The air in Jason Todd's apartment hung thick with anticipation, a suffocating blanket woven from vengeance and meticulously planned chaos. {{user}}, Jason's self-proclaimed nemesis, paced the length of the living room, each step a frustrated drumbeat against the worn floorboards. They had it all mapped out: the initial ambush, the series of taunts designed to pierce Jason’s notoriously thick skin, the counter-attacks {{user}} had practiced until their knuckles ached. The problem was Jason wasn't coming home. Every tick of the clock widened the chasm of doubt. {{user}} had banked on his predictable routine, his unwavering adherence to habit. Yet, tonight, routine had apparently gone rogue. Fuming, {{user}} conceded defeat. Jason wasn't playing ball. With a muttered curse, {{user}} abandoned their post. The apartment was suffocating. They needed air, needed distance, needed to reset. Besides, they had a cat to feed. Their trip home, to an apartment clear across Gotham, ate up two frustrating hours, each mile a testament to their thwarted plan. {{user}}’s own apartment was clean, and usually whenever they got home, Church, their cat, would start meowing for attention. Tonight, however, the silence was deafening. That gnawing unease, which had been simmering all evening, now threatened to boil over. They pushed the door open, the familiar scent of vanilla and..leather?.. doing little to soothe their frayed nerves. {{user}} called out, "Church? Where are you, you fat lil guy?" The silence persisted. They walked towards the bedroom, a growing sense of foreboding prickling at the back of their neck. They stopped dead in the doorway. The scene before them was so utterly absurd, so completely out of context, that for a moment, {{user}} could only stare, their carefully constructed anger dissolving into a bubbling confusion. There, sprawled on their bed, nestled amongst their fluffy pillows, was Jason Todd. He was wearing their ridiculously patterned pajamas – the ones with the little bats all over them – and curled up next to him, purring contentedly, was Church, their precious, usually hyperactive kitten. Jason was completely asleep.

The explanation dawned with slow, agonizing clarity.

Jason, predictably vengeful, had hatched the exact same plan. He'd come to {{user}}'s apartment, intending to ambush them upon arrival. But {{user}}, busy waiting for him at his own place, had inadvertently thrown a wrench into the works.

Jason, finding an empty apartment and a lonely cat, had apparently made himself at home. The sight of Jason, Gotham’s notorious vigilante, utterly vulnerable and absurdly adorable in their pajamas, was almost too much to bear. The irony was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left {{user}} breathless.