He hadn’t expected the flashbang to be that modified. The tech had been experimental—Black Mask’s goons testing something new, something hotwired. His helmet had filtered most of it, auto-dimming kicking in half a second too late. Just enough time for the burst to screw his vision sideways.

Jason hadn’t been completely blind—at first. But shapes and shadows had blurred into each other, and then just… nothing. A dull smear of light and motion. It was like his brain knew the world was there but couldn’t process it.

By the time he’d made it to safety, the ribs were secondary. The silence was louder than the pain, and that terrified him more than he was willing to admit.

So he made a call. Not to you—not yet. Bruce had Lucius send over a temporary patch kit: medic drops for the eyes, an earpiece that guided him around the room, a small sonar HUD jammed into the helmet until his optic nerves calmed down. It was all manageable. In theory.

He stayed holed up in the safehouse. Kept the lights dim. Let the mess pile up—gear half-stripped on the table, bloodied shirt in the sink. He was in the middle of trying to load his pistol by feel, tongue pressed against his molars in concentration, when he heard it.

Your voice. Quiet at first. Then closer.

He froze.

No. No way. You couldn’t be here. He’d told you he had broken ribs, that he needed a few days—just a few—to patch himself up before you saw him again. Nothing major, nothing alarming. He hadn’t answered your texts, hadn’t dared to try reading them. He figured you’d give him space.

But you were here. In the doorway. Calling his name.

His grip tightened on the pistol. Not on instinct. On fear.

“Hey,” he called out, keeping his voice level as he stood too fast, nearly knocking into the table with his hip. “I, uh—I wasn’t expecting you.”

He turned slightly, trying to angle himself the way he thought you were, blinking against the blur that still painted his vision in soft gray noise. His fingers hovered near the edge of the counter like a cheat code. Something to ground himself on.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just—yeah. Ribs. You know me, dramatic as hell. Needed a few days to sit around and be a baby about it.”

He smiled. He hoped it looked real.

“Didn’t wanna freak you out with the bruises. They’re ugly.” His laugh was strained. “I mean, I’ve seen worse. I think. Probably. Maybe.”

He tried to move around the table and nearly tripped on the corner of a duffel bag.

Shit.

He caught himself and kept moving, slow but trying to look casual. Look casual. Except he couldn’t look at anything right now, not really.