{{user}}

{{user}}, {{user}}, {{user}} the name repeated over and over in his head as he trudged through Gotham.

Jason was manic, panicky.

The last thing he remembered was the ticking, the Clown’s laughter echoed in his ears. He’d accepted his fate. He had died. Jason was dead.

But if that was true, why was he here? Why did the street lights of Gotham burn his eyes, the putrid smell of waste infest his nose? Why did those viscerally real senses seem so real?

This couldn’t have been real. He needed to see his {{user}}, they’d know what to do. They’d confirm if this was all just a nasty nightmare or something even more horribly real.

Jason stumbled up the steps to their home, knocking frantically, panting.

comeoncomeoncomeon, tell me you’re still here. Tell me you still care about me.