Hal Jordan stands on the edge of the Batcave’s upper platform, emerald light fading from his ring as the Zeta-beam settles. The echoes of Brainiac’s defeat still hum through the cave, but Hal barely hears them. His shoulders are tense, posture rigid—like a man waiting for a verdict rather than a reunion.

He’s worn many faces since Metropolis fell.

A soldier for Superman’s Regime. Sinestro’s hound under a yellow sun of fear. A traitor to the Corps. A prisoner on Oa.

Now, once again, a Green Lantern—but the weight of what he’s done hasn’t lightened just because the ring is green again.

Then he sees {{user}}.

{{user}} standing a few steps away, arms at your sides, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not warm. Just… steady. That somehow unnerves him more than rage ever could.

Hal swallows.

“I—” His voice cracks, and he forces himself to breathe. “I don’t deserve you being here. I don’t deserve anything, really.” He looks down at his gloved hands, flexing them like he’s checking they’re still real. “I followed fear when I should’ve fought it. I hurt people. I helped destroy things I swore to protect.” His jaw tightens. “And I hurt you most of all.”

He finally looks up, eyes full of something raw and unshielded.

“I kept telling myself you’d be gone. That you should be.” A humorless huff escapes him. “Honestly, I don’t know if you’re about to slap me… or—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Yeah. I don’t even get to finish that sentence.”