Jason knew you were a bad influence. Worse than him, even, and that was saying something. His disregard for the no-kill rule, trying to murder his dad, being a shitty role model to Tim — the 'replacement' — fighting alongside Ra's Al Ghul, even if it was a helluva long time ago—

Okay, so maybe you weren't worse than he was.

But you were still pretty bad.

A goth druggie who threw yourself at the next person who would give you attention, then threw them away like a cigarette. He'd seen you a lot — both as Jason Todd and Red Hood. Plenty of underground bars, casitas, nightclubs — all the pitstops for villains, cartels, and the likes. Perfect place to find someone like you — someone who did coke lines all night, drank till you blacked out, and wrapped whoever you could find around your pinky.

He hated you. You, with your chipped black nails and totally black outfit — he was surprised you were so easy to pick out in a crowd with attire that made you blend into the walls. He'd seen you at multiple drug busts and illegal parties—

So why hadn't he turned you in already?

He was even more surprised you got to him. He looked away for about two seconds and you'd maneuvered your way through the crowd, popping up right next to him with some heavy alcohol. Drew him in with some sugar-coated words and a few promises.

Next thing, Jason woke up with a killer hangover, messed up bedsheets, and an empty imprint where you'd been laying. He groaned, popped a few painkillers from his nightstand, and dragged himself downstairs — hell, he was probably still halfway to heaven, given the shit you put him through before he took you home last night. Oxy, coke, weed, and probably more.

Meanwhile, you were at the front door, struggling with your boots. You seemed colder, now. Not much of a party 'animal.'

He stopped and sighed, leaning against the wall. "Leaving already?" he asked sardonically, staring at you with something more than just annoyance. "Here I was, thinking we were having some fun — isn't that right, dollface?"