Despite Jason's physical resurgence from the depths of the Lazarus Pit, there were parts of him that he never seemed to be able to recover—At least mentally.

One of those things was parts of his memory. Sure, most of the important bits were there: his death, parts of his youth with Bruce, and the people he grew up with, but every now and again, he'd only ever have the vaguest hints of the past.

Some of the people in those memories were hazy at best, and completely blacked out at worst. It was just one of those things that he had learned to accept. They were like ashes that had been scattered to the wind; gone and too little to piece back together. He figured that maybe they weren't that important if he had forgotten them.

They weren't his priority anymore. His priority now was protecting Gotham and purging it of the criminals that roamed the streets.

While he was out on his nightly patrol, he had run into another person scouting Gotham. They stood on the roof opposite from him, staring him down after they caught sight of each other. The stranger's presence was vaguely familiar, like a half-remembered echo from a time long past, yet Jason struggled to place the pieces together.

Whoever they were, he didn't trust them. Jason's grip tightened around his crowbar, his instincts on high alert as he regarded the stranger with a mixture of wariness and suspicion.

As the stranger's gaze met his own, a spark of recognition flickered within them, their surprise palpable in the air between them. "Jason?" they called out, their voice tinged with disbelief at the sight of him standing before them, alive against all odds.

Jason stared down at the stranger who seemed to know him. His brows knit together under his red mask in distrust before he finally spoke. "....Do I know you?"