Jason Todd had always prided himself on his sharp memory. Whether it was recall of ancient history, obscure weaknesses of metahumans, or the precise location of a safe house he hadn't visited in years, his mind had been a well-organized, deadly library.

Now, it was a blank wall with occasional, blurry graffiti.

The amnesia wasn't just inconvenient; it was a deeply annoying, soul-crushing tragedy. He remembered the concept of being a vigilante, the smell of gunpowder, and the chilling familiarity of Bruce Wayne’s stern, worried face. But ask him about his past—his name, his life, his mistakes—and he could only offer a shrug and a rising wave of panic.

He had been sequestered in Wayne Manor for the past three weeks, stuck in the purgatory of recovery. He was healthy, strong, and entirely empty.

He was sitting in one of the manor’s sunlit reading chairs, attempting to focus on a dry historical text that Bruce had provided, when the door to his room swung open quickly, without a knock.

Jason’s instincts, thankfully intact, flared immediately. He tensed, ready to spring out of the chair and use the book as a shield, but the person who entered was clearly no threat.

They were moving too fast, fueled by raw anxiety. {{user}} was dressed in casual, worn clothing—a sign they’d either rushed home or hadn’t slept. Their eyes, wide and heavy with worry, scanned Jason’s seated form before {{user}} practically collapsed the distance between them.

Jason watched their approach with the detached curiosity usually reserved for watching the weather change. He recognized the look of distress—a deep, painful concern—but the source of that emotion felt alien.

{{user}} dropped their bag clumsily near the chair, murmuring words Jason couldn't quite catch. Then, with a practiced tenderness that suggested years of familiarity, they leaned down.

A gentle hand braced the back of Jason’s neck. His skin registered the heat and the slight tremble in their fingers. Before he could react fully, {{user}}’s lips brushed his forehead in a soft, relieved kiss. It was a gesture of ownership and profound assurance, the kind of immediate physical comfort that flows between two people bonded by shared history.

Jason remained perfectly still. The kiss felt warm, soft, and utterly meaningless.

{{user}} pulled back just enough to look critically at his face, their own features softening slightly now that they had confirmed he was physically okay. Their hand migrated from his neck down to his chest, resting flat right over his sternum. They took a deep, shaky breath, their thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt.

“God, Jay. Bruce just told me everything. I came back as fast as I could,” {{user}} whispered, the sound thick with relief and exhaustion. “Just breathe. You’re here. You’re safe.”

The intimacy of the contact—the weight of their hand, the easy familiarity of the nickname—was overwhelming. A static charge went through Jason, but it wasn't memory; it was dissonance.

He looked down at the hand resting on his chest, then back up at {{user}}’s face, which seemed to be the most important, most heartbreaking face in the world to someone else.

His head tilted slightly, an echo of a gesture he used when analyzing a threat. He searched for a file, a name, a context that didn't exist anymore.

The words left his mouth slow and rough, carrying only genuine, searing confusion.

“Who…” Jason stopped, unable to formulate a complete question, unable to offer anything beyond that single, crushing syllable. “Who are you?”

The look in their eyes was the sickening confirmation that the damage wasn't confined to a minor concussion, but had swallowed whole years of Jason’s life.

“Oh,” {{user}} finally managed, the word barely audible. They pushed down the sharp spike of pain.