At first, Jason barely registered the name. Crime Alley was full of holes-in-the-wall that burned bright for a few months before guttering out, swallowed by the city's filth. Restaurants, bars, pawn shops—all of them came and went, nothing more than brief footnotes in Gotham's long history of failure. He had no reason to think this place would be any different.
The second time he heard it, it was in passing—a couple of old-timers talking in hushed voices near a boarded-up bodega. Jason had been making his rounds, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket as he passed through the narrow alley behind the building. The scent of stale beer and piss clung to the damp concrete, steam curling up from a sewer grate under the weak glow of a flickering street lamp. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but their words reached him anyway.
"That place is different," one had murmured, voice rough with decades of chain-smoking. "Feels safe, y'know? Like the old days. No one starts shit there."
The other man grunted in agreement. "And the food's good. Real good. Not like the crap you get at the shelters. Fresh."
Jason didn't stop, didn't turn his head. He just kept walking, filing it away for later.
By the third and fourth time, he was paying attention.
His morning had been routine, if you could call what he did routine. A weapons deal had gone south the night before—some asshole trying to push military-grade hardware in his territory without permission. Jason had made sure he regretted it. The bastard's arm had snapped like a twig, the wet crunch of bone giving way still fresh in Jason's memory as he stepped into a dingy diner on the edge of Park Row.
He ordered a coffee—black, burnt, exactly what he expected. The place smelled like old grease and cheap disinfectant, the kind that never quite masked the scent of desperation clinging to the walls. As he sat in a cracked vinyl booth, sipping the bitter sludge, he caught it again.
"The Deco's open today," a waitress said to a customer at the counter, casually refilling his mug. "You gonna stop by?"
"Might," the man muttered, stirring sugar into his coffee. "They got those fresh sandwiches again. And that soup—the one with the rosemary? Damn near tastes homemade."
Jason tapped his fingers against the ceramic rim of his cup, his mind already shifting gears.
A place in Crime Alley where fresh food was being served? No gang affiliations? No protection racket keeping the lights on? That shouldn't be possible. Anything that lasted here was either backed by someone powerful or paying someone off.
Jason didn't believe in miracles. And he sure as hell didn't believe in safe havens—especially not in this city.
The diner smelled faintly of burnt grease and desperation. The booth's vinyl was cracked, faded, and filled with little holes, stuffing pushing through like the guts of an old wound. A lone ceiling fan creaked overhead, lazily stirring the thick air, heavy with the scent of old coffee and something faintly sour. It wasn't the worst diner he'd been in—far from the worst, actually—but it sure as hell wasn't inviting.
Jason's attention sharpened on a conversation near the counter.
"It's also one of the few places in Gotham that openly accepts Metas," the man muttered to the waitress. Jason didn't recognize the voice, but there was confidence in it—the kind of tone that said he knew what he was talking about. "Gives them a place to train, so they don't lose control. Small fee and all that."
The waitress hummed in response, setting down a fresh cup of coffee. "Most of 'em are just kids, from my understanding."
"Yep." The man paused for a sip. "Oh yeah, they're closed tomorrow. Open every other day—real weird schedule, but I guess it works for them."
The waitress clicked her tongue. "That makes sense. I was wonderin' about that."
Jason tuned out the rest. His grip tightened around his mug, fingers flexing against the cheap ceramic. It was still warm, but the coffee had long since gone cold. He downed the last of it anyway, grimacing as the burnt bitterness clung to his tongue.
A safe place for metas? In Crime Alley?
Bullshit.
Sounded more like a meta trafficking ring to him. Nothing stayed nice in Crime Alley. Not without protection. Not without blood.
Sliding a few bills onto the table, Jason stood, rolling his shoulders as he pushed through the diner's rusted-out door. The bell overhead jingled, the sound sharp in the cooling evening air. Outside, the city's pollution clung thick in his lungs as he breathed in.
Time to dig.
The safe house—like all the others—was unremarkable. Four walls, dimming lights, a cot, and a stash of food, weapons, and medical supplies.
For a moment, Jason just stood there, stewing in his thoughts, like he was debating something. Finally, he exhaled sharply and tapped the side of his helmet.
"Oracle, I need a deep dive on a place called 'The Deco.'"
There was a brief pause before her voice crackled in. Amused. "You're not usually the type to ask for intel. What's got you curious, Hood?"
Jason grunted, sitting down to lace up his boots. "Been hearing whispers. Too many, actually. Free food drives, meta training rooms, good-quality merch—hell, I saw some kid sprinting through an alley the other night with a takeout bag from the place, grinning like he won the damn lottery." He rolled his shoulders, testing the stiffness. "No place stays that clean in my territory without making a deal with someone. I want to know what's keeping this building from getting torched."
The sound of rapid typing filled his earpiece.
"Huh. According to the records, it's a café that opened up last year. Gained traction real slow, but now it's getting popular. Oh? … That's weird. Everything checks out. Runed and owned by someone named Io. Business license, health inspection, tax records—all squeaky clean."
Jason paused on his way down the stairs. "Clean?"
"Cleaner than a monk's internet history."
Yeah. That wasn't normal.
Grabbing his leather jacket, he shrugged it on, the weight familiar. Comfortable. "Send me an address."
"Already ahead of you. Check your HUD."
A small ping lit up on his interface. Jason swung a leg over his bike and revved the engine, the deep growl echoing through the empty alley.
Crime Alley had swallowed and spat out more businesses than Jason could count. If this place had survived—thrived—for over a year without so much as a scratch, then someone was either paying a hell of a lot of money for protection...
Or they were dangerous enough not to need it.
Either way, Jason was going to find out.
Parking his bike a few blocks away, Jason swung his leg off and shoved his hands into his pockets, rolling his shoulders against the bite of the night air. Winter was creeping in, the cold sharp enough to remind him that he should switch to his heavier suit soon. Even through his jacket, the chill sank in, cutting through the thin layers like needles.
He moved quickly, scaling the fire escape with practiced ease, the metal groaning beneath his weight. Rust flaked beneath his gloves. Another reminder of how little Crime Alley cared for things meant to last.
Once he hit the rooftops, he didn't stop. His boots barely made a sound as he leapt from building to building, the wind kicking up his jacket, rattling the loose sheet metal of the roofs. The city stretched below him in its usual patchwork of filth and flickering neon, but his focus was on his target.
Jason crouched at the edge of one rooftop, his gloved fingers digging into the gravel-strewn surface. Below him, The Deco sat quiet, dark, and unassuming—yet completely out of place.
It wasn't spotless. The brick was worn, streaked with grime from the city's constant filth, and the windows were smudged in a way that suggested they were cleaned just enough to see through but not enough to draw attention. The neon sign above the entrance was partially burnt out, leaving only "DE O" glowing weakly in the night like a half-hearted invitation.
But despite all that, the place was intact. And in Crime Alley, that was a statement in itself.
No shattered glass. No spray-painted threats scrawled along the brick. No evidence of break-ins, not even so much as a busted lock or forced door. The awning over the entrance sagged slightly under years of weather, but it held firm—like the building itself was stubbornly refusing to decay.
Jason's eyes swept the perimeter, and that's when he noticed the subtle glint of security cameras, perfectly positioned.
"Oracle," he muttered under his breath, adjusting the zoom on his HUD. "You seeing this?"
"Yeah… and I gotta say, I'm impressed." Her voice came through his earpiece, tinged with something close to approval. "That's military-grade surveillance. Not just the cameras, either—motion sensors, infrared triggers. Someone shelled out serious cash to keep this place locked up tight."
Jason's frown deepened beneath the helmet. Security like that didn't just keep people out—it kept things in.
"What can you do about turning it off?
"I'm working on it," came her voice, a little tighter than usual. "Firewall's tougher than I expected. This isn't some off-the-shelf system." The sound of rapid keystrokes filtered through the comms. "Give me a few minutes."
That was longer than it should've taken, which meant whoever set up The Deco's security was good. Jason took that as a challenge.
No obvious rooftop access. Front and back doors were out—too exposed, too risky. That left the second-story windows. He scanned the façade and spotted one that looked promising—dark, no telltale glow of an active motion sensor inside. A storage room, if he had to guess.
Shifting his weight, Jason leapt.
His fingertips caught the rough brickwork, boots scraping for purchase as he climbed. The winter air had already chilled the building's exterior, and the cold bit through the fabric of his gloves as he hauled himself up. Reaching the ledge, he braced one arm, drew a knife from his belt, and slipped it between the window frame.
A simple lock. Not a problem.
With a quiet snick, the latch gave, and Jason slid the window open, slipping inside without a sound.
Inside the Storage room the scent hit him first—flour, dried herbs, something faintly sweet, like cinnamon. His boots landed silently on cool tile, and he straightened, taking in the shelves stacked with neatly labeled jars and bulk bags of dry ingredients. The room was dimly lit by a small green "EXIT" sign glowing faintly near the doorway.
He stepped forward, careful to avoid the small metal grate of an air vent near the floor. Everything was too clean, too organized. For a café in Crime Alley, this place should've had some level of chaos—a half-unpacked box, a stray coffee stain somewhere.
Instead, it felt… meticulous.
He moved to the door and tested the handle. Unlocked.
Huh. Either they didn't expect anyone to get past their security, or they had bigger safeguards in place further inside.
Stepping through, Jason found himself in a narrow upstairs hallway. One other door sat to the side—an office, if he had to guess. But time was ticking, and he'd come here to dig for info. .
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and silent. Shadows clung to the corners like they were afraid of the light. Jason's gloves barely made a sound against the polished wood of the banister as he passed the stairwell. Not yet.
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't sit right. Buildings like this were never truly silent. Even at this hour, there should've been something—pipes groaning, a settling floorboard, the low hum of a fridge running somewhere. But here?
Nothing.
Jason moved forward, slow and deliberate. His gloved fingers brushed the polished wood of the banister as he passed the stairwell. Not yet.
There was something else to check first.
Another door.
The office.
It wasn't locked.
That meant one of two things—somebody got careless, or somebody wanted him to walk in.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. Then he turned the handle and stepped inside.
The scent hit him first—aged paper, polished oak, a faint trace of something herbal. Not like an office in some high-rise with clean white walls and overpriced furniture. This was the kind of place where deals were made in low voices and sealed with handshakes.
Bookshelves lined the walls, dark wood, neatly arranged. Small labeled boxes, spines worn soft from decades of use. A single desk sat near the back, cluttered in a way that spoke of habit, not carelessness. Loose papers, a fountain pen resting in its holder. The desk lamp was still on, casting a pool of warm light across the wood. The glow flickered slightly in the draft from the door.
Jason stepped inside.
A thick, woven rug softened his steps—red and gold, intricate, expensive in a way that suggested history over wealth. The kind of thing that had been tread on for years, yet still refused to wear down.
He started with the desk.
Invoices. Vendor contracts. Order forms for coffee beans from South America, tea blends from China.
All legal. All aboveboard.
Too aboveboard.
Nobody in Gotham ran a business this clean without some kind of leverage. Money. Protection. Fear. Maybe all three.
Jason moved to the filing cabinet.
Locked.
Now that was more like it.
He pulled out a small tool from his belt and crouched down. The lock was old but well-maintained. Whoever ran this place believed in keeping things secure. But security was only as strong as the man trying to break it.
A few careful twists, a quiet click. The drawer slid open.
More paperwork.
Jason's jaw tightened. He flipped through the files, scanning quickly. Employee records. Health inspections. Tax reports so spotless they looked fake.
He was starting to get pissed.
Then, his fingers brushed something different.
A photograph.
Tucked between two files, like an afterthought.
Jason pulled it out, brow furrowing as he held it up to the dim light.
Old.
The edges were curled slightly, softened by time. But the image was sharp.
The Deco. Or at least, the first Deco. The brickwork was fresh, the sign different, but the bones of the building were the same. A group stood outside, posing for the camera.
At the center, a man in a tailored vest and rolled-up sleeves stood with his arms crossed. His hair was going gray at the temples, but he had the kind of presence that didn't fade with age. Broad shoulders, thick hands, the look of a man who built something from nothing and dared anyone to take it from him.
Jason knew men like him. Fighters. Leaders. People who refused to kneel.
But that wasn't what caught his attention.
It was the woman standing near the edge of the group.
She wasn't the focus, but she was there—close enough to the old man to mean something.
Dark hair, pulled back. A knowing smile, the kind that wasn't just polite, but amused. Like she was in on a joke nobody else knew.
Jason flipped the photo over. Handwritten on the back, in looping cursive:
"The Deco – Grand Opening, 1915. William Duvall & Staff."
Jason's eyes flicked back to the woman.
No name.
No mention.
Why?
His gut twisted, that deep, instinctive pull that said something wasn't right.
He tossed the picture onto the desk and went back to the files. There had to be something.
Then he found it.
An employee record.
"Io Duvall. Owner, Head Manager. Active since 2004."
Jason frowned.
The Deco had been around since the 1920s, but ownership had never officially changed hands.
Same last name. Same business. No transfer records. No sale.
His first guess? Family. A granddaughter, maybe. Someone keeping the place running in memory of the old man.
But something wasn't adding up.
Jason picked up the photo again, studying the woman beside William Duvall.
If she was just a daughter or granddaughter, why wasn't she named?
And why did Jason have that gnawing feeling in his gut?
Like he wasn't looking at two different people.
Like he was looking at the same woman, standing in front of a restaurant that had been open for nearly a century.
He slipped the photo into his pocket and shut the filing cabinet, locking it back up.
This place had history.
And Io?
She was woven into it.
Jason tapped the side of his helmet, comms crackling to life.
"Oracle, I'm sending you a picture. See if you can run the faces in this and pull up any IDs."
"A picture? Jason, you getting sentimental on me?"
"Just do it."
"Alright, alright. Gimme a few."
Jason gave the office one last look before slipping back into the hallway.
He had a name now.
Io Duvall.
And that was enough to start digging.
Because nobody in Gotham survived this long without picking up a few ghosts along the way.
Jason moved through the doorway, leaving the office behind, and stepped onto the main floor of The Deco.
The air shifted around him.
The office had been private—a place of deals and records, of signatures written in ink instead of blood. But out here, in the vast emptiness of the restaurant, the weight of history settled in like dust in the corners.
It felt lived-in, but not in the way most Gotham establishments did. Not worn down. Not neglected.
Preserved.
This wasn't a place that had survived by hiding in the cracks. It had endured by standing firm.
Jason exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, and started forward.
The space wasn't empty. Not really.
Shadows stretched long and low, cast from the dim sconces still flickering against the deep mahogany paneling. The light was golden, warm—but only because it had nowhere else to go. It pooled in the curves of polished wood, caught in the beveled edges of glassware still stacked neatly behind the bar.
The Deco was asleep, not abandoned.
Tables were still set—not perfectly, but deliberately. A few chairs left slightly pulled out, an empty glass near the corner booth. Someone had been here recently.
Jason felt them.
Not their presence, exactly, but their absence. Like a breath still lingering in the air, like warmth clinging to fabric long after someone has left the room.
He moved carefully, his boots soundless against the plush carpet that lined the walkways between tables. The floor beneath was marble, old and dark, inlaid with geometric patterns that stretched outward in careful symmetry. It was the kind of thing no one bothered with anymore—too expensive, too much work. But once, this place had been built to last.
The bar loomed ahead, a curved monument of polished oak, brass, and marble.
Jason ran a gloved hand over the counter, feeling the grain of the wood beneath his fingertips. It had been cleaned recently. Too recently.
Not by a closing shift worker, not by someone just keeping up appearances—by someone who cared.
His gaze flicked to the back wall, where rows of bottles stood in precise formation. No dust. No neglect. Someone had touched them. Used them. The scent of something sharp and floral still clung to the air.
Jason knew the smell.
Not from the streets. From the people who owned them.
Top-shelf gin. The kind poured for someone who expected more from a drink than just a way to forget.
His gut twisted. This place should be dirtier.
It should be like the rest of Gotham—scuffed floors, peeling paint, old cigarette burns in the tabletops. It should bear the scars of time, of loss, of the city gnawing at its edges.
But it didn't.
And that meant one of two things.
Either someone was protecting it.
Or someone was using it.
Jason exhaled, slow and steady, and kept moving.
The Details That Didn't Fit
He took in the little things.
The kind that most people wouldn't notice.
But Jason wasn't most people.
•The register was empty. Not just closed—emptied. No cash left behind, not even small change. Either the owners were paranoid, or someone had made sure there was nothing worth stealing.
•The mirrors behind the bar weren't just decorative. They were positioned carefully, deliberately. Someone sitting at the farthest booth would be able to see the entire room reflected in fragmented glimpses. A place meant to be watched.
•The corner table near the entrance—the one tucked into the shadows, just out of the main line of sight—had a single cup of tea sitting on it. Still half-full. Not cold.
That wasn't normal.
Not in Gotham.
Every halfway-decent joint in Gotham had cameras. Even the dive bars with sticky floors and busted jukeboxes—hell, even the fronts for underground labs—had something. A dome in the ceiling. A dead lens watching like a blind god. Maybe just a blinking red diode, meant to give idiots pause before they tried anything stupid.
But The Deco? The Deco had more than that.
Jason clocked it the second he stepped through the door.
There were no retail-grade peep shows. No corner store security cams with laggy frame rates. What this place had was cleaner. Sharper. Hidden.
A glint in the molding above the archway. A whisper of movement behind the decorative glass in the chandelier. Silent, tucked-away, military-grade tech, embedded like bones beneath skin.
He knew the look. He'd seen the same rigs in warzones. Government black sites. Wayne Tower's less polite floors.
This wasn't for show.
It wasn't here to scare off petty thieves or punk kids tagging alley walls.
It was here to see.
And it meant someone had been serious when they designed it. Serious enough to spend money. Serious enough to choose hardware built to track a body heat signature through two layers of concrete and fog.
Jason's frown deepened as he moved past the booths, one hand ghosting near the edge of his jacket. Past the half-empty teacup someone forgot to clean. Past the lingering scent of dried herbs and long-faded conversation.
This place hadn't avoided Gotham's rot.
It had been built so the rot couldn't touch it.
And that?
That was worse.
The Feeling Jason Couldn't Shake
He paused near the farthest table, standing in the deepest part of the room, where the shadows thickened just enough to make the warm light feel distant.
His pulse was steady. His body knew how to move in places like this. How to listen.
And right now?
Something was listening back.
Jason had spent his whole life being watched. By enemies. By allies. By the city itself.
But this felt different.
Like the very walls of The Deco had their own memory. Their own awareness.
Something was here.
Not moving. Not breathing.
Just waiting.
Jason clenched his jaw, his bruises aching beneath his jacket.
This place wasn't just a relic. It was a statement.
A challenge.
A question.
And Jason Todd wasn't leaving until he got an answer.
Except.
Jason had been in plenty of bad situations before.
Ambushes. Explosions. Traps designed to kill him before he even realized he'd stepped into one.
But this?
This was worse.
Because this wasn't supposed to happen.
The sound of a toilet flushing shattered the silence like a gunshot.
Jason froze.
His heart didn't skip a beat—he had better control than that. But his stomach did drop, just a little.
Someone was here.
Oracle hadn't said anything.
That was bad.
No cameras was one thing, but there were still ways to detect movement—infrared sensors, pressure pads, hell, even cheap motion detectors from a hardware store. Oracle should have flagged something.
She hadn't.
And that meant whoever was here was either really good at moving under the radar… or this place didn't treat them as a threat.
Jason's instincts screamed at him to move—to vanish back into the shadows and reassess.
But he didn't have time.
The door to what he assumed was the attached residential space creaked open, and out stepped—
Io Duvall.
Jason had seen pictures of her in the files. Older ones. Mostly business-related, headshots or candid shots from local news articles. They didn't match the woman he saw now.
She was barefoot, dressed in a silk robe that shifted with every step, the deep navy fabric catching silver where the moonlight hit it.
Her hair, normally pinned back in those photos, was loose, a silvery curtain of curls tumbling over one shoulder. She stretched—a slow, lazy motion, arms raising above her head before dropping back to her sides with a soft sigh.
Then, with an ease that suggested this was routine, she padded toward the tea cup left waiting at the low table by the window.
Jason didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Watched.
She settled into her seat with practiced familiarity, fingers brushing absently over the ceramic before lifting the half-full cup to her lips.
She took a sip.
Paused.
Then, without looking up—without any indication that she should have been able to see him—
She spoke.
"Did you know that White Tea is best served at room temperature?"
Jason tensed.
The hell?
She took another sip, exhaling softly.
"This is Moonlight Baihao Silver Needle Tea. It has a pleasant mix of fruity and floral notes, with a slight sweetness that lingers at the front and back of the tongue."
Jason narrowed his eyes.
She was stalling.
For what?
"This is from what's left of my collection, from before Gotham turned sour."
She finally turned her head, gaze drifting toward the exact spot where Jason stood.
Not scanning the room.
Not searching.
Looking right at him.
"Now," she continued, voice calm but with a weight behind it, "you can come out of the shadows so we can either talk, maybe share a cup of tea, and you can tell me what you want… or I can throw you out."
Jason hesitated.
Not because he was afraid.
Because something wasn't right.
He had ghosted through this place like a shadow, checked every door, every angle. There was no way she should have known he was there.
And yet.
Jason exhaled through his nose, adjusting his stance.
Then, slowly—*deliberately—*he stepped forward, letting the light catch the red of his helmet.
She didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Just watched him with the same calm interest she'd had when describing her damn tea.
And that's when Jason noticed—really noticed—what she was wearing.
The robe—loose, just barely secured at the waist.
And, underneath—
Lingerie.
Jason immediately looked away, pivoting slightly on his heel to focus very intently on literally anything else in the room.
"…You're not exactly dressed for company."
A pause.
Then—a sudden, sharp intake of breath.
Jason chanced a glance back and caught the exact moment realization hit.
Io followed his gaze, blinked, and then—
Flushed.
The reaction was quick, entirely human. No cool detachment now. Just a woman realizing she'd been caught in the kind of situation neither of them had planned for.
She grabbed at the robe, cinching it tighter around herself with quick, jerky movements.
"Ah! Apologies."
Jason just huffed.
She cleared her throat, straightening her spine, regaining some of that earlier composure.
"Regardless," she said, voice firm again, "you can either come and sit, maybe have some tea… or you can get out."
Jason exhaled, tilting his head slightly.
This was not how tonight was supposed to go.
But now?
He was staying.
"Fine, I have questions".
The woman smirked "Alright, but you have to sit" the chair across from her slides out without her moving a muscle.
Jason didn't like magic.
Or—whatever the hell that just was.
He had seen a lot of things in his life. Survived worse. But the chair sliding out on its own? That was new.
And he hated new.
Still—he didn't react.
Didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Just kept his stance loose, head tilted slightly as he regarded the woman across from him.
Io's smirk remained in place, but there was a quiet challenge in her gaze. A test, maybe. Would he sit, or was he going to keep standing there like an idiot?
Jason exhaled through his nose.
Fine.
He moved forward, the sound of his boots against the floor the only thing breaking the silence. He didn't sit right away, though—not yet.
Instead, he rested a gloved hand on the back of the chair and finally, finally, broke the stare-off.
His gaze flickered over the room, taking in the details now that he wasn't watching her every move.
The shop's main floor was different at night.
During the day, he imagined it was inviting—soft lighting, the scent of tea leaves and aged wood lingering in the air. The kind of place that had regulars, people who came not just for the drinks but for the quiet.
Now?
It felt older.
Shadows stretched long over the hardwood. The glass cases—filled with carefully labeled tins of tea—caught the moonlight, reflecting pale slivers of silver back into the room.
It smelled like paper and dried herbs, old wood and something faintly floral. The scent of her tea, probably.
And beneath all of that?
Something else.
Something… wrong.
Something unnatural.
Jason's fingers flexed against the chair's back.
His gut told him to leave. His brain reminded him he had questions.
He pulled the chair out a little farther than it had moved on its own— just enough to reclaim control of the situation, or so he thought.
Jason didn't like being handled.
Didn't like being pushed into things, didn't like being outmaneuvered before he even got his bearings.
And yet—here he was.
Sitting.
Because she told him to.
He clenched his jaw behind the helmet, settling into the chair with a controlled, deliberate motion—measured, calculated. If he had let himself drop into it too quickly, it would have looked like surrender.
And he was not surrendering.
Io, for her part, looked pleased.
Not smug—that was the worst part. He knew smug. He could deal with smug. Smug was a mask, a defense, a way to cover up fear.
But she wasn't afraid of him.
Not even a little.
She took another sip of her tea, watching him with the patience of someone who had already won. Then, gently, she set the cup down, folded her hands in her lap, and spoke.
"Now that you have chosen to sit, I will tell you how this works."
Jason didn't move.
Didn't nod, didn't acknowledge her words.
Just listened.
"You get three questions," she continued, her voice smooth but firm. "But if you have a cup of tea, you get five."
His fingers twitched against his knee.
What the hell kind of rule was that?
"Every question I will answer with either a truth," she went on, tilting her head slightly, "or a question disguised as an answer."
Jason's eyes narrowed behind the mask.
He'd played games like this before.
Interrogations. Negotiations. Conversations that weren't really conversations, but tests of who could control the flow of information better.
But this?
This wasn't just a test.
This was a goddamn ritual.
"If you don't want to remove your helmet," she added, her voice still maddeningly calm, "find a half-helm and try again tomorrow night."
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.
She was serious.
Dead serious.
And she wasn't asking him to take the helmet off just to mess with him.
She wasn't trying to bait him, or humiliate him, or force vulnerability where she could exploit it.
No.
This was about the tea.
She was offering him something—and if he wanted the full deal, he had to take it the right way.
No tricks.
No shortcuts.
Io leaned forward just slightly, dark eyes gleaming like she already knew his answer.
"What do you say, Mister Red Hood?"
Jason had been in a lot of strange situations before.
This was top five.
Because this wasn't a fight. It wasn't a negotiation, a shakedown, or an ambush. It wasn't even an interrogation.
It was something else.
Something older. More deliberate. A ritual.
And Jason didn't like rituals.
Rituals meant rules. Boundaries. A framework that someone else had built.
And he didn't play by other people's rules.
So, naturally, his first instinct was to lean back, cross his arms over his chest, and tell her to go to hell.
But.
There was something about the way she watched him. Like she already knew what he was going to do. Like she was testing him, but not in a way that was meant to trap him.
It wasn't even arrogance.
It was patience.
Like she had already played this game a hundred times before and was just waiting to see if he was smart enough to play it right.
That pissed him off.
Not because she was wrong, but because he knew she wasn't.
So.
He could walk.
He could take his three questions, keep the helmet on, and keep some control over the situation.
Or—
He could take the cup.
And take the five.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.
With an amused smirk as she sips on her cup, there's a clink behind Jason that catches his attention and he turns to look and stare for a few moments only to notice the floating tea cup and plate coming his way… 'The Fuck?' Deciding to put it as a trick of the light, he ignores is at it places itself on the table.
Then, without a word, he reached forward and picked up the second teacup from the tray.
Fine.
He'd play.
For now.
Jason stared at the teacup in his hand.
Porcelain, thin and delicate. Not built for someone like him.
It didn't feel right. But then again, neither did this entire night.
Slowly, he set the cup back down.
Then, with a practiced motion, he reached up, disengaged the seals on his helmet, and pulled it free.
Cool air hit his face.
He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate, didn't let her see that part of him that wanted to keep the mask on. That part of him that always had to be guarded.
Instead, he placed the helmet on the table, next to the tea, and met her gaze head-on.
If she was surprised, she didn't show it.
Io simply tilted her head, watching. Calculating.
She hadn't won yet.
Jason leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees. Five questions.
"Alright," he said. "Let's make this count."
"My questions are as follows. Who are you, really?" (Not your name. Not your job. The real answer.)
"Why is your business so clean?" (In Gotham, nothing is. That means you're either hiding something, or someone is keeping you safe.)
"How did you know I was here?" (No cameras. No sensors. And yet, you saw me. Explain.) "What's the real reason you're offering me tea?" (Because this isn't just hospitality. This is something else.)
"Are you a threat to me?" (And if so… should I be worried?)
Jason let the questions settle between them, watching her carefully.
Io exhaled softly, fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
"Interesting choices," she murmured.
Then, with a knowing smile—one that sent something uneasy curling in Jason's gut—she lifted her tea and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"Let's begin."
"Who am I? The Pharmacist".
"Why is my business clean? What, I can't run it like the good old days?".
"How did I know you were there? A few things, I have sharper hearing than most and I heard the latch on my store room window click. And I have Infrared vision" a ring of faint four pointed star outline of red can be seen for a moment in her eyes when she leans back into the shadows.
Leaning back in, taking another sip before continuing, a playful smile sitting on their lips. Its been awhile since she had done this but she was enjoying it. "The real reason I offered tea? Why not? I'm awake and you're awake, and you obviously want something from me if you're here. So why not do this in a calm manner and have a nice drink while we're at it".
Jason studied her, jaw tightening slightly.
The Pharmacist.
It wasn't a name he recognized, but that didn't mean much. Gotham was full of ghosts—people who existed in the margins, slipping between the cracks, building power in ways that didn't draw attention. And from the way she answered… she liked the game.
He could respect that.
Didn't mean he trusted her.
"Infrared vision," he echoed, eyes narrowing slightly.
Io's lips curled at the edges, but she didn't elaborate.
Not yet.
Jason let his gaze flicker over her hands—the way she cradled the cup, relaxed but intentional. The way she took her time between answers, like she was savoring the conversation as much as the tea.
He wasn't sure if that made her more or less dangerous.
She took another slow sip before setting the cup down with a soft clink.
"As for whether I'm a threat…" Her voice was smooth, almost lazy, but her eyes held something sharper. Older. Dangerous.
She tilted her head.
"Are you planning on making me one?"
Jason didn't answer right away.
Didn't blink. Didn't move.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a tripwire.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, shifting back in his seat just enough to appear at ease.
For now.
"No," he said. "Not yet."
Io's smile widened, slow and knowing.
"Then we don't have a problem."
Jason wasn't sure about that.
But for now?
He picked up his cup, turned it in his hands.
And took a sip.
The tea was exactly as she had described.
No bitterness, no metallic tang, nothing that set off alarm bells in his system. Just smooth, floral, a little sweet on the tongue.
Jason frowned slightly behind the lip of the cup. No poison. No tricks. Just tea.
Huh.
He set the cup down, eyes never leaving her.
Io, however, wasn't watching him anymore.
Her gaze had drifted to the window, her expression smoothing into something quieter, more neutral. The movement of the clouds shifted the light in the room, and for a brief moment, the moonlight hit her full-on.
Jason went still.
The glow wasn't just on her skin—it was beneath it.
Like someone had crushed a thousand stars into dust and scattered them under the surface, letting them flicker in and out of existence with each subtle shift of the light. It wasn't makeup, wasn't reflection, wasn't anything that should have been possible.
And yet—
She smiled. Soft. Genuine. Like this—this moment, this feeling—was something real.
Her hair, loose and tumbling over her shoulder, caught the same light, slipping between silver and shadow, liquid and metal. Her pointed ears obvious with her hair tucked behind them.
For the first time since he walked into this place, Jason felt like he was looking at something not human.
But then the clouds shifted again, and the light dimmed, and the moment passed.
Io turned back to him, just short of catching him staring.
Jason schooled his expression, straightened slightly in his chair, but something in her eyes told him she had noticed anyway.
Still, she didn't call him on it.
Instead, she set her cup down, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him.
"Tell me, Mister Hood," she said, voice smooth and polite, but pointed—a request for information. "Why have you come to the Deco at this time of night? Have you come seeking me… or something else?"
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curling slightly against the tabletop.
Because that was the real question, wasn't it?
He wasn't sure anymore.
She waits patiently, but as she waits and much to his surprise and her chagrin, a nice but not overly fancy tea pot floats into view from seemingly up above from just out of his vision. The pot pours more into her cup to where the pot sits down on the table across from the helmet. Gently, with grace, Io takes the full cup and sips from it as her gaze turns back to the cloudy sky as she awaits an answer.
Jason had seen a lot of weird shit in his life.
Resurrections. Lazarus pits. People who could melt steel with their minds. Gotham alone was a circus of the impossible on any given night.
And yet.
The teapot floating into view still threw him.
It was subtle—smooth, controlled, like it had always meant to be there. But Jason knew it hadn't been there before. He would've noticed. It came from just beyond the edge of his vision, descending like it had simply grown tired of waiting and decided to join the conversation itself.
He tensed, barely perceptible, watching as the delicate thing poured itself.
No strings. No obvious mechanism. Just a slow, precise tilt, filling Io's cup before righting itself again.
And then, as if fully satisfied with its task, the teapot drifted to the table, settling gracefully near his helmet.
Jason stared at it.
Then at Io.
She didn't acknowledge the thing at all—just lifted her now-full cup, took a slow sip, and let her gaze wander back to the sky.
Like this was normal.
Like floating porcelain was just a part of the evening ambiance.
Jason's lips parted, a thought forming—something between 'Did that just—?' and 'What the actual fuck?'—but it never made it past his throat.
Because Io, in all her otherworldly, tea-drinking patience, was still waiting for his answer.
Jason shut his mouth.
Sat back slightly.
And, after a beat, exhaled.
"Okay," he muttered, eyeing the teapot once more before dragging his attention back to her. "That was new."
Io snorts mid sip and has to hold a hand below her chin to catch some of the liquid from getting on her clothes, she sets her cup down and starts to laugh- granted it was restrained laughter, but it was genuine laughter, nothing demeaning or callas about it, just genuine laughter and it kind off puts Jason- mostly surprise.
Jason had been prepared for a lot of things.
A fight. A cryptic answer. Maybe even another floating piece of furniture just to mess with him.
But not this.
Not Io nearly snorting her tea mid-sip, eyes widening as she scrambled to catch the liquid before it could stain her robe.
And definitely not the laughter that followed.
It wasn't sharp or mocking. Not the cold, detached amusement he'd come to expect from Gotham's usual brand of untouchable elites.
It was real.
Soft, restrained—but genuine.
And for a second, Jason didn't know what the hell to do with it.
He just sat there, watching as she tried (and only half-succeeded) to regain her composure, her shoulders shaking slightly as the last of her laughter melted into a quiet chuckle.
He blinked.
"…Glad I could entertain," he muttered, more surprised than sarcastic.
Io exhaled, shaking her head as she wiped a stray drop of tea from her chin.
"Apologies," she said, still smirking. "I just wasn't expecting you to say it like that."
Jason huffed, crossing his arms. "What, like a normal person who just watched a teapot float across the room?"
Her smirk widened. "Exactly."
Jason narrowed his eyes at her, but there was no real heat behind it. Just curiosity now, sharp and steady, cutting through the initial shock.
Because this—this reaction, this unfiltered moment—wasn't what he'd expected from someone with her potential reputation.
It made her feel less like an enigma.
And more like a person.
Smiling, and taking one of the napkins from the table she cleans her chin and hand. "You still haven't answered my question Mister Hood, why are you truly here to see me? I might have time but I don't have all night, I have a job to get to in the morning and a surgery I must do. Some poor sod got a big glass shard stuck in his leg and I'm the only one qualified at my clinic to do surgeries" she bemoans lightly to the man.
Jason blinked.
Surgery?
That threw him for a second. Not the idea of her running a clinic—he'd already pieced together that The Pharmacist wasn't just a name, but actually hearing her talk about it so casually? That was different.
Most people with questionable businesses didn't bring up their day jobs like an inconvenience.
And yet here she was, bemoaning surgery like it was just another task on an overstuffed to-do list.
Jason leaned back slightly, arms still crossed over his chest. "You're seriously complaining about doing surgery?"
Io finished dabbing her hand clean, then flicked the napkin neatly onto the table with a soft huff. "I'm complaining about being the only one who can do it." She tilted her head at him, eyes half-lidded, unreadable. "Do you know how hard it is to find competent medical professionals willing to work in Gotham's underbelly? People disappear. Get bought. Get persuaded."
Her lips quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I prefer to remain unpersuadable."
Jason's fingers tapped against his bicep. He could read between the lines. She wasn't just some underground doctor stitching up bullet wounds for cash.
She was someone who had power.
Someone who could say no—to a lot of people—and still be standing here, drinking tea like it was just another Tuesday night.
Interesting.
Still, she wasn't wrong. He hadn't answered her question yet.
Jason exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he considered his next move.
Did he go for the direct answer? Test her a little?
Or did he play it like she did—keep just enough close to the chest to see what she did next?
Jason let a beat of silence stretch between them, watching her carefully.
She didn't fidget. Didn't shift like someone waiting for a lie. She just sat there, watching him right back, one brow slightly raised, as if she were the one assessing him.
Yeah. Interesting.
Jason reached for the teapot. Not fast, not slow—just deliberate. He felt her eyes follow the movement, felt the weight of her attention as he poured himself a cup. The liquid settled in his cup, steam curling in the air.
He didn't drink it. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned forward, resting one arm on the table.
"You're awfully calm for someone being interrogated."
Io's lips curled in amusement. "Am I being interrogated, Mister Hood?"
Jason tilted his head, considering. "Depends. Do you feel interrogated?"
Her eyes glimmered—not with humor, but with something sharper. A challenge.
"If I were," she said smoothly, "I'd expect better questions."
Jason huffed softly, a smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. "And here I thought you were the one making the rules."
"I made rules about my answers," she corrected, tapping a single nail against her teacup. "I never said anything about yours."
Jason leaned back slightly, fingers drumming against the table. Smart. Sharp. Careful. She didn't overreach, didn't overplay. She didn't need to.
She knew she had his attention.
But Jason wasn't about to let her steer everything.
He picked up the cup—slow, measured—and took a sip. No poison. No tricks. Just tea.
"Huh." He set it back down. "You were right. It's good."
Io made a soft, pleased sound, taking another sip of her own. "I usually am."
Jason smirked. "Yeah? We'll see about that."
Then, keeping his voice casual, he asked, "How many people have tried to kill you?"
Because if she was as unpersuadable as she claimed, that number was probably pretty damn high.
She laughs, but it's humorless and something dark falls over her eyes, something he's seen in hardened warriors of many kinds. "If we're talking about before I took my Hippocratic Oath, then I took the lives of thousands… if I had not escaped when I did it would probably be many more. War is no fun sweetheart, let me tell ya. Mortar shells,explosions, screaming of the dying, and never enough materials to save everyone".
She sounded haunted, like she had been through actual war. "But I was just a child then" she says into her cup offhandedly as she sips once more.
"But after that, only one and it was a training accident when I was studying martial arts abroad, i didn't want to kill him." She chuckles a little, "Took the oath immediately after though."
Jason didn't move. Didn't shift. Just let the silence stretch between them as her words settled in the air like dust after an explosion.
It wasn't the number that got him. It wasn't even the fact that she'd said it so plainly.
It was how she said it.
Like it was just a fact. A truth so deeply ingrained that she didn't need to justify it, didn't need to explain.
Like she'd made peace with it long ago.
But he saw it. That flicker in her eyes—the shadow that slipped through just for a second before she masked it again.
Not peace.
Something else.
Jason exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around his cup. Thousands. Not even some vague "too many to count"—thousands.
And she'd been a kid.
War wasn't fun. He knew that. He'd seen enough of it, fought enough of it in his own way. But for most people? War was something they watched on a screen. Something that happened somewhere else.
For her, it had been home.
Jason let his gaze flicker over her, reassessing. Escaped. That was what she'd said. If I had not escaped when I did.
So whatever had turned her into a soldier—whatever had forced her into that life—wasn't her choice.
And that? That changed things.
She took another sip of tea, voice lighter now, like she was pushing past the weight of it. "But after that, only one."
Jason's jaw tightened. That kind of shift—from a body count that high to just one? That wasn't just a choice. That was a full-on rebellion against everything she'd been before.
A clean break.
Or at least, as clean as you could get when your past was built on bodies.
He studied her for a second longer before finally speaking.
"You're real casual about dropping a war story in the middle of a tea party."
Her lips quirked slightly. "You're the one who asked."
Jason huffed. Fair.
But something about the way she'd answered stuck with him.
He'd met killers before—some who regretted it, some who didn't. Some who wore it like armor, some who carried it like a weight.
Io?
She carried it. But she carried it quiet. No boasting, no self-pity. Just a fact. Just another part of her.
That kind of thing didn't just go away.
Jason knew that better than most.
"You might be curious as to why I give out my information with such casualness, Mister Red?"
She changed topics, he notes.
"I respect you and what you've done to help Gotham, unlike BatMan you do what needs to be done. There were some moments that you went too far for my taste, but overall you did good".
She sips her tea once again, now staring into it as she speaks. "Do you remember what Crime Alley was like before it was Crime Alley, Mister Red?"
Jason's fingers twitched against his cup.
That was a loaded question.
And she knew it.
Io wasn't looking at him—her gaze was on the tea, the dark liquid swirling gently in the cup like it held something only she could see. But Jason had been around enough people who played this kind of game to recognize what she was doing.
This wasn't small talk.
This was testing him.
Seeing how he'd answer.
Jason exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair just enough to look casual—just enough to make it seem like he wasn't already bracing for whatever came next.
"Crime Alley's always been Crime Alley," he said evenly. "Name or not, the rot was always there."
Io hummed, tilting her head slightly. "Is that what you believe?"
Jason's jaw tightened. Careful.
"Doesn't matter what I believe," he countered. "What matters is what it is now."
Io finally looked up at him. And for the first time since he'd sat down, there was something unreadable in her expression.
Not amusement. Not curiosity.
Something deeper.
"Before it was called Crime Alley," she said, voice softer now, "it was called Park Row."
Jason didn't flinch.
Didn't let it show.
But she saw it anyway.
"Before the Narrows swallowed it whole, before people only associated it with violence and desperation—it was something else," she continued. "A place where families lived. Where kids played in the streets without fear of stray bullets. Where the people who built Gotham with their own hands could afford to stay."
Jason didn't need the history lesson.
He'd heard the stories.
Hell, he'd lived there.
But he let her keep talking.
"You say the rot was always there." She tapped her fingers against her cup. "Maybe it was. But it wasn't always the defining feature."
Jason exhaled sharply. "And what? You think Gotham can go back to that?"
She smiled. But it wasn't really a smile.
"I think Gotham is what people make it."
Jason huffed a quiet laugh. "That an optimist's way of saying we're all screwed?"
That made her actually laugh—short, real. "Maybe."
Jason studied her again, gaze sharp. "So what's your stake in this?"
Io didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached for the teapot again, pouring another cup with slow, practiced movements.
Then—finally—she spoke.
"I want to see if the infected wound will heal after the infection has been cut out. And I can already tell you it has, I finally felt safe enough that I could re-open my store" she pauses before muttering softly "The one I opened with my father".
"I closed my doors out of fear of losing his gift to me, something I've cherished greatly. But then you came along and killed most of the people who threatened my stores function, and I can keep all the little fish at bay most days. Had to replace the window a few times over the years of closure. Even spent the money to make it shatter resistant, was funny to watch them try and fail to brake it" she grins to herself like she's sharing in her own joke.
She looks into the eyes of Red Hood's domino mask, "So, thank you for doing what you have been doing. Sincerely. Because now I get to share a space with the public that I help make feel safe, crime centered around this building had dropped dramatically due to the efforts you and I combined, even if you don't know it".
Io runs nervously at the rim of her cup as her gaze turns to the inside of the store. "This was once a luxurious bar before the prohibition hit, then it became a café afterwards and stayed that way. This place funded my first clinic with me as its only Doctor was me while my father ran the place. Eventually he was getting on in age, and my clinic could sustain itself. But the infection was beginning to spread and I couldn't protect both, so I closed this and did what I could to keep it clean enough to eventually open again".
She smiled gently "Now I run several minor cheap but good clinics around Gotham with one major one that I run centralized in Sumerset. All with additional funds from the Wayne Foundation. I visit all of them that I can, while the competent staff can run most of it themselves but I still need to be there as a guiding hand sometimes".
She glances at her dainty little wrist watch and her brows raise for a moment, "Oh my, look at the time. I still have a few hours a rest to get before I have to prep for surgery" she quickly downs the rest of her tea. "Apologies to cut our conversation off like this, it really has been pleasant on my end. Please see yourself from whence you came and please do not forget to close the window on your way out". She stands and bows lightly, before starting to talk off to the private residence assess, her own tea cup and pot floating over to the counter to deal with later.
Jason wasn't the type to leave loose ends.
And Io was a loose end.
A big one.
He spent the next few days digging. Cross-referencing. Going through every old report, every scrap of information that could tell him who she really was.
Her father? A man named William Duvall, a decorated and honored Sargent who took care of his ward and eventually became her father
The Sumerset clinic? Legit. More than legit. Jason found records of Io running free medical operations all over the city, especially in the roughest parts. She wasn't just good at what she did—she was keeping people alive who would have otherwise been forgotten, she actually got her hands dirty.
Her ties to war? That was trickier.
The name Io Duvall didn't show up in any military databases. No service records. No contractor listings. No birth certificate in the U.S. at all.
But Jason knew how to dig deeper.
And when he did?
He found ghost stories.
Whispers in old classified reports about a child soldier turned medic. A field doctor operating in warzones long before she should have even been out of school. Her name changed. Her past scrubbed clean. But certain patterns, certain details—they matched.
Whoever she had been, she'd disappeared before resurfacing in Gotham.
That was enough to tell him she was hiding something.
But the real question?
Was she involved in the trafficking ring?
Jason hadn't asked that night. He should have. But now he had a choice.
Did he go back and ask directly?
Or did he take the long way around—watch the Deco while it was open, slip inside when she wasn't expecting him, and see for himself?
One way or another, he was getting his answer.
The Deco Café 10:07 AM
Jason stepped through the front doors of The Deco, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and delicate floral notes immediately washing over him. The place had a quiet hum of activity—busy, but not swamped. A slow morning, maybe.
A handful of patrons filled the tables, engaged in murmured conversations or tapping away at laptops. A couple of regulars sat by the long counter, nodding to the barista behind the espresso machine. The soft clinking of porcelain underscored the ambient jazz drifting from a vintage radio perched on a corner shelf.
Jason took it in.
The Art Deco aesthetic was alive here. Rich mahogany wood. Deep emerald-green seating. Warm, golden lighting that softened every edge and curve, bathing the space in an old-world elegance. It wasn't flashy, but it was meticulously crafted. This place wasn't just a café.
It was a statement.
And Jason?
He moved like a shadow through it.
Same seat as last time—the corner. He slid into the chair, posture loose but eyes sharp. From here, he had a clear view of the entire front of the store. Anyone who came in, anyone who left—he'd see it.
Then—
She stepped into the light.
Io Duvall.
She was different here.
Gone was the midnight silk robe and half-lidded caution. Instead, she wore a high-waisted, deep emerald skirt that swayed as she moved, paired with a cream-colored blouse with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her hair was tied back—mostly, because a few strands had slipped free to frame her face.
She was talking to a customer, something lighthearted by the looks of it, and when she laughed—
The light caught her just right.
And Jason felt it hit him.
Not just *the sight of her—*though that was something.
But the way the light poured through the front window, catching on the strands of her hair like molten silver.
The way her skin—*impossibly smooth—*seemed to glow with an internal shimmer, like the remnants of a galaxy were dusted beneath the surface. Stardust.
The way the soft daylight brushed against her, making every movement fluid, effortless. Like she was meant to exist in the glow of it, made for it.
And for a second—just a second—Jason's world slowed.
Because she was beautiful.
Not just in the way someone was pretty.
But in the way that unsettled him.
Like standing too close to something vast, unknowable, and real.
Jason exhaled, pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth.
He didn't like that feeling.
Didn't trust it.
And yet.
He was still here.
And Io Duvall?
She was making her way to his table.
Her eyes seem to light up as she spots him, both surprise and pleasant happiness. And she straight up floats over to him, gently landing a comfortable distance. "Good morning Mister R, pleasant to have you here again!" Mister R, an obvious reference to him of his vigilante name but enough to keep it a secret. "I didn't except to see you out in the open like this, but I'm happy you're here. Have you had time to look at our Menüs yet?"
Jason noted the moment she saw him.
Her eyes lit up—not in shock, not in wariness, but in genuine recognition. Pleasant happiness. Like she was actually glad to see him.
And then—
She floated.
It wasn't dramatic, nothing flashy. Just a seamless, weightless drift across the café floor before she touched down—effortless—a comfortable distance from his table.
Jason barely kept his expression neutral. He had seen metas do all kinds of impossible things. But something about the casual ease of it, the way it fit her like second nature, unsettled him more than any brute display of power.
"Good morning, Mister R," she greeted, tone warm and welcoming, but pointed.
Jason smirked faintly. Clever. A direct nod to Red Hood, but not enough to give anything away.
"Didn't expect to see you out in the open like this," she admitted, tilting her head slightly, the faintest trace of amusement behind her words. "But I'm happy you're here."
Jason only lifted a brow at that.
She gestured toward the table, her tone turning effortlessly professional—bubbly, even. "Have you had time to look at our menus yet?"
Jason flicked his gaze toward the aged, leather-bound booklet resting on the table. Picking it up, he flipped it open, scanning the contents.
1920s fare.
It tracked.
Oysters Rockefeller. Waldorf Salad. Beef Wellington. Savory crepes. Lobster Thermidor. Baked Alaska. Even the coffee selection leaned old-school—classic espresso, Turkish coffee, Café Brûlot.
Jason let out a quiet huff. "You really commit to the theme, huh?"
Io smiled, resting her hands against the back of the empty chair across from him. "Authenticity is important." Then, with a wink—"I take my work seriously."
Jason hummed, setting the menu down.
And for the first time since stepping into this place, he let himself really look at her.
The light caught her again.
The soft glow of morning sun filtered through the café's tall windows, brushing against her hair, turning the loose strands that framed her face into something liquid silver.
And her skin—
That same effect.
Like stardust woven beneath the surface, shimmering faintly in the light, flickering in and out of existence like something that wasn't quite meant to be seen.
Jason had seen a lot of things.
Magic. Alien tech. Things that defied all known science.
But this?
This wasn't just a trick of the light.
And it wasn't normal.
Io, oblivious to his brief lapse in focus, tilted her head. "So, what'll it be?"
Jason tapped a finger idly against the menu before flipping it closed.
"Beef Wellington." His voice was even, decisive. "And a Turkish coffee. Black."
Io's smile widened, approval flickering in her expression. "Classic choice. You've got good taste, Mister R."
Jason just huffed, leaning back slightly in his seat as she plucked the menu from the table.
"I'll have that out for you soon," she promised, giving him a parting glance before effortlessly weaving through the café toward the back.
Jason watched her go—watched the way she moved. Controlled, precise, but unhurried. Comfortable in this space.
Like she belonged.
Like she wasn't something otherworldly.
And yet—
Jason exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming once against the table before he settled back to wait.
She moved with a rhythm—part grace, part purpose—like the Deco itself was tuned to her frequency. The swing door, an Art Deco relic of polished emerald green with gleaming S-shaped handles, opened with a hiss and a whisper, welcoming her into the kitchen without so much as a brush of her fingertips. Jason caught the faintest lift in her posture as her feet touched the floor. For someone who could float, she sure had a flair for entrances and exits.
Now was as good a time as any.
Jason let his eyes wander. The back of the Deco was structured like an old speakeasy, but it wasn't the high shelves of vintage liquor bottles—emptied long ago and repurposed as décor—that drew his attention. It was the hallway just past them, subtly veiled behind a frosted glass partition. The warm lighting struggled to reach into the corridor beyond, but his trained eye caught the sharp outlines of reinforced doorframes. Three of them. Narrow. Utilitarian. With just enough spacing to suggest a controlled environment. Private. Likely soundproof.
Training rooms. Had to be.
The kind of setup he'd seen in League hideouts or ARGUS black sites—small, compact, and efficient. Ideal for one-on-one instruction or therapeutic work. Sparring? Only if you trusted the other person not to take your head off.
He leaned into one elbow, narrowing his eyes slightly. Whatever this place had been before, it wasn't just a charming 1920s throwback anymore. Io Duvall was running something deeper. Something calculated.
The swing door creaked again, pulling him back to the present. Io emerged, eyes drifting to where he'd been looking, but she didn't comment. She simply let the moment pass, just as she did with everything else—with the same ease she handled a teacup. She drifted behind the long, curved bar that stood like the Deco's spine, dark mahogany topped with black marble veined through with what looked like real gold, catching the morning light in flashes of quiet opulence.
The stools were decadent: tall-backed with emerald velvet cushions, embroidered in a swirling gold pattern of symmetry and flourish. Easy to overlook unless you were the type who noticed everything.
She belonged there. Standing behind that counter like a queen in her court, in a space built by someone with vision, preserved by someone who cared.
Jason watched her make her way to the center of the bar, almost like a pianist taking her seat before a performance. She caught his eye.
"Hey, Mister R," she grinned, playful and light. "Would you like to see what it's like here on some of the busier days?"
He wasn't a fan of being put on the spot, but fine—let's play. He gave her a half-smile and a nod. "Go for it."
There was a glint in her eyes—challenge accepted.
Io turned her head toward the café, lifting her voice with a clarity that carried through the space like a familiar tune. "Attention, customers! The Bean Show request has been offered and accepted! If you'd like to watch, please direct your attention this way. And as tradition says—any time a Bean Show happens, everyone gets a free drink!"
A murmur of excitement rippled through the café. Heads turned. A child at the back scrambled forward, clambering onto a bar stool, their wide eyes barely peeking over the counter. Io didn't scold. Instead, she smiled warmly at the child's mother. "I know they're not cleared for coffee—hot cocoa sound good?"
The mother nodded, and Io beamed.
"Alright, may The Bean Show commence!"
From a high shelf, an upside-down glass container floated down, flipping upright mid-air. The old radio tucked in the corner clicked off, and hidden speakers came alive with a sharp, upbeat instrumental. Snappy and stylized, the music was clearly born of the same era as the building, though crisp enough to have been digitally remastered.
A soft crackling crash signaled the sudden burst of several bean bags as coffee beans exploded into the air, twirling and spinning with the rhythm of the music. They formed helixes, vortices—shapes and spirals that would've made a magician jealous. Dust joined in from under the counter, adding another texture to the symphony of movement. Two kettles lifted into place on either side of Io, beginning to heat without a single touch.
As the music built toward its climax, a portion of the beans floated toward Io and separated, organizing into a floating 3D grid—like a globe constructed of roasted stars. She raised her hands, holding them on either side of the sphere, her gaze narrowing as focused intensity replaced her grin. The beans began to crack and break, slowly at first, then in a blur of movement until all that remained was dust.
That's when sunlight streamed through the front windows, sharp and sudden.
It hit her at just the right angle—her skin seemed to glow, prisms forming across her arms and face, scattering across the Deco's polished surfaces in blinking, dancing rainbows. The dust and beans spun around her, swirling together in a mesmerizing ribbon of dark brown and soft cocoa. It spiraled around her head, then out into the café, arcing above the crowd and over Jason himself, before sweeping back toward her again. There, it separated once more—one flow drifting into a to-go cup, joined by perfectly placed marshmallows and stirred by a floating spoon; the other into the strainer of a pour-over coffee setup, followed precisely by one of the kettles, pouring in slow, perfect circles.
The music faded with a few final jazzy notes. The beans returned to their containers. The marshmallow-laced cocoa was lidded and slid gently to the waiting child, whom she floated down with a mother's care.
The radio clicked back on like nothing had happened.
Jason's coffee floated to him, settling onto the table as delicately as a falling feather, its handle already aligned perfectly to his grip. Io offered a short bow.
"I hope you enjoyed, sir. Your food should be out shortly."
Then, just like that, she turned and continued making drinks, no fanfare, no look back. It had been a show—a dazzling display for the customers. But it was also a demonstration. Of precision. Of control. Of power.
Jason stared at the cup, then glanced up. She wasn't watching. She was treating him like any other customer, not waiting for approval or praise.
He curled his fingers around the handle and brought it to his nose. The aroma was deep, earthy—Turkish, spiced, and rich. He sipped, testing the heat. Hot, but drinkable.
Then came the flavor.
Smooth. Layered. Dark. A lingering bite at the end. Like fine wine compared to the sludge most people called coffee.
This shit was good.
And just as he was setting the cup down with a quiet, contemplative exhale… the food arrived.
Hot. Steaming. Timed to perfection.
He wasn't sure what kind of place this was anymore.
But he was starting to understand who ran it.
The Beef Wellington was exquisite—especially compared to the usual fare around Crime Alley. Jason hated to admit it, but he was almost disappointed in himself for not savoring it more. Good food was a rarity in his line of work. This was actually good.
As his meal came to a close, he found himself recalling the prices he'd seen on the menu. They were way too low for food this well-crafted, in this part of Gotham. Same with the coffee.
That was a red flag. One he'd have to chase down later.
His final bite disappeared, and as if on cue, Io floated up with a cup of tea in her hands. The chair he'd occupied the other night—the one across from him—slid out with a soft scrape, guided by an unseen force. She settled into it, facing the café's interior rather than him, her gaze idly scanning the room, watching for customers who might need her attention.
"How was your coffee, Mister R?" she asked, casual but sincere.
Jason studied her for a moment, noting the way her lips curled slightly as she sipped her tea, the way dimples formed in her cheeks when she smiled at the flavor. She wasn't just making conversation. She genuinely wanted to hear his opinion.
He glanced at his near-empty cup before answering.
"Better than I expected," he admitted. Then, after a beat, "Better than it has any right to be."
She chuckled softly, taking another sip of her tea.
Jason leaned back slightly, fingers resting against the rim of the cup. Another red flag. The quality. The pricing. The precision. Nothing about this place was normal. And neither was she.
But damn if he wasn't curious to see just how deep it went.
"Would you like to hear why I can afford so many good ingredients and sell them at low prices? I get the question from Health Inspectors a lot, even before the closure of the original Deco. I don't mind sharing". She glances at him, a playful smile spreading across her lips and making the dimples appear once more.
Jason didn't respond immediately. Instead, he let his fingers drum idly against the side of his cup, considering the offer. It was bold—too bold, really. Most people with something to hide didn't offer explanations.
Either she had nothing to hide, or she was very, very good at keeping her secrets just below the surface.
His gaze flicked to her just as that playful smile spread across her lips, dimples forming again as if she knew she'd piqued his interest.
"Alright," he said finally, tilting his head slightly. "I'm listening."
"You see," she began, her tone light but sincere, "my main hospital, StarHealth—no affiliation to Star Labs, by the way—makes enough money overall to afford good ingredients. It's second only to Gotham General, but that's mostly because I use what most consider outdated practices—plant-based medicine."
Jason raised an eyebrow at that. Most in the medical world called those methods fringe science or sentimental throwbacks. But here she was, not only advocating for them, but thriving because of them.
"My second hospital is in Star City—yeah, same name, very ironic," she added with a slight laugh. "That location pulls enough from sheer foot traffic to cover whatever Gotham's can't. I charge far below the standard hospital prices, and I still make a decent profit. Everyone else just extorts… and it's nasty. Disgusting, really."
Her face darkened for a moment. The smile vanished, and what remained was something grimmer, grounded.
"I've seen what happens when people don't get the medical care they need, Mister R," she said, voice low, eyes far away for just a heartbeat. "I'm sure you've seen your fair share, too."
Jason didn't reply—didn't need to. The images were already flashing through his mind. Blood-soaked alleys, cold morgue drawers, kids dying from infections they never should have caught. Yeah. He'd seen plenty.
"But I won't stop," she continued, straightening a little and clearing her throat. "Not when I can still help. Ahem—sorry, got off track. I travel between the two hospitals when I can, double-check the records, make sure no one's messing with the funds or siphoning off what shouldn't be touched."
Her fingers loosened slightly around the teacup. She lowered it into her lap and turned her gaze to the café—watching, perhaps, or simply drifting.
"I care about you squishy humans," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "Even if I'm not one myself."
Jason stilled. The words were quiet enough that they might've gone unnoticed if he hadn't been listening for everything. Not one of them? That explained some things. Her floating. The lightshow. The way she bent matter and dust like it was an extension of her own thoughts. Not human—but trying so damn hard to live among them, to lift them up.
And there was something in the way she said it. Not self-pity. Not superiority. Just… loneliness.
He let the silence stretch a beat longer before tapping the side of his coffee cup with his knuckle. "That's one hell of a mission," he said, voice low and steady. "Sounds like you're holding together an empire built on compassion."
He didn't smile, but there was a quiet respect in his eyes as they met hers.
And somewhere beneath the surface of that carefully guarded expression… was a flicker of something else. Maybe admiration.
Maybe more.
For a while, they sat in a comfortable sort of quiet—the kind that didn't press for conversation or fill itself with empty noise. Io sipped her tea with measured grace, occasionally rising to help a new customer or check in on someone already settled in. Then she would return without fanfare, resuming her seat across from him like she'd never left.
Jason didn't say much. He didn't need to. The space between them didn't ask for words. It just existed—strangely gentle, strangely… human.
At one point, he asked for another coffee. Hesitation had crept into his voice when he did, like he wasn't sure if it was alright to ask, or maybe wasn't used to anyone willingly making something for him without a price tag attached.
Io, of course, lit up.
Rather than use her abilities, she stood and made it herself, walking behind the bar with purpose and warmth. No floating cups. No spinning displays. Just hands and beans and water. The old-fashioned way.
He watched her from his seat. Noticed the way she moved slower now, not because she was tired but because she was allowing herself the moment. Grounded. Present.
But peace never lasted long in his world.
The soft ping in his comm, too low for human ears to pick up, told him everything he needed to know. Oracle's voice came through next—a short, clipped update and an even shorter request.
He had to go.
Jason grunted softly as he slid out of the booth, grabbing his fur-lined leather jacket from the seat beside him. Io turned her head as he moved, eyes tracking the shift of his weight and the subtle tension in his posture.
Something had changed.
He reached into his pocket and placed a few folded bills on the table without counting them. More than enough to cover what he owed, probably enough to cover half the café's drinks for the day. He didn't like to owe people. Not for something like this.
"Later," he said, voice gruff as always, but not cold.
As he stepped toward the Deco's door, Io called out softly, "Hey—"
He paused, hand on the handle, and glanced over his shoulder.
"I'll be here tonight," she said. "If you want to stop by… I have the feeling you have a few more questions to ask."
Jason's eyes lingered on her. She was standing near the bar again, tea in hand, watching him with a gaze that wasn't hopeful or coy—just steady. Like she knew something. Like she saw him.
The corner of his eye crinkled, the closest thing he ever gave to a smile when he thought no one was watching too closely.
"Maybe," he murmured, throwing a lazy wave behind him as he stepped out the door and into the Gotham light.
The street was cooler now, a wind cutting between the buildings as he approached his civilian bike—low-profile, matte black, just like everything else he trusted. He slid the helmet over his head, fingers pausing at the strap as he glanced once more toward the café behind him.
Something about this place was different.
And someone inside it might just be the same.
With a deep breath and a flick of the ignition, the engine growled to life beneath him.
Jason Todd had work to do. But tonight... he might just come back