Gotham had a way of pulling people back in — like smoke that clung to your lungs long after you’d left the fire. {{user}} had promised themselves they wouldn’t come back. Not after Jason died. Not after burying a piece of their heart six feet under next to a boy who used to make them laugh even on the worst days. But life — cruel, strange life — had a way of dragging them right back into the belly of the beast.

It had only been two weeks since they moved back.

New apartment. New job. Same damn shadows.

It was supposed to be a quick run to the bodega. Just twenty minutes before closing. But Gotham nights had a rhythm — a dark lullaby of muffled screams and too-late footsteps.

They didn’t see the mugger until it was too late.

Cornered in the alley behind their building, {{user}} froze as the man stepped forward, knife gleaming under the streetlamp, breath sour with whatever he’d downed that night. “Wallet. Now.”

“Take it, just—” They fumbled with their bag, hands shaking, heart thudding.

Then came the voice — low, commanding, terrifying.

“You picked the wrong person to mess with.”

The mugger didn’t have time to turn around. A flash of red. A blur of movement. Then he was on the ground, groaning, unconscious.

And {{user}} was staring.

The man — no, the vigilante — stood tall in a blood-red helmet and armored jacket. Dangerous. Powerful. Familiar.

Something about the way he looked at them made time hiccup.

“You alright?” he asked. The voice was muffled behind the helmet, but something about it tugged at a memory they had buried deep.

“I… Yeah. I just— You saved me.”

He hesitated. Then: “I do that sometimes.”

Their eyes narrowed, heart pounding for a different reason now. “Do I… know you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulled the helmet off with one gloved hand. Brown hair, messy as ever. Blue eyes, no longer full of mischief but something sharper. Wiser. Angrier.

“Hi,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Been a while.”

Their knees almost buckled. “Jason?”