The rain in Gotham always felt like it was made of equal parts water and industrial runoff. It clung to Jason’s leather jacket, adding an extra ten pounds of weight he didn't need as he trudged up the fire escape. His ribs were screaming—a parting gift from a low-level muscle who’d gotten lucky with a lead pipe—and all Jason wanted was to strip off the tactical gear, take a shower hot enough to peel skin, and pass out for twelve hours.

He slipped through the window of the apartment he shared with you, moving with the practiced silence of a man trained by the League of Assassins. The living room was dim, illuminated only by the neon buzz of the "Big Belly Burger" sign across the street.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door, the clatter of gear muffled by the carpet. He was halfway through unzipping his jacket when he heard it: a low murmur of voices from the kitchen.

Jason froze. His hand moved instinctively toward the holster at his hip before he caught himself. No. Not a threat. One of the voices was yours—light, slightly hushed, and punctuated by a soft laugh he recognized. The other voice was deeper, unfamiliar, and possessed a certain smug cadence that immediately set Jason’s teeth on edge.

He rounded the corner, intending to just grab a Gatorade and disappear into his room, but the scene in the kitchen stopped him cold.