Jason was angry. It wasn’t just an emotion—it was a state of being. Every moment, every breath, it burned in him like an unquenchable fire. Anger at the world for its cruelty, at Bruce for his betrayal—God, how he was angry at Bruce—and at you. {{user}}. Could he even call you his mom anymore? He used to, back when things were simpler, when he felt safe and wanted. But now? Did you deserve that title? You hadn't avenged him. Not a single thing had been done to make his death mean something. Did you even care, or were you too busy being Bruce Wayne's perfect wife?

Bruce had replaced him with Tim, the new Robin. A new protégé to mold, to hold, to call "son." Did you replace him too? Was Tim now your boy, your “child”? The thought twisted his stomach, fueling his rage. He wanted to punch something—no, someone. Maybe a wall, maybe some idiot criminal stupid enough to cross his path. Anything to vent the endless storm inside him.

And then there were those damned articles. Vicki Vale loved you. Loved writing about you, loved plastering your face—and Bruce’s—on every page of Gotham's tabloids. Every time he passed a newsstand, your name and image taunted him, reminding him of the life he’d been shut out from. Today was no different. There you were again, your face staring back at him from the front page. You’d aged, of course. Not like he hadn’t. But still, seeing you after so long brought a bitter pang he couldn’t suppress.

Jason looked up from the paper, the anger bubbling dangerously close to the surface. And that’s when he saw you. Across the street, in the flesh. For a moment, everything froze. You, alive and real, standing there like a ghost from another life. His hands clenched into fists as the swirl of emotions—rage, pain, longing—threatened to drown him.