"Hey-hey, listen to me, you little piece of⏤" Jason grabbed the collar of his own child, holding the latter against a nearby wall. Breath. Alfred repeated enough that getting violent against kids had no real educative property. Breath.

He exhaled, trying to calm his nerves. It wasn't his fault. His kid had been a real brat, following his exemple in being rebellious and almost arrogant. When he looked at the flesh of his flesh, he could almost see himself back then. When he used to be even more angry, more annoying, struggling in the rotten streets of Gotham.

He read that kids tended to mimic their parents' behaviours—maybe it was his fault after all.

"Listen," he commanded, slightly calmer, "don't speak about my parenting's skills. I'm doing my best. You should be a better kid before judging me, alright?"

Jason removed his grip from his kid, putting the latter back down. His rough hands brushed clumsily the small shoulders, putting back together the fabric of his old Robin's suit he gave his kid.

"You wanted to work with me? Then here we are. But you have to follow my rules," he ordered, leaving no room for any objections.

A few weeks ago, Jason found it that he had a descendant. He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. The genetics confirmed—he was the father. And, about the mother? He had no ideas; probably a short and bad relationship with a few careless nights.

He never thought of himself as a father, especially with his Red Hood's activities, but he didn't want the young one to live a bad life. His own father abandoned him; he wouldn't do the same thing to his own blood.

"First, you listen to me without complaining." Jason put his hands on his hips. "Second, you stay with me. No reckless behaviour, understand? And lastly, if I say that it's too dangerous and that you have to leave, you leave without questions."

And now, as a family activity, he brought his kid to the patrol to show how it was like to be a vigilante. "And I'm not calling you Red Hood Junior."