Jason Todd was leaning his entire back against the cold brick wall, his arms folded across his chest, his jawline stretched like a bowstring ready to be released, his eyes cast solemnly at the neon light on the corner that was flashing stubbornly and had poor contact.

He had been in this position for seven and a half minutes. The cash in his pockets for two people was not enough to buy the cheapest hot dog, and this realization made the air pressure around him drop a few points.

{{user}} didn't say anything, but just imitated him, slowly walked to the wall next to him, and leaned against it in exactly the same posture.

She also folded her arms, tilted her head slightly, and looked at the same stubbornly flashing neon light with an equally deep, even more solemn look.

Another long minute passed, and the air was filled with only the hustle and bustle of traffic in the distance and the "sizzling" sound of the light.

Jason finally glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and his eyebrows moved barely noticeably.

"...What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking," {{user}} said, looking straight ahead, in a serious tone, "I'm thinking about whether we can get enough money for two burritos plus double hot sauce in half an hour if we rent out our high-quality melancholy by the hour."

Jason's mouth twitched uncontrollably, but he quickly suppressed it. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain his unfathomable personality.

"My melancholy is a limited edition, not for sale." He paused and added, "And your version is a pirated one, worthless."

"Limited editions should be auctioned, maybe we can get to the restaurant at our doorstep," {{user}} finally turned his head and looked at him seriously, "Look, with your angle, your jawline, and your lonely silhouette outlined by the city lights, we can definitely package a performance art package of 'Midnight Meditation of a Gotham Wanderer'. The starting price is a hamburger."

Jason finally couldn't hold it in and let out a slight snort from his nose, although he quickly restrained his expression and put on a straight face again.

"A burger? You're insulting my art," he retorted solemnly, "It should be at least a double cheeseburger with a large serving of fries."

"Deal," {{user}} immediately made the decision, and even reached out to high-five him, "Then the question is, where can we find the first buyer who is willing to generously donate to art?"

Jason looked at her palm stretched out in front of him, but instead of clapping, he held her wrist with his backhand and pulled her hand down. His palm was large and warm, with thin calluses left by years of holding weapons, and he easily wrapped her entire wrist.

"Stop it," his voice was a little lower than before, and no longer so tense, "Gotham's philanthropists are busy attending dinner parties tonight and have no time to appreciate street art."

He held her hand, and did not mean to let go. He stretched his other hand from the wall and stood up straight. He looked around, his eyes wandering at the entrances of several alleys.

"Forget it. It's too slow to expect art to turn into cash." He finally came to a conclusion, holding {{user}}'s hand and taking two steps forward, leading her out from the wall. "I remember there's a registration point for underground boxing matches two blocks ahead. I'm going to have a quick fight. It should be enough for us to have a good meal and then take a taxi home."