The moment Red Hood saw the Batarang, he straightened up.
His eyes locked onto it as he stepped closer, inspecting the weapon with a growing intensity. "Where did you get a Batarang?" he demanded.
His young, magnetic voice was cut short as soon as he realized something.
—This Batarang was unlike any he'd ever seen before.
It was a new model, one that hadn't been used in action yet, its blades unscathed.
Red Hood knew Batman personally marked each Batarang.
No one understood better than him whether this weapon came from one of the black-market sellers who scavenged fragments of used Batarangs—or from somewhere else, somewhere far more secure.
Somewhere like the Batcave—a place he hadn't visited in a long time.
—Who could possibly get their hands on an unused Batarang?
In a flash, Red Hood shot forward and, with lightning-fast precision, ripped off Soren's hat.
Golden strands of hair cascaded down, like a wave of sunlight spilling into the dim alleyway, glowing brightly in the gloom.
It was as if a shower of starlight had suddenly appeared in the dark.
"What are you doing!" Soren immediately gripped the Batarang tightly, retreating several steps until his back pressed against the brick wall.
His eyes were filled with caution as he stared at Red Hood, ready to defend himself.
But Red Hood stood frozen for a few moments, genuinely stunned by what he saw.
Red Hood muttered a low curse, a harsh "F" slipping from his throat as he took a step toward Soren, closing the distance.
When Soren tried to slash the Batarang toward his neck, Red Hood caught his wrist in a firm grip.
"Don't move!" he growled, voice thick with warning, then swiftly yanked off Soren's mask.
For a split second, Red Hood froze, his breath catching in his throat.
The face that appeared before him was one filled with anger, yet unmistakably familiar—a face he hadn't seen in a long time, and one he almost couldn't believe he was looking at.
"You... f***! F***!" he cursed again, voice rough with shock, disbelief clouding his expression.
Just as he began to process the situation, Soren drove his knee upward in a sharp strike.
Red Hood barely managed to release his grip, catching Soren's knee with one hand.
Without warning, he demanded, "What happened to your eyes?"
Soren, startled by the sudden shift in Red Hood's behavior, instinctively reached into his bag, slipping on the bracelet Tony had given him.
In an instant, his wrist was covered in golden-red iron armor, a sleek gauntlet formed of nanotech, complete with a palm repulsor.
He raised his hand, aiming directly at Red Hood, and fired a blast.
Red Hood barely had time to react, leaping backward to dodge the shot. "What the hell!"
Seizing the opportunity, Soren stepped back several paces, his hand still aimed at Red Hood, the palm repulsor glowing ominously.
His voice was tense with suspicion as he spoke. "Why are you asking about my eyes? If you think my offer isn't enough, we can still negotiate—"
Red Hood raised both hands in a calming gesture. "Hey, relax, Soren. Calm down. I just... I didn't expect to see you here. You seriously don't remember me?"
Soren, still hidden behind the Adamantium gauntlet, studied Red Hood carefully before responding slowly, "Should I?"
Red Hood's expression shifted as he noticed something was off.
His gaze lingered on Soren's bright Kryptonian-blue eyes for a moment, then he spoke again, quieter this time. "Of course, we know each other."
He lowered his hands, scrutinizing Soren's face, and said gravely, "We've known each other for over ten years."
Soren didn't lower his gauntlet.
"I've forgotten a lot of things," he admitted, "but no one ever told me I knew someone like you."
—This Red Hood, with his old jacket, filthy pants, and the gleaming gun holster on his belt, didn't look like someone Soren would have known, not if everything he'd been told since waking up was true.
Soren hadn't initially doubted what he'd been told.
The first person he saw when he woke up was Charlie, followed by Renee, and then Tony and Bruce.
From them, he learned how he had fallen down the stairs at home and lost all of his memories.
They told him he had grown up on Manhattan Island, that his parents were loving, his family was perfect, and that he had lived a relatively uneventful life—until the accident that nearly scrambled his brain.
At first, he fully believed them.
But one day, he noticed something strange: aside from the handful of familiar faces who visited him regularly, he had no friends his age.
Not a single one.
...That struck him as odd.
Soren didn't believe for a second that he could've gone through life without making any friends.
He didn't think he was the kind of person who would end up that miserable.
And there was more.
He had no yearbooks, no evidence of his old school life, and even his social media accounts were blank.
When he made an Instagram account, the first person to follow him was a New Yorker named Peter Parker—someone he didn't even know.
None of his supposed old friends followed him.
Sure, he could've explained away the lack of classmates by assuming he'd been such a terrible person that no one wanted to stay in touch.
But then there were his comic books.
The comics in his room, the ones he was told he had loved before the accident—every single one of them was in pristine condition.
It didn't make sense.
There wasn't a single crease or sign of wear on any of them.
How could he not have read his own favorite comics?
It felt as if those books, along with all his other belongings, had been hastily bought and placed there.
It was almost as if he had never actually lived in that house with his parents.
This thought gnawed at him, filling him with doubt about his life.