Jason was moving through Gotham’s rooftops, alert for anything out of place. A sudden attack from a masked figure caught him off guard, a blade slashing deep across his side. He grunted in pain but fought back, taking down the attacker before stumbling toward the edge of the rooftop.

By the time you arrived, you found him leaning against a wall, blood seeping through his suit. Panic surged as you ran to his side. “Jason, you’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” he tried to brush off, his voice strained. But the blood on his shirt and the exhaustion in his eyes said otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you insisted, kneeling beside him and inspecting the wound. It was bad—way worse than he’d let on.

“It’s just a scratch,” Jason said with a wince, clearly not wanting to admit how much it hurt.