The headache was a sentient, malicious thing, dedicated solely to turning the inside of Jason Todd’s skull into fine dust.

He groaned, the sound muffled by the luxury Egyptian cotton pillow. The sheets were twisted around his legs, smelling faintly of stale whiskey and something dangerously floral. He cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it. The room was a high-end mess—a penthouse suite in a hotel he didn’t remember booking—with a discarded suit jacket flung over a crystal lamp and a bottle of expensive champagne standing guard next to a vase of wilted orchids.

He tried to sit up, but a strange weight on his left hand snagged his attention.

Jason lowered his gaze. On his ring finger, nestled just below the knuckle, was a heavy band of polished, dark tungsten. It was simple, solid, and utterly, terrifyingly permanent-looking.

Jason stared at it with the kind of bewildered horror usually reserved for stumbling across a clown convention in Crime Alley.

No. Absolutely not. He was Jason Todd. He was the Red Hood. His life plan consisted of tactical assaults, questionable moral choices, and dying dramatically somewhere unpleasant. It did not, under any circumstances, include home ownership, matching towels, or ceremonial jewelry.

He scrambled out of bed, the floor cold beneath his feet. He needed coffee. He needed a memory wipe. He needed to find whatever bartender facilitated this catastrophe and introduce them to the concept of professional liability.

That’s when he saw the documents.

They were stacked neatly on the nightstand, held down by a gun that definitely was not his — that he probably stole. The topmost page was titled, in bold, aggressive font: MARRIAGE CONTRACT AND AGREEMENT OF BINDING COHABITATION.

Jason snatched it up. The paper rustled ominously. It was a formal contract, notarized, witnessed, and sealed. It listed clauses concerning property division (minimal, thank God.), shared custody of potential kids (as if..?), and a chillingly detailed commitment section.

He scanned the signatures, searching for the loophole. His own signature, a manic scrawl that looked like a spider had dipped its leg in ink and then suffered a seizure, was clearly visible. Below it was the signature of his new spouse.

He didn't have to read the name yet, because the reality of the situation was starting to make his usually resilient stomach churn. They hadn't just gotten drunk and exchanged kisses and touches; they had hired a drunk lawyer, probably at 4:30 AM, and signed their lives away.

Jason froze, the contract crackling in his grip. He turned slowly, focusing on the figure still cocooned in the sheets.

The person—{{user}}—shifted. They stretched languidly, seemingly unaware that their entire life was about to be obliterated by one very confused ex-Robin. {{user}}'s face was still half-hidden by the pillow, but the sheets had slipped, exposing their lower waist.

Jason’s eyes immediately locked onto the patch of skin just above their elbow.

The tattoo.

It wasn't subtle. It was intricate, a distinctive piece of art that Jason had seen dozens of times—in grainy surveillance footage, plastered across wanted posters, and occasionally, during a tense, late-night standoff in a warehouse.

Jason felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him colder than the grave he’d crawled out of.

"Oh fucking hell," he mumbled, the word escaping like broken glass, laced with irritation.

This wasn't some random civilian mistake. This wasn't some poor soul he'd picked up at a bar. This was {{user}}. The person who was either his occasional rival, his complicated informant, or the source of 90% of his weekly aggravation. A person he shared absolutely zero common ground with, save for a mutual tolerance for high-velocity weaponry and a profound lack of boundaries.