The chicken shop smelled like fryer oil and danger—not that Jason minded either. He leaned back in the plastic booth, leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, helmet glinting dully beside the paper tray of wings. You sat opposite him, perfectly at ease under the buzzing neon light, like this was the battlefield you’d chosen. A date disguised as an interview. Or maybe the other way around.

Jason tore into a hot wing with the same efficiency he’d use disarming a thug. His mask hid his eyes, but the smirk in his voice was obvious. “So, this is what passes for journalism now? Chicken grease and small talk?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m a journalist,” you said, deadpan.

Jason paused, wing halfway to his mouth. “…Then what the hell is this?”

“Community outreach,” you replied smoothly, chin in your hand. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great.”

He laughed once, short and sharp, like he didn’t mean to. Dangerous, yes—but not immune. There was something about your composure, the way you didn’t flinch under his reputation, that needled at him. Most people got cagey around Red Hood. You just asked if he wanted ranch or blue cheese.

The case—if you could call it that—was a joke. Just wings and a camera. But it was a good excuse, Jason realized, to sit across from someone who saw through the leather, the guns, the whole bad-boy façade. Someone who could make him feel, for a split second, like he wasn’t Gotham’s cautionary tale.

The camera light blinked on. You leaned closer to the mic, voice low and velvety.

“Welcome back to Chicken Shop Date. Today’s guest is Red Hood—vigilante, ex-Robin, man of mystery. He says he doesn’t do interviews, but I think we’ll change that.”

Jason tilted his head, slow smile curling beneath the mask.

“…You’re trouble.”

And for once, he didn’t sound like he minded.