The chime of the apartment door latch was subtle, a mechanical whisper swallowed by the late hour, but the subsequent noise was anything but.

The heavy, metallic clunk of a discarded helmet rolling across the hardwood floor was immediately followed by the sound that {{user}} knew intimately—a dull, systemic thud that vibrated through the floorboards. It was the sound of a six-foot-plus mass of muscle and exhaustion finally giving up the ghost.

In the next room, {{user}} stirred, groaning quietly into the pillow. They rarely slept soundly anymore, having become unintentionally synchronized to the nocturnal rhythm of Jason Todd’s life. The silence that followed the thud meant only one thing: he had landed.

Jason, meanwhile, had managed to cover the six feet between the front door and the living room couch before collapsing. He hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. Gravity, it seemed, had won the final battle of the night.

He was sprawled out on his back, the worn leather of the sofa squeaking beneath him. His Red Hood suit was a disregarded pile near the coat rack, the helmet staring blankly at the ceiling. He hadn’t bothered with clothes, simply peeling off the tactical gear and letting his heavy Kevlar weave drop wherever it fell.

He wore only his black boxers, a state of undress that offered no protection from the harsh overhead glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. In this stark, exposed light, the damage was undeniable.

Jason drew in a ragged breath, the effort causing a sharp pain to lance across his ribs. He immediately bit down hard on his lower lip, the metallic taste of blood replacing the dusty grit that coated his mouth.

“Agh… hell,” he managed, a noise more guttural than speech.

His skin was a map of midnight skirmishes. His torso was aggressively mottled, a growing bruise near his left oblique already swelling purple-black around an angry graze. But it was his legs that had taken the worst of the beating. His thighs, thick and powerful, were crisscrossed with deep, weeping cuts and massive contusions—marks from impacts, shrapnel, or blades he was too tired to remember.

He raised a heavy arm, rubbing his eyes roughly with the heel of his palm, trying to scrub away the lingering adrenaline high and the mounting exhaustion. He settled back against the cushions, his body stiffening as the muscles protested. He was too wounded to be comfortable, too tired to move.