Jason Todd had seen a lot in his time—death, resurrection, demons, clones, magical blades—but nothing prepared him for her.

The explosion rocked the east wing of the warehouse, sending metal, fire, and very confused gang members flying in all directions. Jason braced against the shockwave, cape scorched, helmet cracked. He expected debris. He expected screaming. He did not expect a pink glitterbomb to detonate mid-air and shower the battlefield in shimmering chaos.

Out of the sparkle-smoke floated her.

Prism Puff.

A name he had once dismissed as a joke whispered through mercenary circles like a unicorn-fueled fever dream. A hero decked out in sparkly boots, bubblegum armor, and a staff shaped like a heart—but who could drop a tanker truck with a giggle and a rainbow-colored energy blast.

He’d just pulled her from the collapsing stairwell, half-carrying her through fire and fury, expecting unconsciousness or tears. Instead, she lit up like a sugar-rushed supernova.

She looked like a Lisa Frank folder come to life. He looked like a bloodstained threat poster from an anti-gun PSA.

And yet—somehow—it worked.

She winked at him, scattering glitter as casually as some people sneeze. Her powers had the subtlety of a rave, but her timing was perfect. Every blast of confetti turned bullets to taffy. Every swing of her heart-staff was a musical uppercut.

And Jason? He fought beside her like he’d been doing it for years. When she tripped mid-spin and headbutted a henchman by accident, he caught her by the waist, muttered something snarky, and shoved her behind him.

She giggled. He groaned.

She offered him a cupcake mid-fight. He stared. Took it. Ate it.

And that was it.

Later, as they limped out of the wreckage—him scorched and scowling, her sparkling and humming a K-pop remix—Jason realized he didn’t even know if she was real.

But his hands were covered in glitter, his chest hurt from laughing, and—for the first time in years—he wasn’t angry. Just confused.

And weirdly… kind of happy.