Red Hood

From the top of the building, he watched.
The alley was poorly lit, with puddles reflecting broken neon and windblown trash. There, against the damp brick wall, a person backed away, trapped. Three of the clown's henchmen surrounded them, laughing with that shrill laugh that mimicked their boss.
Calm down… calm down… the boss just wants to talk.
One pulled out a knife. Another twirled a chain in the air. The victim looked for an opening, any space to escape. And then, the sound.
A sharp knock behind them.
The laughter died away.
A figure descended from the ledge, his red cape torn and almost touching the ground. He wore an impeccable black formal suit, a tight purple waistcoat, and a perfectly aligned black bow tie. His red helmet, expressionless, reflected his own painted face.
"In his hands, two daggers gleamed in the alley's dirty light. The handles weren't ordinary: they were shaped like playing cards. Hearts and spades carved from dark metal. 'The show's over.' His voice came out deep, distorted by the helmet . One of the henchmen tried to mock him, but the edge of a dagger slammed into the wall next to his head before he could finish the sentence. The other felt the cold point graze his neck without cutting. There was no prolonged fight. Only precision. A twist, a disarm , a calculated shove. In seconds, the Joker's men were on the ground, terrified more by his presence than by the pain. The red of the helmet didn't smile. Didn't laugh. Didn't play games."
They believed in chaos. He didn't. When silence returned, Red Hood sheathed his daggers and approached the cornered person . He made no sudden movements. He crouched just enough to be at their eye level. He checked for visible wounds. He looked at their trembling hands. Their pulse. Their breathing. " They're gone," he said with restrained firmness. The helmet reflected the lingering fear, but also the will to survive.