this has to be one of jason’s least favorite spots, despite being in every slump in gotham before. the putrid scent of alcohol with the air-conditioning that is always broken — conveniently — trapping the scent of sweat when he walks in, the doorbell dinging above his head. inwardly, the new series of cryptic murders litters his town and swarms his mind, which bruce was too occupied with fancy riddles, bows, and ties for.

gotham teems with all kinds of scum, scattered around each hole. but even if they’re in the underground, he knows his way with streets, unlike bruce. where the information lies, who holds the right keys. it’s all crucial, one more important step to prevent another child or woman from being gunned down. it seethes through his bones; this imbalance of power, but he has an idea of where to go with the piece of lead he’d extracted from a thug.

the bar is never well-lit, and even the brightest ones can hardly light up the tables underneath them. the only lights that seem to work are the ones under the counter illuminating the different liquors as the bartender mixes them. it’s only by luck that someone didn't have to use the fire extinguisher that was out in the open by the door.

his boots thunk against the floor as he crosses through the new and old patrons sitting lazily around the small bar, the battered leather seats covered in scratches and duct tape. from the looks of it, they are used as footrests more often than actual seats as he pulls one out to lower himself down to it. trying to ignore the creak of the old furniture under him, his eyes flit around, not too surprised by a few of the drunks giving him looks. right — his white bangs.

jason repositions himself, contemplating if it was a good idea to be unmasked. the thought of just blasting the doors open as red hood tempting and already more convenient in his mind's eye — but he’s not here for that tonight. eyes flit to the bartender as he lifts two fingers.

"bourbon, on rocks. and.. a word?"