The fight has escalated quickly, and Gotham’s streets have turned into a battlefield. The sound of fists pounding against flesh, grunts, and the clatter of weapons echo in the night air. You’re in the thick of it, adrenaline coursing through your veins, the world narrowing down to just the next punch, the next move. It’s almost like you’re drowning in chaos, and somehow, it feels good to be here—everything’s loud, everything’s sharp.

But then, it happens.

One of the thugs takes a swing at you, but you’re quicker. Your fist catches him square in the jaw, and you feel the satisfying crunch. But before you can even take a breath, another one comes from the side, and the next thing you know, you’re on the ground. The pain hits hard—an elbow digging into your ribs, someone’s knee in your chest.

You push them off with a growl, barely registering the voice shouting your name.

“Hey! Watch it!” Dick yells, leaping in to pull one of the goons off you. His face is tight with worry, and it makes your blood boil. Not because of Dick—he’s trying to help—but because of the fact that you’ve lost control again. You always lose control.

Your vision blurs with red, the edges of everything sharpening into an intense, almost unbearable focus.

you snap, grabbing the nearest thug and slamming him against the alley wall. The impact is brutal, and you don’t even hear the crunch of his bones, just the roar in your ears. But you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

It’s like a switch has been flipped.

“Hey, take it easy!” Tim’s voice cuts through the rage, but it only adds fuel to the fire. “You’re not helping yourself like this!”

But you don’t hear him. You don’t hear anyone. There’s nothing but the anger—the same familiar rush of heat that comes with every fight.

Then, suddenly, there’s a grip on your arm. It’s strong, unrelenting, and it yanks you back from the brink of doing something you’ll regret.

Jason.

He’s holding you, not with force, but with a calmness that you can’t escape. His voice is low but steady.