[English][DC-Batman] Nana - Chapter 16. After Six years

The wind in Gotham felt colder than usual tonight.

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Jason Todd—no, now he was the Red Hood—stood at the edge of a rooftop, cigarette burning between his fingers, the dim glow flickering against his black gloves.

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He didn’t take a drag right away.

He just stood there, silently watching the city in front of him—

as filthy, chaotic, and noisy as ever.

And yet, there was something about it he couldn’t let go of.

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When did life start to go sour?

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He murmured quietly to himself, then finally took a drag.

The smoke curled around his face,

swirling like memories that refused to fade.

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Six years ago.

Yeah. That show.

That hellish performance he would never forget.

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He nearly died.

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The Joker didn’t hold back.

That crowbar hadn’t come down on a kid—

it had come down on someone the world wanted erased.

His body had shattered.

His heart had nearly stopped.

He had only one breath left.

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Then Batman came—

and guarded that one breath with his life.

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Jason was in a coma for a whole year.

Time marched forward.

The world didn’t stop for him.

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Wayne Manor gained a new child.

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That kid’s name was Tim.

He was pretty, calm, methodical.

Smart. Disciplined.

He became the new Robin quickly.

When Jason woke up and found out about all this,

he thought he would be furious.

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But he wasn’t.

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He just laughed.

Laughed like the silent end of a nightmare.

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“Good for him. Tim suits the suit,”
he had said at the time,
not even sure if he meant it or if it was sarcasm.

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He asked about the Joker.

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Batman simply said,

“He’s dead.”

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Jason didn’t ask further.

He knew it wasn’t a lie,

but somehow, his chest still felt like an open, unstitched hole.

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He stayed at the Manor to recover.

He trained his body.

He rebuilt himself.

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He followed instructions.

He didn’t make noise.

He acted like a good kid.

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Then one day,

he left.

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Didn’t leave anything behind.

Just took a gun

and a name without a smile: Red Hood.

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He went to the East End,

built his own order in that dark, chaotic corner.

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Gangsters, dealers, killers, informants—

they all had to give him respect.

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He became a king—

no, a dragon slayer wrapped in the skin of a dragon.

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Batman was furious.

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But Jason didn’t know if he cared.

He didn’t feel like he belonged to that family anymore.

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No—

maybe he just didn’t know where he belonged at all.

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The worst part was the nights.

He didn’t like sleeping.

Every time he closed his eyes,

he jolted awake—

like something was trying to drag him away.

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He’d sit up,

gasping,

heart racing.

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And sometimes, he felt like crying.

Not weeping—

just… wet eyes, silent, no sound at all.

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His chest felt crushed.

Not from nightmares—

from reality.

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He tried to comfort himself.

“I’m just stressed. That’s all.”

“Everything’s fine. Everything’s… normal.”

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But he knew it wasn’t.

He was just saying it for himself,

saying it to the empty air where no one listened.

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He didn’t know what he was missing.

Only that—

something inside him was hollow.

Too hollow for someone still alive.

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Jason had a strange sense of dissonance.

Something felt off.

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He wrote it down in his notebook—

the cover was worn beyond recognition,

edges of the pages curled,

some stained dark with old coffee spills.

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The Red Hood sat in his usual East End hideout,

frowning slightly as he stared at the notes written in ballpoint pen.

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He wasn’t the superstitious type.

He believed in logic,

evidence,

forensics,

and instinct honed by training.

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But these things—

these things weren’t right.

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First point — sign language.

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That day he was just standing on the street,

eating a hotdog while waiting for an informant.

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He had casually glanced across the street toward an Italian restaurant

and saw a mother and her son eating dinner.

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The boy was signing.

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Not just basic signs like “eat” or “drink.”

A full sentence:

“I’m really happy today. The spaghetti is amazing.”

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The translation had popped into his head,

word for word,

crystal clear—

as if he’d studied it for ten years.

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But he hadn’t.

He was sure of that.

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He went back and dug through police training manuals,

Batman’s language database,

even borrowed a beginner’s book on sign language—

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Every sign he saw for the first time…

he already knew the meaning.

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He knew it wasn’t someone had taught him.

Not Dick either.

And definitely not something he trained himself to recognize.

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So who taught him?

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Second point — grapes.

This one annoyed him even more.

He didn’t like overly sweet fruits.

Grape skins always got stuck between his teeth.

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But somehow, he kept buying grapes—

always during weekend supply runs.

Green ones, purple ones, didn’t matter.

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He’d put them in the fridge,

never eat them,

and toss them out days later when they rotted.

Over and over.

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Third point — protecting himself.

Jason was the kind of guy who’d take a bullet to save someone,

who’d charge into danger first.

Even now, with all his heavy firepower and ruthless style,

he still instinctively avoided moves that would cause him major injuries.

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Certain kicks—he stopped using.

Certain flips—he wouldn’t do.

Even if those would’ve helped him end fights faster.

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It wasn’t from training.

Not something Bruce taught.

And definitely not a tactical decision.

It was like the world didn’t quite fit.

He knew the process of uncovering truth—

evidence, deduction, logic.

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But this time,

all the clues danced on the surface of water.

He could see them,

but he couldn’t grab them.

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He sighed, closed the notebook, and lit another cigarette.

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The city was still loud.

The night wind still smelled like motor oil and dust.

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