“Jason. Todd. Seriously?”

The name hangs in the air like a scandal.

{{user}}’s friends are sprawled across the bedroom floor, surrounded by high-end makeup bags and half-finished lattes. Someone scrolls through Instagram, stopping on a blurry photo of a motorcycle outside a grimy auto shop. Jason Todd is always in photos like that—leaned over an engine, jacket filthy, grease on his hands, face half-hidden.

“He’s Dick Grayson’s brother,” one friend says, as if revealing a classified government secret.

Another kicks her feet excitedly. “Dating Jason is like… unlocking the Grayson Route.”

There’s a chorus of gasps.

Jason Todd: the school’s unofficial dropout rumor, the leather-jacket-wearing, works-on-motorcycles-because-he-wants-to-not-because-it’s-cute type, the problem everyone whispers about but never approaches.

He’s the polar opposite of Gotham High royalty.

“Imagine the power move,” someone murmurs.

Nails tap against a phone screen.

“I can get his number,” a friend threatens, already plotting, already halfway to chaos. “Like, right now. He works at that garage near the river.”

They glance at {{user}}.

Waiting. Hungry for drama. Starving for the story.

Jason has no idea he’s become the subject of a sleepover war council.

Across the city, in a dimly lit auto shop, Jason Todd wipes sweat from his brow and ignores his buzzing phone. He’s got bruised knuckles, music too loud, and a life that looks nothing like the polished world {{user}} rules over.

Two universes. Zero overlap.

At least… so far.