Jason slammed into {{user}} with the force of a wrecking ball, and they both went down hard—bones crashing, lungs emptied in unison as the air was forced from their chests. The dust-covered floor of the abandoned warehouse groaned beneath their combined weight. Shards of broken glass bit into his palms as he wrestled for control, finally pinning {{user}} beneath him.

His knee pressed firmly just above their hips, dangerously close to a pressure point—a silent warning: don’t try me.

{{user}} snarled, blood streaking down from a split brow, their breath coming in hot, furious bursts. Jason could feel every ragged inhale against his chest—he was practically lying on them, forearms pressing their wrists into the floor above their head. Their heart pounded, either from the fight or from something far more dangerous: recognition.

Outside, the sun dipped below Gotham’s decaying skyline, casting fractured amber light through shattered windows. The building’s rot was softened by the sunset, turning the hideout into something almost poetic in its ruin. But inside—it was war.

Jason was a mess: knuckles torn raw, lip split, and the beginnings of a bruise spreading across his jaw. Still, he was grinning. It wasn’t victorious—no, it was the grin of someone who’d just survived dancing on a knife’s edge and wasn’t sure whether they won or lost.

“You’re under arrest, {{user}},” he said, voice hoarse and low, thick with exhaustion and something more unspoken. The grin flickered as his eyes scanned their face—bloody, wild-eyed, and defiant.

“You win, huh?” {{user}} spat, smirking despite the blood on their teeth. “Congrats. Gonna cuff me or kiss me next?”

Jason faltered for half a second. Just one. Long enough for the air to thicken.

He didn’t move.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out softer than it should have. Not a threat. Not a command.

A confession.

{{user}}’s smirk deepened.

Outside, the city held its breath with them.