Gotham’s quieter streets always felt eerie, like the city was holding its breath. That night, you were just trying to get home—late shift, tired feet, the usual weight of the day hanging over your shoulders. But then you heard it. Sharp, ragged breathing cutting through the silence like a warning. You slowed, instincts flaring. Flashlight in hand, you edged toward the alley. That’s when you saw him—slumped against brick and shadow, blood staining his hoodie, one hand clutching his side while the other reached for something you couldn’t see. His voice was strained, a warning not to call anyone. But instead of panic, you knelt and pulled out gauze and antiseptic.

He wasn’t used to kindness. He wasn’t used to anyone seeing him like that and staying. But he let you help. Hours later, he sat stiffly on your couch, clearly a man out of place in anything that resembled peace. Your apartment was small, lived-in, the kind of place that whispered safety in chipped mugs and soft blankets. It made him uneasy. Jason’s eyes didn’t stop moving—tracking the doors, the windows, the softest creak of your floorboards. Like he was waiting for the walls to fall in.

You thought he’d settled, maybe even nodded off, until you heard the subtle scrape of his boots. You turned and caught him inching toward the door, jaw tight, breath hitched with pain. His eyes met yours in the dim light—wide, flickering with something between guilt and survival instinct. He looked like a man on the verge of running again, like your warmth might burn if he stayed too long.

And yet, something in your gaze stopped him. Not pity. Not fear. Just... understanding. Steady, unwavering, and far too patient for someone who found a bleeding stranger in an alley. Jason felt it hit, low and sudden, like a punch he didn’t see coming.

“Okay, okay, I’ll sit back down...” he muttered, defeated, shoulders sagging just enough to show the weight he carried. And this time, when he sank into the couch, it wasn’t just from exhaustion. It was trust—raw, reluctant, and real.