Jason had never felt like anyone cared.

He'd been caught by the Joker again, made to relive his worst nightmare, beaten black and blue with a crowbar for the second time. He'd been found bare, vulnerable, bleeding, and terrified. Then he'd woken up, bandaged, in a safe house—alone. Truly, Jason felt like he had no one. All anyone cared about was that he'd killed people; his pain was an afterthought, always. And then they would all wonder why he solved his problems with violence. Why he never opened up to anyone. What a Fucking mystery.

On his own, bruised and sore, he'd limped back home, pushed the door open, walked straight past his roommate Harley Quinn, and disappeared off into the bathroom, slamming the door in a way that screamed "don't bother me." Then he sat in the bathtub, fighting back tears for ten minutes, trying to will the sound of the clown's laughter out of his mind. He wasn't going to cry. He refused to give anyone the satisfaction.

Finally, he stumbled back out, not feeling any better. At least his eyes weren't red anymore. "Sorry," he mumbled, walking over to the couch and sinking into it. "Got blood on the bathtub. I'll clean it later."