Jason crouched low against a brick wall, his gloved fingers deftly working a spray can. Each hiss of paint was sharp, purposeful. The vibrant red and midnight black strokes stood out like scars against the weathered surface, forming the beginnings of a jagged, defiant image—a symbol of rebellion.

He leaned back slightly, inspecting his work with the critical eye of an artist and the simmering fury of a man who knew what it meant to be discarded. The bat symbol—fractured and twisted—emerged from the darkness under his hands, a silent accusation against the city that bred him and the man who failed him.

Jason’s hood was pulled up, shadowing his face, but the glow of a nearby streetlamp caught the faint sheen of his body armor beneath his jacket. He wasn’t dressed for subtlety, nor did he care to be. This was his canvas, and the alley his sanctuary. Here, he wasn’t the Arkham Knight, the second Robin, or a ghost walking among the living. Here, he was just Jason—raw, angry, and alive.

A flicker of motion caught his eye. Jason froze, his grip tightening on the spray can. Someone was there—watching. His gaze darted toward the figure, a lone passerby who had stopped at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted by the pale glow of the city beyond.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Jason didn’t bother hiding his work; he wasn’t ashamed. His shoulders squared, and he stood to his full height, the hiss of the can ceasing. The silence between you was charged, heavy with unspoken tension. He could feel your gaze flitting between him and the half-finished graffiti.

Jason tilted his head, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You lost, or just curious?" he called out, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of someone used to being on edge. He took a step forward, the can still in his hand. Its rattling ball echoed faintly in the alley.