers of an entire other dimension clinging to her like faint ecto-residue. Besides the fact she could read your entire trauma profile just by how you blinked, judging by the unsettlingly accurate casual observations she’d sometimes make. She was… calm. Even now, walking straight into a part of Gotham where cops didn’t patrol and monsters wore flesh and shadow. A strange, serene resilience that called to something feral and protective deep within him.

And she knew she was being followed. He was sure of it.

She wasn’t glancing back, not overtly. But he saw the subtle shift in her posture, the way she adjusted her pace, sticking to the better-lit parts of the street, shifting her weight like someone prepping for a fight. Her hand, he noticed, was loosely clenching something in her coat pocket.

She knew.

He kept his distance, a silent sentinel in the gloom. Tonight wasn’t about confrontation. Just confirmation.

She was living here now. Permanently.

Jason had checked tenant records three nights ago, just to be sure. Paid in full under an alias. Doctor Jasmine Fenton, grad student, trauma psych and parapsychology specialist. Floor six. South corner. No roommates. Landlord: dummy corp. owned by one of his shell LLCs.

Of all the buildings in Gotham, she picked his.

Of course she did. The irony was almost comical, a dark, twisted joke only Gotham could appreciate.

She turned suddenly. No fear in her movements, just precision. A calculated stop beneath a broken streetlamp, its flickering light casting dancing shadows that curled around her boots. She looked up.

Right at him. Her gaze, even from this distance, felt unnervingly direct, intelligent.

No words were exchanged. Just that look — a cross between are you serious and don’t make me come up there . A challenge, delivered with an almost bored patience.

He sighed into his helmet, a gust of warm air against the cool metal. Then, with a practiced, fluid motion, he dropped down.

He landed with the quiet grace of someone who didn’t always used to, the barest whisper of sound as his boots met the grimy pavement.

Jazz didn’t flinch. Her arms crossed the moment his boots hit pavement, a gesture of almost parental disapproval. She regarded him like he was an overdue therapy client. Or a slightly toxic houseplant that had inexplicably sprouted in her living room.

"Following me?" she asked, cool and crisp, her voice cutting through the urban hum like a razor.

"No," he said, adjusting his stance, trying to project casual indifference. "Tracking a potential anomaly."

"Uh-huh." She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, unimpressed. "And the anomaly happens to walk home every Thursday from Arkham’s trauma department?"

He gave a small shrug, the movement stiff within his armored jacket. "Ghosts like trauma. You’re a trauma magnet. I connect the dots."

Jazz let out a sharp breath that might’ve been a laugh or a hiss, a sound of pure exasperation. "I’m not a magnet, I’m a grad student."

"Same thing in Gotham."

The silence settled between them like fog — soft, but clinging, heavy with unspoken things. The distant wail of a siren underscored the bizarre normalcy of their interaction.

Jazz shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. Her gaze, even in the dim light, felt like it was peeling back layers he usually kept hidden. "You’re not exactly subtle, you know."

"I wasn’t trying to be," he admitted, a rare flicker of honesty.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate movement. "So you admit you’ve been tailing me."

"I’ve been… nearby."

"That’s not better."

Over the next two months, their strange, unspoken routine solidified.

First Week.

Jazz walked in silence for half a block, her strides even, before asking, "Do you always breathe that loudly through the helmet or is that a special effect for dramatic entrances?" The ghost of a smile touched her lips.

Red Hood chuckled, a low, rasping sound. "You trying to give me a complex already?"

"Just trying to assess the soundscape of my commute. Need to know what to put in my research notes."

He offered her a coffee from a dingy street cart, its steam rising in the cold air. She didn’t take it. Not that night.

Second Week.

He handed her the coffee again, the paper cup warm against her chilled fingers. This time, she took it. Black. Bitter. Strong enough to chew, its taste like Gotham itself.

"God, what is this, tar?" she grimaced, but took another sip.

"Welcome to Gotham," he replied, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

Third Week.

He found her, not walking, but lecturing a raccoon out of attacking someone’s trash bin. The rodent seemed unusually receptive. It might've been possessed. He wouldn’t put it past Amity Park’s lingering influence.

"You giving therapy sessions to rodents now?" he deadpanned, leaning against a graffiti-scarred wall.

"Only the emotionally avoidant ones."

He laughed. For real. A genuine, unforced sound that surprised them both. She tried not to smile. Failed. A faint blush dusted her cheeks in the pale lamplight.

Fifth Week.

"You still think I’m dangerous?" he asked one night as they passed a flickering lamppost, its dying light casting long, dancing shadows. His voice was lower than usual, almost introspective.

Jazz thought for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren. Then she answered, her voice quiet but firm, "No. I think you’re complicated."

"You say that like it’s worse."

"Sometimes it is."

Sixth Week.

She asked, "Why me? Why do you keep… orbiting?"

He didn’t answer at first, the question hanging in the cold night air. Then finally, his voice a low confession: "Because you didn’t flinch. Not once. Not when you saw me, not when I threatened you, not when you saw the things I deal with."

J azz frowned, a slight crease forming between her brows. "That’s a weird reason to stalk someone, you know."

"I don’t stalk. I orbit. Like a satellite."

"You realize satellites are used to monitor people, right? To gather intelligence? To spy?"

"...Dammit."

Eighth Week.

They both showed up at the same dingy coffee cart by accident, the vendor, a wizened old man, barely glancing up from his steaming urn.

"Don’t tell me you have a tracker on my caffeine habits, too," she said dryly, eyeing his helmet.

He tilted his head, a gesture that spoke volumes. "Do you get the matcha bun or the sesame one on Wednesdays?"

She narrowed her eyes, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. "You’re impossible."

"You still took the bun."

They sat on a cold, damp bench, the city noise a distant hum. They drank coffee. They didn’t talk about ghosts or crime or trauma. Just weather. The unbearable Gotham traffic. How terrible the student union food was. The brief, mundane comfort was a strange balm.

She offered him half her croissant. He took it, peeling back his helmet just enough to bite into the flaky pastry, a quick, almost vulnerable gesture.

Tenth Week.

The night air was cold, damp, heavy with the scent of impending snow. Her breath fogged as she pulled her burgundy coat tighter around her.

He watched her carefully, his posture stiff but observant. "You good?"

"Long day."

He nodded, a silent acknowledgment. "Wanna talk about it?" The offer was soft, genuine.

Jazz hesitated, her gaze fixed on a distant neon sign. Then, "No. But thanks."

"Offer stands."

She bumped his armored arm lightly with her elbow, a fleeting, almost intimate touch. "So does yours."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. A warm, familiar one, woven into the fabric of Gotham’s own chaotic rhythm.

Twelfth Week.

The article dropped. A grainy photo, probably taken with a long-range lens. Her, walking beside him, a dark, armored figure. Headline vague but implication obvious: Hooded Vigilante Spotted With Mysterious Female Companion .

She didn't freak. Just sighed, a tired, resigned sound. Told him, "Next time, we take the rooftops. You're better camouflaged up there anyway."

"You don’t even like heights," he reminded her, a faint amusement in his voice.

"I don’t like the press more."

He grinned beneath the helmet.

She didn't tell him to stop walking her home.

And he never missed a night.

Arkham Asylum — Lower Level Records Office  00:00

Jazz Fenton should’ve gone home two hours ago.

Instead, she was elbow-deep in backlogged patient transfer records, the fluorescent hum of the Arkham lower levels a dull thrum in her skull. She was redlining a psych report from an overconfident intern who had somehow misspelled "schizotypal" and confused it with “schizophrenia.” Twice. The scent of stale paper and disinfectant clung to the air.

She rubbed her eyes, gritty with exhaustion. Her coffee was cold. Her brain was melting. And the overhead lights flickered.

Again.

She frowned and looked up at the offending fixture, a silent warning in her gaze.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned the ceiling, her voice a low murmur.

The lights held steady for all of three seconds.

Then the hallway echoed with the gleeful cackle of a very familiar voice, thin and reedy, yet undeniably present:

“Oh Princess, you are fun when you're cranky!”

Jazz groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated exasperation. “Crimson. I swear on the Infinite Realms, if you dump another filing cabinet into a security checkpoint—”

A stapler flew past her head, a silver blur.

It embedded in the opposite wall with comedic, ectoplasmic precision, vibrating slightly.

“Whoopsie~!”

The poltergeist known as Crimson Snap—named for his favorite activity (snapping locks and people’s patience)—popped into existence upside down above her desk. He looked like a floating jester made of leftover hospital curtains, vending machine snacks, and psychic static. His grin was unsettlingly wide, his glowing eyes manic. His bowtie, a lurid red, was on fire, but not actually burning anything.

Jazz stood slowly, pushing her chair back with a scrape.

"You're bored," she said flatly, her voice devoid of emotion, a practiced calm. "That's dangerous."

“You’re boring,” he shot back, spinning in the air. “That’s worse. This place is boring . No fun at all! Just sad humans and their sad little thoughts.” He gestured wildly, and a stack of patient files on a nearby cart wobbled ominously.

Jazz sighed. "Don't you dare touch those."

Crimson merely cackled, then phased through the wall, his laughter echoing down the corridor, leaving behind a faint scent of burnt sugar and mischief.

Arkham Asylum — Sub-Level Records Office 00:45

Jazz Fenton wasn’t unused to chaos. She’d been raised in a house with an interdimensional ghost portal in the basement, a constant hum of unreality beneath her feet. She’d babysat her younger brother through ectoplasmic mutations, hunted phantoms in her pajamas, and once performed CPR on a ghost dog made of smoke and teeth. She knew how to think fast, move faster, and when to lie through her teeth to terrified government agents with a smile. Her life had been a masterclass in adapting to the absurd.

So when Arkham’s lights went out, plunging the lower-level records office into a sudden, suffocating darkness, her first thought wasn’t panic. It was protocol. Instinct.

Until the whispers started.

They crawled along the walls, intangible and wrong, thin as ice shards, laced with the scent of ozone and the grave. The cold sank through her skin, bone-deep and bitter, pulling the warmth from her very marrow. Her laptop blinked off, the reliable hum of the generator failed to kick in, and the emergency backup lights, usually so dependable, stayed stubbornly, unnervingly dark.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Arkham was designed for catastrophe. Its systems had backups for the backups.

She stood slowly, her knees brushing the underside of her metal desk, a faint metallic taste of fear in her mouth. Her hand, steady despite the internal tremor, reached for the weapon she wasn’t technically supposed to have within these hallowed, crumbling halls: a collapsible stun rod, sleek and dark, laced with ghost alloy and modified to emit short-range shock pulses. Danny called it “Jazz’s Specter Stick,” a name she privately still found a little silly, but its familiar weight was a cold, solid comfort against the creeping dread.

The fluorescent light tubes above popped one by one, not flickering, but exploding with sharp, percussive sounds, raining shards of glass and dying light into the corridor. The scent of burnt electronics mingled with the underlying antiseptic smell of Arkham, creating a truly noxious, disorienting cocktail.

She moved carefully, her sensible boots silent on the cracked, slick tile. Her ID badge, useless now, glitched against the wall scanner—no power. She didn’t need a manual to tell her the internal lockdown had failed and the heavy, reinforced doors were failing with it, groaning on their hinges, some already swinging open to reveal the darkness beyond.

She passed a security mirror, its surface cracked and grimy.

And something grinned back at her.

Not her reflection.

Purple eyes, like chips of amethyst, gleamed from the glass, reflecting nothing but malice, no light, no soul. They were ancient, hungry.

Jazz swore softly, a low, guttural sound, pivoting hard on her heel, her stun rod snapping into an offensive stance, its ghost-silvered tip humming faintly. “Eris.”

He materialized with the thick, oily shimmer of a full-powered specter, coalescing from the shadows like ink in dark water. Male. Mid- twenties in appearance, perhaps, but impossible to pin down, his form shifting subtly at the edges, a wavering distortion in the air. His dark teal hair looked perpetually wet, clinging to his jaw like seaweed, and his tattered, aristocratic clothing seemed to absorb the scant light, making him appear even darker. And those eyes—ghastly, beautiful, a color not found in the living world, they burned with an ancient, possessive hunger.

"You're a long way from the Zone," she said evenly, her voice betraying none of the cold dread that was beginning to coil in her gut. Her fingers tightened around the rod, her knuckles white.

"I go where my favorite princess wanders," Eris murmured, his voice a silken whisper that seemed to echo from every direction at once, brushing against her skin like breathless fog, a cold caress. He tilted his head, a gesture of mock curiosity, his lips curling into a cruel smile.

"I'm not your anything," Jazz snapped, a flash of genuine anger cutting through her composure, hardening her gaze.

"No," Eris murmured, his smile widening, revealing teeth that seemed a shade too sharp, too white. "But I will be the last thing you see."

Before she could respond, a rush of cold slammed through her, pure, raw ectoplasmic force. Every cell in her body screamed, not from physical pain, but from the raw, spectral shove of a high-level poltergeist trying to weaken her defenses, to force her to her knees. It was like being plunged into liquid nitrogen, the air knocked from her lungs. Her vision blurred, her ears rang, and she barely held her footing, swaying on the slick floor.

Down the hall, a scream echoed—sharp, desperate, unmistakably human. Then two. Then laughter, high-pitched and manic, followed by the sickening sound of something heavy crashing. Then—

Roaring. A guttural, animalistic sound that vibrated through the very foundations of the asylum, promising primal violence.

Croc.

She glanced at the heavy, steel file cabinets behind her, looming like monoliths in the gloom.

The emergency key to the lower wing, a master override for the entire section, was hidden in one of them, a desperate last resort, a secret only a few knew.

She didn’t have time to find it.

Eris vanished into the floor like a ripple on water, leaving behind only an intensified chill and the lingering scent of ozone. He enjoyed the chase, the terror.

The moment he left, the air returned to a breathable temperature, though the cold remained, a pervasive, Arkham chill. Jazz adjusted her grip on the rod, her jaw tight, and started running. Every step was a risk in the darkness, but stagnation was death here.

Arkham Asylum — Holding Cells 01:00

Jazz ducked behind an overturned security kiosk, its screen shattered, wires sparking faintly like dying fireflies. Her breath was ragged, burning in her lungs. The initial adrenaline rush was giving way to a bone-deep weariness, a creeping exhaustion that threatened to drag her down, but her mind was still racing, cataloging threats, planning next moves.

One of the lower-level inmates, a hulking figure she recognized as a minor, nameless brute, had taken a guard hostage, a terrified, whimpering man pressed against the bars of his own cell. Jane Doe had vanished again, a ghost in her own right, her presence a chilling absence. There were three confirmed lock failures, and every communication device she’d tried was either dead or possessed, spitting static and distorted whispers that mocked her attempts at order.

Crimson, bless his chaotic little ectoplasmic soul, had finally shown up—cackling through the air vents, leaving trails of glowing ghost traps, and generally making a nuisance of himself in the most helpful way. He’d slammed a freezer door on Zsasz, leaving the serial killer encased in a glistening block of ice, a macabre art installation. She owed him a whole damn cupcake, maybe even a whole bakery.

But Eris had split himself—a horrifying, malevolent consciousness fragmenting, possessing guards, rewiring locks, and whispering poison into rogue minds, turning Arkham’s already unstable population into his personal, fear-fueled army. His ultimate goal, she knew, was her. He wanted Jazz scared. Alone. Overwhelmed.

He hadn’t accounted for how furious she could get. How utterly, coldly enraged.

“Keep pushing,” she hissed under her breath, her voice raw, a desperate mantra, “see what happens.”

She turned a corner, her boots splashing through a puddle of dark, viscous liquid that smelled faintly of iron. And came face to face with Firefly, his customized suit glowing with ominous heat, flames licking up his arms like hungry tongues. His mask, a grinning skull, seemed to mock her, its empty eye sockets burning with psychotic glee. The air around him shimmered with oppressive heat, a stark contrast to Eris's chill.

She didn’t hesitate. There was no time for thought, only reaction.

The stun rod connected with his helmet with a sharp CRACK . A pulse of ecto-energy, bright green against the orange flames, spiderwebbed across the glass, burning into the composite material. He went down like a felled tree, his internal flamethrower sputtering, its dangerous hiss fading.

She backed up fast, trying not to trip over his still-burning tank, the heat radiating off it intense enough to singe her hair, the smell of singed synthetic fabric acrid in her nostrils.

“You’re not supposed to be good at this,” Eris whispered from the ceiling, his face peering down at her through flickering, dying lights, his purple eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "You're the scholar. The sister. Not the soldier, Jasmine. You were always the brain, never the brawn."

Jazz grit her teeth, her jaw aching, a vein throbbing at her temple. “I taught Danny half his moves, you overgrown inferiority complex.”

She slammed her palm into the emergency armory panel, the metal cold and unresponsive. No dice. The power was truly out, the locks dead, the automated defenses neutralized.

Then—

A deafening BANG at the main entrance, echoing from floors above, vibrating through the very concrete. Not a crash, but a deliberate, powerful impact, like something incredibly heavy, incredibly determined, had just met an immovable object and won.

And the alarms—finally—started to shriek, a broken, stuttering wail that promised chaos, but also, perhaps, salvation.

Outside Arkham – 01:05

Jason hadn’t stopped moving since Oracle said the word “breakout.” The rain, a constant, miserable drizzle, plastered his hair to his forehead beneath the helmet, soaking his uniform. The air was thick with the smell of wet concrete, exhaust fumes, and the underlying rot of Gotham, a city always on the verge of collapsing into itself.

His bike, a roaring beast of chrome and black, skidded into the Arkham lot sideways, tires spitting gravel and water. He didn’t bother with stealth. He shot the outer door lock with a precise, explosive round from his pistol, blowing the mechanism apart with a shower of sparks, and kicked the heavy, reinforced steel door open, stepping into the abyss with his helmet’s internal scanner sweeping in real time.

Smoke. Heat. A pervasive, unnatural cold. The coppery scent of fresh blood, thick and metallic. And the distinct, cloying smell of Scarecrow’s fear gas, even faint, made the hairs on his arms prickle, a cold dread twisting in his gut.

“Red Hood on scene Oracle route me —” he snarled into his comms, the name a raw, urgent demand.

His HUD pinged a spike in spectral activity two floors down, directly in the lower offices. Her section. His blood ran cold.

And then came Crimson.

The little gremlin-ghost popped out of a shattered light fixture, looking like a floating jack-in-the-box dressed in high Victorian nightmares, his skeletal grin wide, his glowing eyes manic.

“You!” Crimson shrieked, pointing a gnarled, glowing hand, his voice a high-pitched, mocking whine that grated on Jason’s nerves. “You’re late! She’s really, really mad now!”

Jason didn’t flinch. He didn’t have time for this ectoplasmic annoyance. He had a singular focus. “Where is she?”

“Fighting off monsters and your medical nightmares. She’s pissed. It’s hilarious.” Crimson zipped around his head, a chaotic, glowing blur, clearly enjoying the spectacle. He then zipped past Jason, phasing through a wall. "She's in the west wing, trying to get to the main control room! Eris is playing with the locks!"

“Take me to her,” Jason commanded, his voice a low growl, laced with a dangerous, barely suppressed impatience. His hand instinctively went to the twin hilts of his All-Blades, sheathed at his back.

Crimson grinned, a flash of sharp, spectral teeth. “I like you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.” Jason pushed past the ghost, heading for the nearest stairwell, his heavy boots thudding against the metal steps. The sounds of Arkham’s internal pandemonium grew louder with every step – screams, crashes, the chilling cackle of the Joker echoing from somewhere above.

Arkham Asylum – Sublevel Two 01:13

The hallway stank of scorched ozone and bleach, now overlaid with the coppery tang of fresh blood, the pungent, earthy smell of disturbed earth from Croc’s presence, and the faint, acrid burn of Firefly’s suit. Somewhere above, an alarm wailed in dying stutters, like a wounded animal, a maddening, repetitive sound, but down here—nothing but the silence of the dead, broken only by her ragged breathing and the faint hiss of ectoplasm evaporating off the floor. The air was thick with the oppressive weight of the asylum’s despair, a palpable shroud.

Jazz staggered behind a fallen metal gurney, its wheels bent at unnatural angles, its cold surface pressing against her back. Her burgundy coat was torn at the shoulder, a dark, growing stain blossoming on the fabric where she’d been grazed by a rogue’s blade. Her left leg throbbed, a deep bruise forming where she’d been slammed into a wall by a possessed guard, and her hands were scraped raw. Her rod’s core was starting to flicker, its ghost-silvered tip dimming with every pulse, warning her it was nearing its limit.

Eris was enjoying this. She could feel his malevolent glee, a cold, slimy presence in the back of her mind, a tickle of insidious whispers trying to burrow into her thoughts, to break her.

“You don’t belong here, Jasmine,” his voice drifted from the pipes, a taunting whisper that seemed to slither into her skull, chilling her to the bone. “You think Gotham will let you study it? Understand it? You’re prey, Jasmine. Just like all the others who try to make sense of this city, you’ll be broken by it.”

She wiped blood from her lip with the back of her hand, leaving a smear on her chin, her movements deliberate, defiant. Her hair, usually neatly pulled into a practical bun, had long since escaped, straggling around her face in damp, sweat-soaked strands, clinging to her temples. “You’re a poltergeist with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. Try a mirror, Eris. Might do you some good, though I doubt it.”

He laughed — a chilling, high-pitched sound that scraped against her nerves, like fingernails on a blackboard — and then screamed through a possessed orderly lunging from the side. The man’s eyes glowed with unnatural purple light, his movements jerky and unnatural, a horrifying marionette.

She pivoted, jabbing the rod into his sternum and releasing a powerful ghost pulse. The man dropped unconscious, a dead weight, Eris flickering out the back of his skull like smoke, leaving behind a faint, sickly sweet scent of decay.

Before she could catch her breath, the air shifted again — and this time, not spectral. This was heavy, solid, human . A sudden gust of wind, carrying the smell of rain and gun oil, preceded him.

Heavy boots. Fast. Precise.

Jazz looked up just in time to see a black and red blur burst through the nearest wall panel, tearing through the flimsy plasterboard with a violent CRUNCH . He moved with the predatory grace of a seasoned fighter, twin blades, long and wickedly sharp, already drawn and glinting faintly in the gloom.

Red Hood.

He scanned the scene, his helmet’s optical sensors sweeping the carnage, assessing her injuries in a blink, and dropped next to her with a soft thud, one hand bracing her back, a touch that sent a surprising, undeniable jolt through her. His presence was a physical warmth against the pervasive cold of Arkham, a solid anchor in the swirling madness.

“Where are you hit?” he barked, his voice a low rumble through the helmet, devoid of humor, laced with a raw, undeniable concern that surprised her. His gloved fingers brushed her torn coat.

“I’m fine,” she retorted, a little too sharply, trying to push away the unexpected comfort of his proximity, the inconvenient awareness of his strong, warm presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he countered, his gaze, even behind the visor, lingering on the blossoming stain on her coat. His voice was laced with an insistent worry that infuriated her with its tenderness.

“I said I’m fine.” Her hand clenched around her rod, its core flickering more erratically now, warning her it was nearing its breaking point. “He’s been splitting — he's everywhere. Possessing people, messing with the systems. He’s a high-level poltergeist that knows me.” She looked him dead in the eye-plate of his helmet, a desperate, urgent plea in her own glowing eyes. “Your blades won’t touch him. He’s intangible,” Jazz warned, her voice urgent.

Red Hood’s jaw tightened, a muscle flexing under the helmet. He didn't sheathe his blades, but shifted his grip, their edges catching the faint light, a grim resolve in his posture. “Maybe not. But these aren't just any blades.” He took a step forward, a low hum emanating from the twin weapons. "They're called All-Blades. They only manifest in the presence of absolute evil. And they're designed to kill magic-based threats."

He pulled a small, cylindrical canister from his belt, its metallic surface cold even through his gloves, twisted it, and tossed it down the hall with a practiced flick of his wrist. It erupted in a cloud of condensed salt and iron, shimmering faintly in the gloom. Eris screamed — a high, piercing shriek from somewhere high above, echoing off the concrete walls, a sound of pure agony — and the temperature dropped another ten degrees, the air growing brittle, stinging their lungs.

“You carry anti-ghost grenades?” she asked, stunned, her voice barely a whisper of disbelief. Her eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to awe mixed with exasperation. This whole situation was so incredibly him . Because of course he did. The man probably had a Bat-brand bug-out bag for interdimensional incidents and snacks. She wasn’t even sure if she was annoyed or impressed. Maybe both. Probably both. Crap.'

He gave a small shrug, a subtle shift of his broad shoulders. “You’re not the only Fenton I’ve been reading up on.” His voice was laced with a hint of something teasing, a spark of the familiar dark humor returning, cutting through the horror.

Before she could respond, the comms in his helmet crackled, a tinny, urgent voice cutting through the Arkham chaos, shattering the fragile bubble around them.

“—Red Hood, report. Why are you off-grid? Hood, what the hell’s happening in Arkham?!”

Jazz froze. Her breath hitched. The air between them, already charged, suddenly crackled with a different kind of tension, a very Gotham kind of tension.

Red Hood went still. The pause was only a second too long, but in the cacophony of Arkham, it stretched into an eternity. His shoulders tensed.

Jazz narrowed her eyes. “Who was that?” she whispered, her gaze fixed on his helmet, trying to decipher his reaction.

He let out a low, frustrated sound, a muffled, exasperated curse. “…Shit.” He didn't elaborate, but the tension radiating from him was palpable.

A long, low growl, thick with primeval hunger, came from the dark, cavernous opening of the cell beside them. The air vibrated with it, a promise of imminent, primal violence.

“…Too late,” she muttered, her fury momentarily eclipsed by the immediate, monstrous threat.

They moved in unison — a practiced, brutal ballet of two individuals who understood violence intimately, who knew how to kill and protect. They cleared a path toward the central control room, every hall worse than the last, a tableau of madness and destruction. The inmates weren’t just loose. They were being directed. Herded.

By him.

Eris.

Teal hair. Violet eyes. A cruel smile that never touched his eyes, a mask of pure, unadulterated malevolence. He hovered in one of the broken wings, half-solid, half-possessing some poor warden whose eyes rolled back in his head, a horrifying puppet on invisible strings. The air around him shimmered with cold, distorting the light, making the very walls seem to warp.

“You’re bleeding, Jasmine,” he said softly, voice echoing like it came from inside her bones, a chilling, insidious caress. “They’ll never accept you. They’ll never truly understand you. You’ll never belong. You weren’t meant to walk in this world — just haunt it, like a phantom limb of the Zone, eternally searching for something you can’t have.”

Red Hood gripped his All-Blades, their edges gleaming with a faint, almost imperceptible green light, a stark contrast to the oppressive darkness. He held them in a defensive stance, ready, a primal fury in his posture. “I don’t need to understand your cryptic ghost BS to know I’m gonna carve you up, spook.”

Eris smiled wider, a predatory baring of teeth, confident in his intangibility. “Try.”

Red Hood lunged, a blur of black and red, his blades a whirlwind of lethal intent. Jazz braced herself for them to pass through, but then, with a sickening shriek of distorted ectoplasm, one of the blades connected. Eris’s stolen human form flickered violently, a raw scream tearing from his lips as the green light of the blade seemed to burn him. He recoiled, his form dissolving into the air like smoke, a shimmering distortion, but this time it was a retreat, not an effortless evasion. The blade had found purchase.

And every light in the hallway burst at once, showering them in sparks and glass, plunging them into suffocating, absolute blackness. The sudden loss of even the dim green light was disorienting, isolating.

Then whispers, dozens of voices, layered on top of one another, swirling around them like a suffocating shroud, seeping into their ears, echoing in their minds. “ She’s ours, she’s ours, she’s ours— ” The voices were insidious, meant to burrow into her mind, to break her, to drive her to despair.

Jazz grabbed Red Hood’s wrist, her fingers surprisingly strong despite her exhaustion, and yanked him close, their bodies brushing, a spark of physical contact in the spectral cold. The contact, even in the chaos, sent a strange jolt through her. “Stay near me. He’s trying to isolate us. To pick us off one by one, to drive us insane.”

He leaned in, his mouth near her ear, the warmth of his breath a stark contrast to the spectral cold that permeated the air. “I’ve been following you for two months, Fenton. You think I’m letting a specter pull me off-course now?” His voice was low, a promise and a challenge, a raw, undeniable possessiveness in his tone.

A ghostly shriek pierced the darkness — a sound that made the very air vibrate, making the broken glass on the floor rattle — and one of the rogue inmates behind them levitated, her eyes glowing bright green, her body contorting unnaturally, a horrifying marionette.

Jazz didn't hesitate. She reacted, instincts honed by years of ghost fighting. She reached into her coat, pulled out a crushed thermos, its surface dented but intact, its inner workings humming with latent ecto-energy, and launched it in a single smooth motion.

WHOMP.

It snapped shut around the spectral energy, the distinctive thunk of ectoplasm being contained echoing in the dark. The woman dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, landing with a soft thud, the green glow fading from her eyes.

“…Okay,” Red Hood said, sounding genuinely winded and impressed, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “That was hot.” His hand, which had been resting on her arm, lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

“Focus,” Jazz snapped, though a small, involuntary smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, a spark of amusement in the face of sheer absurdity.

From overhead, Eris’s laughter dripped down the walls like melting wax, a sound of pure, unadulterated malice, no longer hiding his presence.

“Run, run, little Princess. But you can't stop them all. Not with your human body. Not in my asylum.”

The floor ahead cracked open — spectral vines of glowing green energy whipping out like thick, venomous tendrils, tearing through the tiles, wrapping around a cell door to their left, ripping it from its hinges with a screech of tortured metal that grated on their ears.

Red Hood, without a word, raised one of his All-Blades, its edge humming faintly, ready to strike.

Jazz stopped him, her fingers closing around his wrist, her touch firm, a silent command. “Don’t.” Her eyes were glowing faintly now, like frost caught under moonlight, a cold, ethereal light that seemed to pierce the absolute darkness, radiating a burgeoning power. “Let me.”

She stepped forward, away from him, into the heart of the spectral storm, a figure of defiant light against the encroaching shadow. The air grew colder still — ice forming under her boots with a faint, crystalline crunch, the very moisture in the air freezing. Her breath plumed in the frigid air, illuminated by the growing glow from her eyes.

She drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the chilling, ozone-laced air, centering herself.

And then she spoke in Enochian.

The ancient, guttural syllables, resonant with power, filled the corridor. It wasn't a shout, but a command, a language older than human fear, vibrating with an authority that shook the very foundations of the spectral realm, a sound that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself.

Red Hood froze, his All-Blade hovering, its faint glow unwavering. He didn't understand the words, but he felt the raw power in them, a primal force that made his skin prickle, a chilling awe that silenced even the chaos around them.

So did everything else.

The spectral vines recoiled, hissing like angry snakes, their glowing tips retracting into the cracked floor, whimpering in the face of her command. The spectral storm above the hallway screeched — a sound of utter, agonizing dissolution, raw agony — and Eris, now fully manifested, his stolen human form flickering violently, stumbled back, face contorted in sudden, furious disbelief, his violet eyes wide with shock and rage.

“You invoke ancient tongue?! You dare ?!” His voice was a raw, desperate shriek, losing its silken quality, replaced by pure, impotent fury.

Jazz raised the cracked core of her rod — now glowing bright as a beacon, a pure, white light that banished the shadows, illuminating her battered but defiant form, making her appear ethereal, powerful. Her eyes blazed with the same fierce, unyielding light, reflecting the raw energy she was channeling.

“I am Jasmine Fenton. Princess of the Ghost Realm. And you don’t get to haunt my city.”

She swung the rod — not a taser, not a bludgeon, but a conduit of pure, concentrated ectoplasmic energy, channeling centuries of otherworldly power. It sang through the air, a high-pitched whine that escalated into a roar, a living force, as it connected with Eris’s chest.

A sonic boom of ectoplasmic energy ripped down the hallway, tearing through the air, shaking the very concrete, rattling teeth in their sockets. The force of it pushed Red Hood back several feet, slamming him into a wall.

Eris screamed — a sound of utter, agonizing dissolution, as if his very essence was being torn apart — vanishing into the ether, his form breaking into smoke, then dissipating into nothingness, leaving behind only a lingering chill and the faint scent of ozone.

 Batcave, Minutes Earlier 00:30

The Batcave hummed with the low thrum of supercomputers and the sharp scent of ozone and old leather. Bruce, grim-faced, stared at the main monitor, his cape draped around him like a shroud.

Oracle: “Red Hood just went full throttle toward Arkham. He’s off-grid, but his last known trajectory was a straight line to the lower offices. Jazz Fenton’s shift.” Barbara’s voice, sharp and analytical, cut through the comms, a frantic tapping of keys audible in the background. Her tone held a subtle note of knowing concern.

Nightwing: “No reason for Hood to be heading to Arkham, especially not like that. He just… took off. Is he responding to an unknown threat?” Dick’s voice was laced with confusion, a hint of something more.

Robin: “Oracle, what’s the status on Arkham?” Damian’s tone was clipped, impatient, ever the strategist.

Oracle: “Arkham’s lockdown protocol just initiated. Containment breach. Power grid override. Multiple inmate escapes confirmed across various levels.” Barbara’s voice grew urgent, her fingers flying across her keyboard, lights flashing across her screens. “Looks like a full system meltdown. And… a massive energy spike from a sub-level. Consistent with high-level ectoplasmic discharge.”

Batman: gruffly “Send backup. Fast. All available units. ETA?”

Robin: “Hood would have had no prior intel on an ectoplasmic breach. Why is he there?”

Nightwing: quietly, a hint of dawning realization, almost resignation, in his voice, “Because he knew something we didn’t. Or someone.”

 Arkham – Present

Jazz leaned against the broken security console, wiping blood from her temple, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. Her entire body ached, a symphony of bruises and protesting muscles. The pure white light from her rod had faded, leaving only the dim, sickly green glow from the walls where ectoplasmic residue still seeped. Red Hood was crouched beside a downed rogue, a familiar psychotic grin frozen on the man’s face, zip-tying him without ceremony, his movements efficient and brutal. His All-Blades were sheathed again, but the faint hum of their power lingered in the air. The air was still cold, damp, heavy with the stench of fear and ozone, but the oppressive, malevolent presence of Eris was gone, replaced by the lingering scent of smoke and the faint, metallic tang of ectoplasm.

“You okay?” he asked without looking up, his voice a low rumble, the concern raw and unmasked.

She exhaled slowly, a long, shaky breath, pushing off the console. “I just took out a vengeful specter, four minor rogues, two possessed guards, and half a containment breach with a cracked core rod. All before breakfast.”

“So… yes?” he prompted, finally looking up at her, a hint of dry amusement in his tone as he finished securing the inmate. His gaze swept over her, taking in her disheveled appearance, the blood, the quiet strength in her eyes.

She smiled, a tired, genuine curve of her lips that reached her eyes, crinkling the corners. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Red Hood finally pushed himself upright, his gaze lingering on her face, on her lips. There was something in his eyes behind the visor, even through the tinted lens, an intensity that made her breath hitch. Not shock. Not judgment. Just respect. And something else, something warm and undeniably appreciative, almost possessive, that made her skin prickle with a different kind of awareness, a flush spreading across her bruised cheeks. He took a single, deliberate step closer, invading her personal space, a silent question in his posture.

They didn’t say anything else. The silence between them was thick with shared experience, with the adrenaline slowly fading, leaving behind a quiet understanding, an unspoken connection forged in chaos.

Then the Batmobile arrived. Its heavy tires crunched on the gravel outside, its powerful engine a low growl that vibrated through the asylum’s foundations. Immediately behind it, the wail of police sirens grew deafening, followed by the flashing blue and red lights of squad cars and the distinct, urgent blare of ambulance horns. The Arkham lot, moments ago a desolate expanse, was suddenly a maelstrom of flashing lights, shouting voices, and the heavy thud of boots.

Red Hood, seeing the approaching swarm of official personnel, swore under his breath. He stepped closer to Jazz, his presence a shield. "They're going to want statements. Lots of them. And medical reports." His voice was low, for her ears only. "You're a civilian. You don't need this."

Great. Another night of sleep sacrificed to Gotham’s number-one hobby: aggressive overcomplication. All she’d wanted was a quiet night shift. Maybe a tea. Instead, she’d got trauma, ghosts, and Red Hood gently manhandling her like she was breakable. And yeah, okay, she might be into that, but that was beside the point. Jazz sighed, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She hated this. The vulnerability, the forced passivity. "I'm a doctor. I can give a statement. I can handle it." Her gaze flicked to the approaching figures of Batman, Nightwing, and Robin, their capes billowing, their expressions grim. She knew they were already cataloging every detail.

"You're exhausted," Red Hood countered, his hand briefly touching her arm, a surprisingly gentle pressure. "And what you just did... it's not exactly standard Arkham procedure. They'll dissect you."

A paramedic, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, approached them, clipboard in hand. "Ma'am, are you alright? You look a little... green. We need to get you to triage."

Jazz nodded, accepting the inevitable. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Just tired. I can walk." She glanced at Red Hood, a silent plea. Don't make a scene.

He seemed to get the message. He stepped back, allowing the paramedic to guide Jazz towards a cot in the makeshift triage area. He observed, his posture rigid, his gaze sweeping over the scene, ensuring no one pressed her too hard. He saw the police officers already eyeing her, their expressions a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

Jazz sat on the cot, enduring the quick, efficient medical check. She gave a brief, carefully constructed statement, omitting any supernatural details, focusing on the power outage, the inmate chaos, and her own self-defense. She could feel the Bat-Family's presence, like a low hum, somewhere deeper in the asylum, undoubtedly sweeping for threats and survivors, already piecing together the bizarre events. She knew they were watching, cataloging.

Just then, a shimmering, translucent figure phased through the infirmary wall, glowing with an intense, vibrant green light. He had white hair that defied gravity, a black and white jumpsuit with a familiar 'DP' emblem on his chest, and eyes that blazed with ectoplasmic energy. The sudden appearance of a literal ghost made the paramedics gasp, some stumbling back, while the few police officers present fumbled for their weapons.

"Princess Jasmine!" Phantom exclaimed, his voice echoing with a spectral reverb that made the human authorities flinch, but held a clear note of relief and urgency. He floated down, eyes wide with concern, scanning the scene, his gaze locking onto Jazz. His usual bright green eyes, however, held a deeper, almost unsettling emerald undertone, a familiar flash of fury that Jazz recognized from the Lazarus Pit's influence on Jason. He was pissed . "Report! Is the threat neutralized? Are you injured? And why were you in such close proximity to that... that crime lord ?!" Phantom's tone was sharp, demanding, his protective instincts flaring, his gaze snapping back to the direction Red Hood had vanished, a low, dangerous growl rumbling in his chest.

Oh no.

Oh no no no....

Not this dramatic ghost entrance in front of the Bat-Family. If she didn’t already have stress ulcers, she definitely did now.

Jazz straightened, her posture shifting from weary patient to formal diplomat, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes held a flicker of exasperated amusement for her brother's dramatic entrance. She met Phantom's blazing gaze, her voice clear and concise, cutting through the rising tension, aware of every watchful eye, especially those of the Bat-Family, who would undoubtedly be cataloging this entire interaction.

"Your Majesty. Threat contained. Eris has been banished, not destroyed. He will return. Arkham's systems are compromised, but the immediate danger from the inmates is being addressed by local authorities." She paused, her gaze flicking subtly towards the infirmary entrance, knowing the Bats were listening, ensuring they caught the nuance, the careful phrasing. "The... local asset provided unexpected but crucial assistance in the containment efforts. My injuries are minor, sustained during the initial breach."

Phantom's eyes narrowed, the emerald glow intensifying, a silent communication passing between brother and sister, a shared history of battles and secrets, a complex understanding that transcended words. He glanced around the infirmary, taking in the human chaos, then back at Jazz, a silent question in his gaze, before nodding curtly. "Understood, Princess. I will ensure the Zone is alerted to Eris's activity. And... Tucker is already wiping all digital records of your involvement. Your cover story will remain intact." He gave Red Hood's last known position a final, suspicious glare, a clear warning in his glowing eyes. "You are medically cleared, yes? Then we can leave."

"Medically cleared, but..." The Director of Arkham's trauma program, Dr. Miles, a stern woman with a perpetually harried expression, rushed over, having just been informed of Jazz's presence. "Dr. Fenton! Thank goodness you're alright. We need your insight. You were here, you saw what happened. Your psychological expertise on the inmates, combined with... whatever that was, is invaluable right now." She gestured vaguely at the lingering ectoplasmic residue. "We need you to stay and help us debrief, assist with patient assessment."

Jazz's shoulders slumped. She just wanted to go home. "Director, I'm exhausted. I think I've given all the insight I can for tonight."

Before Dr. Miles could argue further, Red Hood stepped out of the shadows, his presence a sudden, imposing force. He still had some ecto-slime on his armor, but his posture was unyielding, his helmeted gaze fixed on the Director.

"She's done," Red Hood stated, his voice a low, gravelly command that brooked no argument. He stepped to Jazz's side, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder, a possessive gesture that surprised even himself. The warmth of his touch was undeniable, a stark contrast to the cold exhaustion seeping into her bones. In that moment, looking at her bruised face, the exhaustion in her eyes, the sheer, quiet strength she possessed, something clicked inside him. This wasn't just a curiosity. This wasn't just a mission. This was Jazz . And he needed her safe, truly safe, from the prying eyes and endless demands of Gotham.

Dr. Miles blinked, taken aback by the vigilante's sudden appearance and unexpected intervention. "Red Hood, this is a secure facility, and Dr. Fenton is a vital staff member—"

"She's a civilian who just survived a major incident," Red Hood cut her off, his voice hardening, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. "She's been through enough. She's going home. Now." His gaze swept over the Director, then the surrounding paramedics and police, daring anyone to argue.

Phantom, still hovering, watched the exchange, his emerald eyes narrowing slightly, a silent, almost amused appraisal in his gaze as Red Hood asserted his claim. The Bat-Family, now closer, paused their own search, their comms undoubtedly buzzing with questions about the unexpected dynamic. They were surprised by the sheer number of rogues already secured, zip-tied and unconscious, thanks to Red Hood and, as they were quickly learning, Jazz.

Jazz looked up at Red Hood, a flicker of surprise, then a slow, grateful smile spreading across her face. "Thank you, Hood."

He gave a curt nod. "Go."

Phantom, after a moment's hesitation, extended his hand to Jazz again. "Come, Princess. Home away from the trigger happy Crime Lord."

Jazz took his hand, a sense of weary relief washing over her. She knew the debrief would be long, but at least it would be with family. With a soft shimmer of green light, they phased through the wall, disappearing from Arkham Asylum, leaving behind a baffled Director, stunned paramedics, and a very, very confused Bat-Family.

Meanwhile, deeper in Arkham, the Bat-Family continued their sweep.

Nightwing: "Why is Red Hood covered in ghost slime? And is that… ectoplasm ?" Dick's voice, exasperated and incredulous, cut through the comms as he rounded a corner, his eyes wide, surveying the lingering green residue. "And how many rogues did he and... she ... already round up? We're finding them zip-tied and unconscious in neat little piles."

Robin: "The civilian female. She appeared almost untouched by the spectral energy, yet the ectoplasmic signature around her was immense. And Hood just... asserted himself. Uncharacteristically. He was... protective." Damian's tone was sharp, analytical, his gaze narrowed, already analyzing the discrepancy, a hint of grudging respect for the sheer efficiency of the rogue roundup.

Oracle: "Confirmed. Red Hood and Jazz Fenton were the primary responders to the ectoplasmic breach. They've neutralized Eris and contained a significant portion of the escapees before we even arrived." Barbara's voice was a mix of disbelief and professional admiration. "And yes, Dick, that's ectoplasm. And yes, Damian, he was very protective. She's the one from the article, the one who kicked him off the silo. Looks like Hood's got a soft spot. A very, very pronounced soft spot."

Batman: "Focus. Find the remaining inmates. Secure the facility." His voice was a low growl, but even he couldn't entirely mask the underlying question. What was Red Hood doing? And who was she, truly? This changes everything.

The questions hung in the air, unanswered, as Jazz Fenton, Princess of the Ghost Realm, phased out of Arkham Asylum with her protective, glowing brother.

 Gotham Rooftops 04:00

 The rain had finally stopped, leaving the city slick and glistening under the first faint blush of dawn. Jason stood on a rooftop across from Jazz’s apartment building, the one his shell company owned. He watched her apartment window, a single light now on in her sixth-floor south corner unit. A faint, internal hum of ectoplasm still vibrated in his armor, a reminder of the night’s bizarre chaos.

He’d followed Phantom’s spectral signature, keeping a discreet distance, until he saw the green light disappear into her building. She was home. Safe. The thought brought a strange, unfamiliar warmth to his chest, a counterpoint to the cold, hard edges of his world.

A low growl rumbled behind him.

“You’re getting in too deep, Hood.”

Jason didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn. He knew that voice, that presence, better than his own heartbeat. “She was in danger, B. Real danger. The kind even you don’t usually deal with.”

Batman stepped into the faint light, his cape billowing around him like a silent, predatory wing. The shadows clung to him, making him seem even larger, more imposing. The scent of ozone and something metallic, like his own armor, followed him. “There are other ways to handle a civilian in distress. You intervened with Arkham staff, with medical personnel. You asserted yourself in a way that drew unnecessary attention.”

“She’s not just ‘a civilian’,” Jason retorted, his voice tight, a raw edge to it. He finally turned, facing his former mentor, his helmet gleaming in the pre-dawn light. “And you saw what she did. What they did. Ectoplasm, B. Real, honest-to-god ghosts. She banished one of the nastiest ones I’ve ever encountered. And she did it after taking out half a dozen of Arkham’s finest. She’s a force of nature. She doesn’t need Gotham’s bureaucracy trying to dissect her, or the GCPD trying to make sense of something they can’t comprehend.”

Batman’s gaze was unreadable through the white lenses of his cowl, but Jason could feel the weight of his scrutiny. “You’re emotionally compromised. You’ve been… observing her for months. This is beyond observation.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, well, she’s… different. She didn’t flinch. She just… handled it. With a broken stick and a thermos. And she’s got a ghost king for a brother. Who, by the way, was not happy about my proximity to his sister.” A wry, self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. “He looked at me like I had the Lazarus Pit still clinging to my eyes. And honestly, B? For a second there, I felt it too.”

He paused, the humor draining from his voice, leaving it raw, exposed. The cold reality of his own morally gray existence, the blood on his hands, the darkness that clung to him like a second skin, pressed in. He was a crime lord, an anti-hero, a man defined by violence and trauma. What right did he have to pull someone like Jazz into his orbit, to expose her to the ugliness that was his life? But then he thought of her quiet strength, her sharp mind, the way she’d looked at him, not with fear, but with a strange, knowing acceptance.

“She’s important, Bruce. More than just a civilian. More than just a curiosity. And… she’s important to me .” The admission hung in the cold morning air, a stark, vulnerable truth. He felt the weight of it, the unexpected depth of his own feelings, a terrifying, exhilarating realization. He’d told himself it was just curiosity, just a fascination with the anomaly. But watching her tonight, seeing her bruised and defiant, seeing her power, feeling that surge of pure, unadulterated need to protect her… it was more. A lot more. And the thought of dragging her into his world, the world of the Red Hood, the world of Gotham’s shadows, filled him with a chilling dread. He was still a semi-crime lord, still morally grey, still haunted by his own demons. Was he selfish enough to risk her?

Batman remained silent for a long moment, his presence a heavy, judging weight. The first rays of the sun began to paint the Gotham sky in bruised purples and oranges. “Getting involved with civilians, especially those with… unique circumstances, is dangerous, Hood. For them. For you. You know the rules.”

“I know the risks, B,” Jason said, his voice low, firm, his gaze fixed on Jazz’s apartment. “Better than anyone. And I know what I’m doing.” He didn't know if that was entirely true, but he had to believe it. He had to try. He wouldn't pull back as Red Hood, not yet. But the thought of introducing her to Jason Todd, the traumatized, complicated man beneath the helmet, was a terrifying prospect. He wasn't sure he was ready to drag her into that drama.

Batman sighed, a sound of weary resignation. “We’ll discuss this further. When Arkham is fully secured. And when you’re less… emotionally invested.” He turned, his cape swirling, and vanished into the pre-dawn gloom.

Jason stood there, watching the apartment, the city slowly waking up around him. The questions from the Bat-Family, the police, the Director… they were all secondary. What mattered was that Jazz was safe. And that he, Red Hood, the anti-hero, the black sheep, had found something, someone, worth protecting, even from himself.

He stayed until the sun was fully up, casting long shadows across the rooftops. He stayed until he saw the light in her window finally go out, signaling she was, at last, asleep.

It was nearly morning when Jazz finally got home, after Phantom's stern lecture and a quick, surprisingly thorough medical check-up by a very confused but efficient ghost medic who Phantom had phased in. She stripped off her ruined coat, the scent of Arkham still clinging to it, and collapsed onto her bed, the adrenaline finally draining, leaving her utterly spent. But even in her exhaustion, a small, private smile touched her lips. She was home. And somehow, despite the chaos, she felt more at home in Gotham than she ever had before.

She lay in bed, the soft, unfamiliar hum of her Gotham apartment a stark contrast to the lingering phantom echoes of Arkham. Her body ached, a dull throb in her leg, a persistent ache in her head, but her mind was finally quiet, the adrenaline having fully receded. She stared at the ceiling, not truly seeing it, but feeling the subtle shift in the city's rhythm. The sirens were fewer now, replaced by the distant rumble of early morning traffic.

Jazz closed her eyes, and a faint, almost imperceptible warmth settled over her, like a familiar weight. It wasn't physical, not truly. It was a presence. A silent, unwavering vigil. She knew, with the same certainty she knew her own name, that Red Hood was out there. On a rooftop, across the street, a dark silhouette against the burgeoning dawn. Her own private knight, watching over her. The thought, instead of unsettling her, brought a strange, profound sense of peace. She was home. And she was safe. Safe, and watched over. And for the first time in a long time, that felt exactly right.

Notes :So… Arkham exploded a little. 😇 Jazz Fenton: ghost therapist, chaos magnet, unlicensed vigilante babysitter. Jason Todd: emotionally constipated satellite. Eris: that one ghost ex you block on all planes of existence but he still finds your workplace somehow. Also Crimson is definitely getting a cupcake later. Probably red velvet.

I’ve been dying (ha) to write Jazz and Jason in full Gotham-noir slowburn vibes, and this chapter let me stretch both horror and heart. The Red Hood scenes were so fun to write—Jason orbiting Jazz like a glorified haunted Roomba—and Jazz being fully unimpressed? Peak power couple energy.

Jazz Fenton really said “Get wrecked, I banish you in ancient tongue.” Jason Todd really said “That’s hot.” Danny Phantom really said “I don’t like your boyfriend.”

This was an absolute blast to write. Thank you for sticking through the ghost goo, rogue chaos, and Bat-Family bafflement. I’ll likely revisit this dynamic again — Jazz and Jason deserve slow burn tension, awkward vigilante courtship, and a proper rooftop kiss (eventually). As always, reblogs, kudos, and comments keep the ghost core glowin

Tag your reaction: 🧊 = Jazz freezing Eris with sheer rage ☕ = “Welcome to Gotham” coffee moment 🥀 = Jason’s quiet “You didn’t flinch” confession 🔥 = Croc? Firefly?? Jason’s entrance busting through drywall ?! 👻 = Crimson Snap supremacy

Bonus if readers want to meme Eris’s “I will be the last thing you see” line with the most ridiculous villain energy imaginable.

Q: Did Jason fall first? A: He absolutely tripped first, then orbited for ten weeks like a bat-themed moon. Jazz noticed by week three. She let him sweat.

Q: Is Eris going to become a recurring antagonist? A: You mean my chaos cryptid prince? Yes. He’s too pretty and too unhinged not to haunt more chapters. (Danny hates him. So. Much.)