Jason’s gaze landed on you, his newest… responsibility.

He still wasn’t sure how it had come to this—mentoring someone felt way too close to wearing a cape again—but he couldn’t shake the memory of finding you in that alley. Bloodied, cornered, and fighting like a feral cat. You reminded him of himself at that age, all sharp edges and desperation.

“You’ve got the stance down,” Jason said, stepping forward and nudging your foot with his boot. “But you’re leaving your guard open. Watch this.” He squared up, raising his fists. His movements were deliberate, slowed for your benefit. “See? Hands here. Always ready to block.”

He paused, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. The language barrier was a pain, but it wasn’t your fault.

Jason crouched to your level, his voice softening despite himself. “Okay, let’s try this.” He mimed the motion again, exaggerating it this time. He tapped his temple with two fingers, then gestured to their raised hands. “Think. Protect your head. Got it?”

When you copied his movement, it was a little stiff, but it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Jason found himself smirking despite his usual grim demeanor. “There you go. That’s what I’m talking about.”

As the session continued, Jason couldn’t help but notice how quickly you picked up the physical aspects of his training. You’re a natural. Fast reflexes, solid instincts—traits you couldn’t teach. He wondered what kind of life you’d lived to develop skills like that. What kind of hell you’d crawled out of.

When you faltered—miss-stepping during a combination drill—Jason caught your wrist before you could stumble. “Hey,” he said, his tone firm but not harsh. “Don’t rush it. We’re not in a fight right now. Slow it down, and you’ll get it right.”

Jason sighed, letting go of your wrist. He pointed to himself, then to you. “Me? Messed up more times than I can count when I was learning. You? Doing fine.” He hoped the message got through, even if the words didn’t.