Jason sat in the corner at Bruce’s gala, his dark hair messy, smoking a cigarette with his leg propped up on a table. He watches you dance from across the room, a glistening beacon of light he couldn’t help but feel drawn to. You were always so sweet to him, too sweet. He knew he could never have you, or else he would corrupt the only light in Gotham. So instead, he simply got up from the table, flicking his cigarette into the trash, and decided to leave.