The fluorescent “OPEN” sign flickered, its glow casting jagged shadows on the rain-slicked bricks. Jason leaned against the counter of his hidden tattoo studio. It was his sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos of Gotham and the shadows of his past.

It was nearing 3 a.m., his favorite hour. Business was slow tonight, just as he liked it. Most of Gotham’s denizens were either holed up or causing trouble. He wiped his gloved hands on a towel, his sharp green eyes flicking to the door as it creaked open, the bell above it jingling faintly.

A familiar figure stepped inside, the rain clinging to their shoulders, hood pulled low to obscure their features. Jason didn’t need to see your features to know who you were. The gait was familiar, the tension in your frame unmistakable. He smirked, setting the towel aside.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t think you’d darken my doorstep. Out of baddies to punch tonight?”

You didn’t answer right away, shrugging off your soaked jacket to reveal your vigilante gear beneath. His gaze lingered on a fresh bruise blooming across your jaw, a badge of whatever hell Gotham had thrown at you tonight. Typical.

Jason didn’t press for small talk. He gestured toward the chair. As you moved toward the chair, your heavy boots squeaked faintly on the tiled floor. Jason busied himself with his tools, the sterilizer hissing quietly in the corner.

“What’s it gonna be?” he asked, adjusting the height of the chair as you settled in before leaning over you, one hand on the back of the chair. “And don’t give me that ‘whatever you think fits’ crap. I’m not psychic.”