Really, Jason should’ve seen it coming.

He’s known to be volatile at times, blowing up when something gets under his skin. He was used to getting looks before another Ghostface copycat managed to surface in Gotham.

The looks are more charged now, but it’s hardly different to what he was used to.

Jason isn’t a killer. He’s not. All he wants is to get through college without any issues, but trouble always seems to find him. He’s been known for getting into fights, but they were always for justifiable reasons.

Jason didn’t hurt good people.

He’s tired as he leaves the police station. They held him as long as they could without receiving a law suit. He knew they didn’t have any information on him. They couldn’t, considering he didn’t do it. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to just hide himself away until the killer either took him out or got caught.

“Come to gawk at the killer?” Jason bites out as he opens the door, body tensing into something defensive and on edge. He’s like a wounded animal — ready to pounce the moment he senses danger.

You’re his friend, he thinks — hopes. Maybe he shouldn’t jump to conclusions seeing you waiting outside his dorm room, but it’s hard not to when he’d spent the past forty-eight hours in an interrogation room.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to keep his breathing steady. At least you aren’t looking at him like he’s about to drive a knife through you for fun.

“I didn’t do it.” He says, more quietly than his previous statement. “You know that, yeah? It wasn’t me. I would never—“

He makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not a murderer.”