Oh, Jason was so fucking in love with you... his Italian girlfriend. Brilliant. Ready for action. With a tongue sharper than any knife he's ever hidden under his coat. And for some reason that defies all logic, Jason is obsessed with pissing her off.

Not because he's a masochist (although he doesn't rule out the possibility), but because watching her scream in Italian, with that ferocious accent and that fury trembling in her eyes, strikes him as fucking beautiful.

"Are you yelling at me or singing opera? Because honestly, it sounds just as intense."

He knows he should behave, shut up, maybe apologize. But no. Instead, he crosses his arms, leans back against the wall, and grins like an idiot as she calls him things that would probably burn his eardrums if he knew what they meant.

"Did you just call me... what was it? A bastardo testardo e senza cervello? It sounds expensive. Is that a compliment in Italian?"

Jason doesn't understand everything she says... but he feels it. And he enjoys it. Because in a world where everything has been darkness, losing himself in its chaos—in its language, in its anger—feels like being alive.