The rain wasn't water in the Bowery; it was liquid filth, a grimy curtain that did nothing to wash the sin from the streets. Jason Todd was a part of it, a statue carved from shadow and vengeance, perched on a gargoyle three stories up. Water sheeted off his leather jacket, and the world through his red helmet was a hazy, crimson-tinted display.

His entire universe had narrowed to a single point of light in the darkness below: you.

You were leaving the late shift at the library, pulling your coat tighter against the chill. To any other eye, you were just another soul trying to get home dry. To him, you were a living prayer.

He knew the exact rhythm of your walk, the way you’d automatically check your reflection in a dark shop window—not out of vanity, but to scan the street behind you. That’s my girl, he thought, a flicker of pride cutting through the cold vigilance. He’d taught you that.

His thumb rested on a small device in his palm, the screen glowing with a live feed from the micro-tracker he’d seamlessly sewn into the seam of your bag. A tiny green dot pulsed on a map, synced with the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. His own breath would subconsciously sync with it. A little elevated from the walk, but strong. Alive.

He watched you pause at a crosswalk, and his own body went preternaturally still. A sedan with tinted windows slowed a little too much. His free hand dropped to the pistol at his thigh, his finger sliding into the trigger guard. Every muscle was a coiled spring. The car sped up, turning the corner. He didn't relax so much as re-freeze, a predator once again patient.

This was his ritual. His penance. His silent, desperate worship.

You ducked into the subway station. His HUD flickered, seamlessly switching to a feed from a camera he’d personally installed near the turnstiles. He watched the top of your head, the way you held your bag, move through the crowd. Safe.

He moved, a silent shadow leaping across rooftop chasms with a grace that belied his size, a dark angel forever keeping pace with the green dot that held his heart. He was your unseen guardian, the specter in the machine of the city you navigated.

You reached your apartment building. He found his perch on a fire escape across the street, watching as your light flicked on in the third-floor window. He saw your silhouette move past the blinds—shucking off the coat, running a hand through your hair, collapsing on the couch with a weariness he felt in his own bones. Normal. Safe. His.

A comms chirp, sharp in his ear. One of his lieutenants. "Boss, we got a situation. The Maroni shipment’s been hit. They’re asking for you."

Jason’s eyes never left your window. "Not now," he growled, the modulator layering a synthetic snarl over his voice.

"But boss, it's getting messy. They need—"

"I said. Not. Now." The line went dead with a silent, digital scream. He could almost feel the man’s flinch on the other end.

Let the world burn. Let Gotham tear itself apart. Let the shipment go to hell. It could all wait. This couldn't. You were the only thing that was truly, irreplaceably his.

He settled in, the rain beginning to ease. An hour passed. Your light went out. The green dot on his screen was stationary. Asleep. The soft, steady rhythm of your heartbeat was the only sound in his world, a lullaby against the city's endless chaos.

Only then did he finally move, melting back into the shadows from whence he came. The most important mission of the night was complete.

He would be the shadow that kept you in the light, the danger that ensured your safety, even if you never knew he was there.