༉‧+ ̊.|You've been stealing from him (req)

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Somebody had been stealing from Jason Todd, and the realization had been eating at him like rust. At first it was subtle, a missing crate here, a half‐empty shipment there, small enough that anyone else would’ve shrugged it off. But Jason wasn’t anyone else. He noticed patterns. He noticed when people tried to play him.

And this wasn’t sloppy theft. This was meticulous.

Last night he’d sat alone in his safehouse office, the glow of monitors painting harsh blue light across his helmet as he combed through weeks of manifests, militia reports, dock logs, and surveillance footage. Hours passed. His coffee went cold. His jaw locked tighter and tighter.

Then the truth hit him.

Someone had been bleeding him dry for months.

Not enough to cripple him outright , just enough to make him bleed slowly, quietly, like someone testing how far they could push him before he noticed. The fact he hadn’t caught it sooner made his stomach twist. It wasn’t just theft. It was an insult. A challenge.

And whoever was behind it wasn’t a petty street rat. They moved too cleanly. Too quietly. No fingerprints. No camera glitches. No chatter on the streets. Even Batman’s intel channels had nothing, and Jason knew damn well when Bruce was involved. This wasn’t him.

This thief was a ghost.

Jason hated ghosts.

So he set a trap.

A shipment of cutting‐edge military tech, experimental gear worth more than most people’s lives, stored in one of his lesser‐used warehouses. He filed the paperwork exactly as he always did, made sure the usual channels whispered about the delivery, and then he waited.

Hours passed. The warehouse sat silent, the air cold enough to sting. Jason perched above the rafters, unmoving, listening to the creak of metal and the distant hum of Gotham outside.

Then he heard it.

A soft click. A careful footstep. The kind of sound only someone confident in their stealth would make.

You slipped inside like you belonged there, moving between crates with practiced precision. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t scout. You went straight for the tech, like you’d memorized the layout, like you’d done this a dozen times before.

Jason’s pulse sharpened.

You reached out, fingertips brushing the case

He dropped behind you like a hammer.

You didn’t even get to turn. His hand clamped onto the back of your jacket and launched you into the wall, the impact rattling the metal shelving and knocking the breath out of your lungs. Before you could recover, his forearm pressed hard against your throat, pinning you there, the cold composite plating digging into your skin.

His helmet loomed from your face, visor glowing faintly, the modulator turning his voice into a low, distorted growl.

“Been enjoying my hospitality, huh?”

His arm pressed harder, cutting off just enough air to make your vision spark.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve cost me?”

The pressure increased, not enough to crush, but enough to remind you exactly who had the upper hand.

“You got a death wish?”

The words vibrated through the modulator, rough and dangerous, like he was holding back something worse.

And he wasn’t letting go.