Inside, on the upper floor where the roof only half-leaked, a single battery-powered lantern cast a weak yellow circle. It illuminated a makeshift cot, a stack of canned goods, a disassembled rifle on a tarp, and a map of the city pinned to the wall, dotted with red marks.

Jason Todd was cleaning a Glock, his movements methodical. The white streak in his black hair was just visible in the gloom. He didn’t look up at the next thunderclap. He was used to the city’s noise.

The sound that followed wasn’t thunder. It was the screech of rusted metal—the old freight door on the ground floor being forced open, then a frantic, sloshing stumble in the puddles below.

They burst onto the landing, a soaked, dark silhouette against the gloom of the stairwell, and froze when they saw the circle of light, and the man sitting within it.