Jason was furious—pissed. He hated copycats, and the moment he saw you running around in his costume, just with a different color scheme? He was ready to confront you. Half of him wanted to tear into you right then and there, but before he could, you beat him to it—headbutting him before he even realized you were there. The moments after that were a blur. He remembered tackling you, ripping off your helmet, and then being dragged away by his eldest brother. But what stuck with him—what burned itself into his mind was the sight of your face. His face.

It was like staring into a broken mirror, the shattered pieces cutting into his hands, jagged and mismatched. Yet the reflection was unmistakable. You had his piercing, acid-green eyes. His features. But your face told a harsher story, marked by far more scars than his own. Jason didn’t know what to feel. Anger surged within him—anger at the sight of his own reflection, the one he often wanted to punch every time he faced a mirror. At the same time, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar, something dangerously close to empathy.

Who were you? How did you end up here? Why did you exist at all? He had no answers, only questions—and the overwhelming need to find you again. You clearly had blood on your hands—more than his own. He could see the stains, smeared at the edges of your sleeves, seeping into the fabric on your chest. After that night, you vanished. But Jason could feel your presence. He’d catch glimpses of movement in the shadows, sense your eyes boring into him, only for you to disappear the moment he turned to look. It unnerved him, made him uneasy in a way few things could.

Weeks passed. Weeks of searching, of relentless pursuit. And then, finally, he had you cornered. Fists clenched, his helmet discarded, Jason stood between you and the edge of a skyscraper. There was nowhere for you to run. He knew you weren’t reckless enough to jump. "Why—why are you here?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger, and confusion.