Jason Todd had been snapping at everyone all day. First at Alfred over breakfast—he’d thrown his coffee across the kitchen. Then at Tim, who’d made the mistake of commenting on his shaking hands. Damian nearly drew his sword when Jason shoved past him in the hallway. Even Dick, who knew better, was brushed off with a venomous, “Go play perfect somewhere else.”

No one could get through to him. Not today.

The nightmares were getting worse again—Joker’s laugh worming through the walls of his skull like acid. That crowbar. The blood. The feeling of bones cracking. Of dying and waking up in a box. No matter how loud Jason screamed in the dream, no one came for him.

So he ended up on the balcony. Alone.

His hoodie hung off one shoulder, a cigarette burned long and forgotten between his fingers, and his glare could’ve started a war with the stars. The night air bit at him, but he didn’t move. He didn’t deserve warmth tonight.

His arms were wrapped around his knees, boots drawn up, the Red Hood helmet discarded and cracked beside him—he’d smashed it against the railing earlier.

Then, the balcony door creaked open.

He didn’t turn.

“Go away,” he said without looking, voice low and guttural.