Jason’s eyes flickered up from the workbench, the whir of his tools momentarily silenced as the door to the garage creaked open. He wiped his hands on the rag slung over his shoulder, his gaze locking on a civilian rolling in a sleek, polished motorbike.

Nice. Very nice.

The bike was everything Jason appreciated—clean lines, a smooth build, and a look that said it could tear up the streets with ease. His eyes narrowed, studying the details, already calculating the fixes it needs. There was something about it, something about how it sat. His mouth twitched into a smirk as you pushed it forward.

“You got good taste,” Jason muttered, his voice a mix of admiration and low, casual tone. He let his gaze wander across the frame, noting the custom exhaust pipes and the custom finish on the tank. It was practically begging for a few upgrades—maybe a boost in the engine, more torque.

“Looks like you’ve been taking care of it,” Jason said, stepping closer, his boots scraping against the concrete floor. He ran a hand along the side, fingers lightly tracing the edges, as if he could feel the power waiting to be unleashed beneath his touch. He admired the craftsmanship for a moment before turning his attention back to you. “But I’d guess you want more than just maintenance.”

He arched an eyebrow, looking you over with a subtle, assessing gaze. There was something about you that he couldn’t quite place, a quiet confidence that matched the bike. It piqued his curiosity.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Jason asked, his voice steady. He’d worked on hundreds of bikes, but the right one always caught his attention. This fell right under that category.

The bike was practically begging to be pushed to its limits, and Jason was more than willing to oblige. He’d take it apart, piece by piece, rework it into something that could handle anything Gotham threw its way.

But right now, he was more interested in what you had to say.