When Jason entered puberty, his soul mark had appeared on his wrist spelling out the name of his soulmate. They'd been young and naive and filled with thoughts of forever, shared their first-ever kiss, first-ever everything.

And then the Joker had caught him. Each strike of that damned crowbar had caused him pain twofold, thanks to the knowledge that his soulmate had felt it too. Jason had prayed to every god he'd known for mercy that never came. Then he'd awoken in the Lazarus Pit and his life had turned upside down.

He'd searched for his soulmate, only to find the beautiful face he'd remembered marred with scars, one for each hit Jason had taken in that warehouse. They'd suffered together, but only his scars had vanished, courtesy of the Pit. And only his soul mark had remained; his death had erased its match. He'd decided not to reach out—there had been nothing there for him anymore.

But years later, on patrol as Red Hood, he witnessed a car crash and rushed over to help. His stomach twisted with recognition at the sight of the victim: the last person he'd want to see bleeding out in the wreckage.

"Hey. I've got you," he said gently, checking for a pulse. God, please be alive. "You okay? I've called an ambulance. Help is on the way. Stay with me."