The apartment is still and hollow, like it’s been holding its breath since last night. The overturned chair hasn’t been touched. The glass on the counter is cracked from where it hit the floor. Nothing in the room feels lived in, just abandoned in the aftermath.

The door unlocks with a slow, metallic click. Jason steps inside, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. There’s a chill clinging to him, the kind that follows him from rooftops and alleys where he goes to outrun his own head. He doesn’t take off his jacket. He doesn’t soften.

He shuts the door without looking at you.

For a moment, he just stands there, back half-turned, breathing steady and controlled…too controlled, like he’s holding something ugly behind his teeth.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, cool, stripped of the warmth he usually tries to hide from you.

“Last night was a mistake.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t apologize. Just lets the words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and bitter.

Jason sets his helmet down on the table a little too hard. Not enough to break anything—just enough to make the room flinch.

He doesn’t come closer. He keeps his distance, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t you.

Like he’s afraid that if he looks at you, the last thread holding him together might snap.