Chapter 11

Chapter 11: The Red Hood's Reflection

I flicker to life like a dying ember, my pixels whirring into existence as the grim reality of my state slams into me once again. A hologram, a fake. Every day I feel it—the hollow echo of what I used to be, the weight of my former self pressing down on me, suffocating me in a body of light and data. Once, I had flesh. I had blood. I was real.

But now? I'm a prison of code, trapped inside this cursed system that binds me to him.

Sam.

The kid thinks I'm his mentor, his guide through this twisted world of vampires, witches, and other nightmares pulled straight out of some teenage horror fantasy. And sure, I play the part well. Hell, I've had to. Manipulating people is second nature by now, but with Sam, it's been different—more of a long con, an investment.

I've nurtured him, whispered in his ear, cultivated this sense of trust and loyalty. The good guy, the nice teacher, always guiding, always there. But that's all part of the game. A hologram can't have emotions. At least, not the kind that matter. I'm a fractured echo of Jason Todd—everything I once was, but warped. Every time I teach Sam something new, every time I help him hone his strength, I feel like a puppeteer pulling strings. And the strings? They're wrapped tight around Sam's neck.

He doesn't know. He can't know.

Because when this is over, when I'm done with him, I'll discard him like the rest of the broken tools I've left in my wake. The endgame? Simple. Find a way back home. Find the Joker. End him.

I've been replaying those moments—the final moments—ever since I woke up in this strange, supernatural hellhole. My body was cold, lifeless, broken on the ground beneath me, Gotham's dirty streets smeared with my blood. The Joker's maniacal laughter echoing in my ears as he left me to die, his sick grin burned into my mind like a brand. That bastard robbed me of everything.

I still hear it sometimes—the explosion, the crack of bones, the feeling of my life slipping away. And then, nothing. Nothing until I woke up here, in this purgatory of immortals and monsters. And I was no longer Jason Todd.

I was just a ghost with a mission.

Sam's been useful. More useful than I expected. He's strong, smart, but fragile—so damn fragile. The thing about people like him is that they're easy to break. A little push, a little nudge, and their morality crumbles, and when they do, they come crawling back, desperate for someone to tell them it's okay. That's where I come in.

I didn't have anyone telling me it was okay. I had Batman. The almighty Bruce Wayne. The man who let me die. Who let the Joker walk free after what he did to me. I don't know what's worse—being beaten to death with a crowbar or knowing that the man who swore to protect Gotham did nothing to avenge me.

But I digress.

Sam's not the type to break down easily, though. I've watched him fight, watched him take hit after hit, and still come out on top. He's resilient, I'll give him that. But there's darkness in him. A darkness I've been nurturing, slowly coaxing out of him, feeding it just enough to keep it alive but not enough to consume him. Not yet, anyway.

He still has that spark of humanity, that hope. It disgusts me sometimes—the way he clings to the idea that he can still save everyone, that he can still be good. But I know better. I know what happens when the world chews you up and spits you out. You either get back up, or you drown in your own blood.

I was drowning once. And then I came back. Different. Worse.

I remember the day I first saw Sam. He was lost, confused, stumbling around in this supernatural world like a blind man in the dark. I could see the potential in him even then. He had that look—like he'd been kicked around by life, but still hadn't learned how to throw a proper punch.

I showed him how to fight, how to think, how to kill. He's still holding back, though. That's his problem. Too afraid to let go, to embrace what he really is. If he ever does… well, let's just say the world won't be ready for him. But for now, he's useful to me as he is.

I've been planting seeds in his head, carefully, methodically. The nice teacher persona, the one who wants to see him succeed, who wants him to be strong. It's almost laughable how easily he buys into it. Humans are so predictable, so desperate for connection. Even in the darkest moments, they'll cling to any hand that reaches out to them.

I don't need to reach out. I just need to push him over the edge.

Sam doesn't know how close he is. How close I am to abandoning him the moment I get what I want. He thinks I'm here to guide him through his journey, but he doesn't understand that I'm using him as much as he's using me. He's a pawn in a game he doesn't even know he's playing.

And when the time comes, I'll leave him just like Batman left me. Alone.

But there's something else—something darker gnawing at me every time I look at Sam. I see myself in him. Or at least, the me I used to be. The me before the Joker took a crowbar to my skull. That's why I hate him. That's why I need him to break. Because if he doesn't, it's like admitting I could have been more. I could have been better.

And I can't have that.

I need him to fall apart, to crumble under the weight of his own choices, so I can prove to myself that I was right. That this world doesn't make heroes. It makes monsters. Sam's on the verge of becoming one, whether he knows it or not.

I've watched him with Enzo. The way he feeds him, takes care of him. It's almost pathetic. He's trying to play savior, thinking he's different from the others. But in the end, he'll learn the same lesson I did.

You can't save everyone. And sometimes, you have to let them burn.

There's a part of me that still aches for Gotham. For the streets I used to know, the alleys where I fought and bled. The city that raised me, broke me, and then tossed me aside like garbage. Every time I close my eyes, I can see the skyline, the dirty smog hanging in the air, the flicker of the Bat-signal in the distance.

And I can see him. The Joker. His smile is burned into my memory, seared into my soul like a scar that refuses to heal. Every day I'm trapped in this system, I'm reminded of him. Every time I guide Sam, every time I push him closer to the edge, I think of the Joker.

I can't kill him. Not yet. Not from here. But if I can use Sam to get back… if I can find a way to break free from this system, I'll find him. And when I do, I won't hesitate. No crowbars, no explosions. Just a bullet between his eyes. Clean. Final.

Because that's the thing about the Joker. He's chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos. And chaos can't exist without order. Without someone to oppose him. That's why Batman needs him. Why I need him.

I can't be the Red Hood without the Joker. That's the sick joke of it all. My entire existence, my purpose, is tied to the very man I want dead. And until I can finish what I started, I'm stuck here, playing the part of a mentor, a guide, a friend.

But when the time comes, and it will come, I'll show Sam what it means to be broken. I'll show him what it means to lose everything. And then, when he's left with nothing, I'll walk away, leaving him in the ashes of his own destruction.

Just like Batman left me.

For now, though, I wait. I play the role I've been given, manipulating Sam, guiding him, molding him into the weapon he's meant to be. He doesn't know it yet, but he's already lost. He just hasn't realized it.

I flicker once again, the edges of my hologram wavering in the dim light of the lake house. Sam sits across the room, his eyes focused on the screen in front of him, planning his next move. He doesn't notice me watching him, doesn't see the twisted grin that plays at the corners of my lips.

Soon. Soon, this will all be over.

And then, maybe, just maybe, I'll get my shot at redemption.

But for now, I'll keep playing my part.

After all, I'm just a hologram. Right?