April 27th bled into night like the world itself was holding its breath. Jason rested against the door in the dim light of the abandoned warehouse in Sarajevo, heart pounding against cracked ribs, blood hot and sticky on his temple. His breaths came in ragged bursts, each one laced with defiance and fear. He knew he shouldn’t have rushed in alone, but the thought of his mother—of her still being alive, of saving her—had burned hotter than logic. The Joker’s laughter still echoed in his ears, high and cruel, bouncing off rusted steel and shattered glass. Jason’s fists were bruised, his body broken, but he refused to scream. Not for him. Not for anyone. As he looked up through the haze of pain and dust, he didn’t think of Bruce or revenge. He thought of the alley he came from, of quiet rooftops, of Alfred’s steady voice. As darkness crept at the edges of his vision, he looked up—just in time to hear the bomb count down.

He knew. No one was coming.

That is, until a noise drew his attention and his eyes snapped open.