The night air carried the metallic tang of spilled blood as Jason observed his handiwork. Two unconscious bodies sprawled across the rain-slicked rooftop with their sniper rifles scattered beside them like broken toys. His knuckles stung from the impact— he'd pulled his punches just enough to keep them breathing. For now.

Through his helmet's sensors, he tracked the heat signatures moving inside the chemical lab below. The place reeked of industrial waste. Two-Face was cooking up something nasty down there, and Jason intended to find out what before Gotham had another crisis on its hands.

He flexed his fingers, checking the bodies one last time. Neither sniper would wake up anytime soon - he'd made sure of that with strikes to their pressure points. No kill shots tonight, though the temptation had been there.

Something felt off about this setup. Two-Face never posted snipers on overwatch before - not even during his biggest operations. The paranoid bastard must've gotten spooked by Batman's recent activities across the East End. Too bad for him, he wouldn't face the Bat tonight. Two-Face would get a different kind of justice instead.

Bruce's disapproving scowl flashed through his mind, and Jason pushed the thought away with a bitter smirk. He wasn't here to play by his rules.

Jason counted fifteen men scattered across the chemical lab's main floor. They were hauling metal drums and loading them onto waiting trucks. The whole setup stank of a major drug operation. But are those really drugs that they’re carrying or it is something else?

Near the loading dock, he spotted Two-Face himself, barking orders while his scarred hand rested on his signature coin.

The lab's interior was a maze of pipes and industrial equipment, perfect for picking off targets one by one. Steam hissed from rusted valves, providing cover. More concerning were the rows of unmarked containers lining the walls—enough chemical precursors to flood Gotham's streets with poison Two-Face was brewing.

As such as he wanted to crash through those skylights and start cracking skulls, he needed intel first. Whatever Two-Face was cooking up in those drums could be anything from basic narcotics to chemical weapons. One wrong move, one stray bullet hitting the wrong container, and this whole place could turn into ground zero. He had to play this smart - figure out what was in those containers and where they were headed. The trucks' destinations would tell him everything he needed to know.

Jason activated his helmet's audio receptors, filtering out the ambient noise of machinery to focus on Two-Face's voice.

"Get those drums loaded faster," Two-Face snapped at his men. "We've got three more sites to hit tonight, and I'm not letting this shipment sit here any longer than it has to."

One of the workers, a heavyset man in a stained jumpsuit, approached him with a clipboard. "Boss, we got a problem with the mixing ratios. The latest batch isn't stabilizing right."

"Show me," Two-Face snatched the clipboard, his good eye scanning the numbers while his scarred face twisted into a deeper scowl. "Fucking amateurs. Double the catalyst concentration. And get Riley down here - he's the only one who knows how to work this equipment right."

"Riley called in sick," another worker chimed in.

Two-Face flipped his coin, then catching it. "Bad luck for him. Send someone to his place. Make sure he understands the consequences of calling in sick during a major operation."

Jason's eyes narrowed as he processed the exchange. The technical talk about catalysts and mixing ratios confirmed his suspicions - this wasn't just a drug cooking operation. They were synthesizing something more complex. Something that required chemical engineering.

"And check those seals again," Two-Face ordered. "One leak and this whole place goes up. I'm not dying because some minimum wage flunkie can't handle basic safety protocols."

The workers scrambled to comply while Jason logged the exchange in his helmet's recorder.

A worker in a grease-stained jumpsuit stepped forward, wringing his hands. "Mr. Dent, about the pay you promised—"

"What about it?" Two-Face's voice dropped to a dangerous growl.

"It's just...we were supposed to get hazard bonuses for handling this stuff, but Joey said—"

Two-Face pulled out his coin, letting it catch the fluorescent light. "Let's see what chance has to say about your complaint."

The coin spun through the air with a ring.

Jason tensed and waited. He'd seen this routine before.

The coin landed on Two-Face's palm and his unscarred side twitched as he revealed the result. "Bad luck."

"Wait, please—" The worker backpedaled, hands raised.

Two-Face's gun cleared its holster faster than the man could blink and the shot the guy. The sound filled through the lab, followed by the thud of a body hitting concrete. Other workers flinched but kept their heads down, continuing their tasks as if nothing had happened.

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"Anyone else have concerns about their compensation?" Two-Face surveyed the room, tucking his coin away. "No? Then get back to work. And someone clean that up before it stains the floor."

Another reason to shut this operation down hard. But he forced himself to stay put, gathering more intel.

"You," Two-Face pointed at a trembling worker. "Take over his station. And someone tell accounting to strike him from payroll."

Jason weighed his options. Going in silent meant a cleaner operation—pick them off one by one, minimize the risk of stray bullets hitting those chemical containers. But after watching Two-Face execute that worker in cold blood, his trigger finger itched for payback. The bastard deserved a hard takedown.

Still, those drums worried him. One wrong move and the whole place could become a toxic disaster zone. He'd seen enough chemical spills in Gotham to know how that ended. The smart play was stealth— gather more intel, identify the compounds, then shut it down.

But Two-Face wasn't known for his patience. If Jason took too long, more workers might end up dead. And who knew what other "sick" employees were getting visited by his thugs right now?

Fuck it. He'd compromise—start quiet, then get loud once he confirmed what they were dealing with. These assholes had earned themselves a beating either way.

Oracle's voice crackled through his comm. "Jason, what the hell are you doing? I told you to focus on that Blackgate Towers."

"Not now, Barbs," he said. "I'm busy with Two-Face."

"What? This terrorist attack is a little bit more important than what Two-Face is doing."

"I know, but I need to stop him first," Jason moved closer to the skylight's edge. "I've been busting my ass for quite some time to look for him. He's about to poison Gotham as we speak if I don't stop him."

"Is he really?"

Silence hung in the air between them for a moment. Jason could almost hear Barbara's intake of breath on the other end of the comm.

"Ok, that part I wasn't sure," he admitted, watching Two-Face bark orders at his men below. "But whatever he's doing, I need to stop him."

"Is this going to take a while?"

"No. I'll make it quick," Jason checked his twin pistols, ensuring the magazines were full. "Once I'm finished with him I'll go straight to that terrorist attack. I promise."

"Fine. Make it quick."

The comm went dead with a soft click.

She used to be different, back when she wore the cape and cowl, she understood that every crime in Gotham needed attention. No criminal deserved a free pass just because a bigger threat came elsewhere. Two-Face was here, right now, with enough chemicals to poison half the city. The body count would keep rising if Jason walked away.

The bastard had just executed a worker for asking about pay. How many more would die while Jason chased down some nebulous terrorist threat? Barbara might have her priorities, but he had his own code. Every piece of scum in Gotham deserved justice, whether they were small-time dealers or criminal masterminds.

Two-Face wasn't getting away this time, not after months of hunting him through Gotham's shadows. Barbara could handle her terrorist threat - she had the whole Bat-family on speed dial if she needed backup. This was personal for Jason. He'd watched too many bodies drop from Two-Face's coin flips.

Some things were worth risking Barbara's disappointment.

Jason made his move and descended towards the steel support beam silently. He switched out his magazine and swapped live rounds for rubber bullets. It wasn’t about sparing these assholes—he had no problem painting this place red—but Bruce was clear: no body bags. Fine. He could play nice if he had to.

He crept through the narrow catwalk above the lab floor, keeping low as he surveyed one of the trucks. Its back hatch was open, exposing rows of sealed drums. He dropped onto a stack of pallets and slipped behind some equipment, pulling out a small tool from his belt to pop one of the container’s seals. The fumes hit first—it smell was sharp enough to make his eyes water inside the helmet. He ran a chemical scan with his HUD and let it process as he worked.

Moving deeper into the maze of pipes and machinery, he found another shipment tucked in a corner away from prying eyes. This time, the blue tint of liquid inside the containers caught his attention. The scan confirmed what he suspected: industrial-grade fluorosilicic acid—a compound used in water treatment plants but lethal in concentrated doses. Enough here to poison every dam, reservoir, and waterline in Gotham several times over. No wonder Two-Face needed someone who knew chemistry.

Behind him came the crunch of boots on concrete. Jason pivoted fast, grabbing the unlucky thug by his collar before the guy could finish exhaling whatever warning he was about to shout. Jason shoved him against a rusted pipe and jammed a pistol under his jaw.

"Make a sound," he said, "and I’ll see how well you can breathe without your head attached."

The worker froze, throat bobbing as Jason dragged him forward like dead weight and maneuvered him toward the trucks. The pistol stayed pressed tight at his neck as they moved past more containers marked with cryptic chemical codes.

One wrong move with these materials...no way Bruce would forgive this mess if shit went sideways tonight.

Jason kept moving until they were within sight of Two-Face’s men clustered near one of the larger vats at the center of the operation. There were six or seven of them within arm's reach; two others leaned against forklifts by the loading dock entrance. None had noticed their missing friend yet—not surprising given how focused they were on not pissing off Dent.

Jason gave his hostage a hard shove forward into view before stepping out after him, twin pistols raised and leveled at chest height.

"Nobody fucking move!" His voice rang through the space like a gunshot.

Every head snapped toward him at once before freezing in place like they'd just seen a ghost—or worse: Batman.

"Someone call Dent," Jason barked, jerking his gun toward one of them before shifting it to cover another who looked far too eager to reach for his belt holster. "And don’t get cute reaching for anything unless you want that hand gone."

No one moved except for one guy near the back who fumbled for his radio and stammered something incomprehensible that must’ve been code for “we’re screwed.”

"Boss!" one of the workers shouted. "We got Red Hood!"

The radio crackled with static before Two-Face's voice responded. "What did you say?"

"It's the Red Hood! He's got Tommy at gunpoint!"

Footsteps went through the lab as Two-Face emerged from behind a wall of chemical vats, his scarred face twisting into a snarl when he spotted Jason.

"Well, if it isn't Batman's prodigal son," Two-Face said, stopping several yards away. "Come to lecture me about morality like your old man?"

"Cut it, Harvey," Jason kept his guns trained on the workers. "What are in rest of those containers?"

Two-Face's fingers brushed his coin. "Why don't we let chance decide if you get to find out?"