“I messed up,” Jason muttered, his voice low, almost drowned out by the sound of the three-year-old giggling as he fumbled with the Red Hood mask, the oversized helmet wobbling on his tiny head.

Jason’s hands were braced against the table, fingers curling into fists. He hadn’t meant for things to go this way—really, he hadn’t. The plan had been simple: find the kid, bring him back to his father, and be done with it. But then, he’d learned the truth.

The bastard had been drugging his own son. Repeatedly. Just to keep him quiet.

Something inside Jason had snapped. The rage had come fast, burning hot and merciless, and before he could think—before he could stop himself—it was over.

The father was dead.

And now, the kid was an orphan.

Jason exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he stared down at the floor. He could still see it, the moment it happened. The way his hands had moved before his brain could catch up. The way the gun had fired without hesitation.

"I didn’t mean to make this kid an orphan," he admitted, finally meeting your gaze. His voice was quieter now, rougher. "I just... did it."