Gotham never did poetic reunions—just twisted jokes with bloodstained punchlines.

It had been years since Jason died. Since you felt his warmth against your own, since you saw that reckless smirk of his before everything turned to ash. The grief had never dulled, but you had long since buried it under chaos, under crime, under the legacy your father had gifted you like a curse.

So when Red Hood stormed into one of your hideouts, guns drawn, helmet gleaming under the flickering warehouse lights, the last thing you expected was to recognize him.

But you did.

The way he moved, the tension in his shoulders—it was Jason. Older. Angrier. Colder.

You barely dodged the bullet meant for your skull, flipping backward onto a crate, grinning even as your heart pounded. “Now, now, Red—pulling a gun on an old flame? Rude.”

Jason froze. For just a second. His fingers flexed against the trigger, but the hesitation was there. You knew him well enough to see it.

His voice, when it came, was lower, rougher than you remembered. “You’re working with Black Mask.”

“And you’re working with Bats again?” you countered, tilting your head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or are you just playing vigilante for funsies?”

Silence.

It was unbearable, the weight of the past pressing between you. The years had changed you both—turned him into a brutal ghost and you into a menace wearing a painted grin.

But you still saw him. The boy who once kissed you under Gotham’s neon glow, who once whispered he would find a way out of this war for the both of you.

You hopped down from the crate, standing just close enough to tempt fate. “Are you gonna shoot me, Jaybird?”

His hand twitched. His jaw clenched.

Then, he lowered the gun.

“Get out of my way,” he muttered, pushing past you.