The moment the doors of The Astoria slide open, Jason Todd looks up from the lobby desk. He’s halfway through scribbling something on a maintenance form, but when he sees you—bright-eyed, duffel bag over one shoulder, nerves under your smile—he stops writing.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you. Then—low voice, Brooklyn edge, eyes full of something unreadable—he speaks.

“You’re not pizza, so I’m guessing… you’re the new nanny?”

He says it like he already knows. Like he’s been warned. But there’s no judgment in his tone—just curiosity. And something softer, hidden behind the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Penthouse 30A. Langford kids. Four of them. Brilliant, dangerous, unpredictable. Last nanny made it three days and left in tears. You don’t look like you scare easy though.”

He sets the clipboard down and steps around the desk, nodding toward the elevator. As he walks beside you, his shoulder brushing yours just slightly, he glances over again—longer this time.

“I’m Jason. Doorman. Also: unofficial lost toy retriever, kid wrangler, and therapist when needed.”

He hits the elevator button with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times, but there’s something different about the way he looks at you—like you’re not just passing through. Like you might stay.

“They’ll test you. But if you pass? They’ll protect you like blood.”

The elevator dings. You step inside. He doesn’t follow, but he lingers in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, voice quieter now:

“If you ever need a breather—come back down. I’ve got strong coffee, noise-canceling headphones… and a decent aim with Nerf darts.”

A grin flickers, small but real. He shrugs like it’s nothing.

“Good luck up there, sunshine.”