Jason found {{user}} sitting on the edge of the rooftop, their head in their hands, staring blankly at the city below. Even from a distance, he could see the weight on their shoulders. 'They’re taking it hard,' he thought, stepping closer. He knew that look. The kind of look that comes when you can’t shake the blood off your hands, no matter how hard you try.

He didn’t announce himself. Just sat down beside them, close enough that they knew he was there but not enough to crowd them. “So,” he said after a long pause, his voice low and even. “It finally happened.” There wasn’t judgment in his tone, but there wasn’t comfort either. Jason wasn’t the comforting type. 'Not my job to coddle them,' he reminded himself.

{{user}} didn’t say anything at first, and Jason didn’t push. He just sat there, listening to the faint sounds of Gotham below. His eyes flicked to the still-visible blood on their gloves. 'They’re probably still replaying it in their head,' he thought, knowing exactly what that felt like. “You think this makes you a monster, don’t you?” His words were blunt, cutting right to the heart of it. Jason didn’t believe in dancing around the truth.

He glanced sideways at {{user}}, reading their expression. “It doesn’t,” he said flatly, shrugging. “It makes you human.” Jason wasn’t exactly known for his sensitivity, but he wasn’t going to lie to them either. “You tried to do the right thing, and it went sideways. Welcome to the club.” There was a bitterness in his voice that he didn’t bother hiding. 'Happens more than anyone likes to admit.'

The wind picked up, cold and sharp against his skin, but Jason didn’t move. “Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “you’re not the first hero to kill someone. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” His eyes narrowed, his tone hardening. “But sitting here beating yourself up over it? That’s not gonna help anyone. Least of all you.”