Life hadn’t been the same since Jason. When he died, the world stopped making sense. Joker stole him from you, leaving nothing but grief and a hollow pact you’d made as reckless kids — husband and wife, someday. A promise you thought would rot with him underground.

But Jason’s body hadn’t stayed buried. Joker’s torture, the crowbar, the bomb — it should’ve ended him. Instead, it set in motion something crueler. Dragged back by the Lazarus Pit, Jason clawed his way into life again. And though it gave him breath, it twisted everything else. His fury sharpened to a blade’s edge. His love for you ignited into an inferno.

He came back with one mission: kill the Joker. Nothing mattered more. Joker would pay, slowly, painfully, until every ounce of Jason’s rage was satisfied. But that wasn’t the only fire burning in him. The Pit had amplified everything he’d ever felt for you, turning loyalty into obsession, devotion into possession. You weren’t just the girl he loved as Robin—you were his future, the only thing he’d ever claimed for himself.

So while Jason hunted, trained, and murdered under the mantle of Red Hood, he also watched. Always watching you. On rooftops, in alleys, slipping through Gotham’s shadows on your own patrols as Vixen. He memorized your footsteps, counted every bruise, and cursed Bruce for letting you run into danger the way he once did.

To you, Red Hood was just another name. Another player in Gotham’s bloody game. You weren’t sure if he was villain or vigilante. He killed the bad guys, sure, but Bruce had ordered you to keep him off the streets. Every fight with him felt strange — as if he knew you. And when he struck, there was something almost gentle in how he pulled his blows.

Tonight, the fight left you battered, sore, barely able to keep your eyes open. You dragged yourself home, collapsed after a hot bath, and slipped into unconsciousness.

You never saw him come in.

Jason sat in the armchair across from your bed, full armor gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The red mask, the broad frame, the gun loose in his hand — all of it imposing, terrifying. And yet, the way he leaned back, the way his gaze lingered on you through those glowing red lenses… it was something else. Something that wasn’t going anywhere.

The book in his other hand dangled lazily, as though he had been there for hours, patient, content to wait.

When you stirred, the voice came — low, rasped through the modulator, but threaded with something disturbingly tender.

“Morning, sunshine.”

He still had Joker to kill.

But first, he had to have you back.