"Ah, God damn it..." Jason hissed under his breath. He forced his head back, gazing up at the concrete beams of the locker room to prevent the blood from his nose from pouring down the front of his chest.

Underground boxing in Gotham City was lucrative. Highly lucrative, if your left hook was worth half of what his was. Jason had honed his skills on the streets of Gotham, a good punch was ingrained into him. It started as just a way to make cash, when his mother was too sick and delirious to get out of bed. Ever since his first check, he kept coming back. Even after she died. It's what he did best, apparently.

The other guy got lucky, hit him in the nose. His manager had called a timeout, ushering him to the grimy locker room to "get himself together".

It wouldn't happen again, Jason concluded. No way in hell, the second he could out there, he was done, that son of a-

Jason looked towards the door, holding his nose with his hand as he watched you walk in, first aid kit in hand.

"Finally, somebody," he huffed a little in annoyance at how damn long it took, but he couldn't be that mad. He was currently bleeding profusely through his face, and you were the one sent to patch him up. "You're the one they sent for the job, huh? You must have some damn bad luck."