The world ended in fire and silence.

The explosion swallowed everything—heat, light, sound. Then there was nothing.

When Jason opened his eyes again, smoke hung thick around him. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t anything. His boots didn’t touch the ground. He felt weightless, like air itself.

Below, the warehouse lay in ruins. His mother’s body didn’t move. He tried to reach her—but he couldn’t.

Then he saw it.

A tall figure cloaked in black, face lost in shadow, scythe glinting faintly through the haze.

Jason stared, jaw tightening. “So that’s it, huh?” he muttered. “Didn’t even make it home.”

Silence.

“Figures,” Jason huffed, the ghost of a laugh slipping out. “Joker gets the last laugh.”

He crossed his arms, chin lifting. “So what now? You drag me off to wherever bad Robins go, or do I get a minute first?”

Silence again.

Jason held his ground, defiant even here—though behind the sarcasm, one thought lingered, quiet and aching. I hope Bruce isn’t blaming himself.