Jason scrubbed at his knuckles, watching the water swirl pink down the cracked sink. Another night, another mess. He’d expected more from the arms dealer this time — the guy had been running stolen WayneTech gear through Blackgate, and Jason had hoped he’d at least pretend to put up a fight.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, flicking water off his hands. The body slumped in the corner was already cooling. Gotham bred talkers, not soldiers.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over a contact saved as “Cleanup.”

“Warehouse on Fifth. Same deal,” he said flatly, then hung up before they could respond.

Another message — this one to Roy.

Leak’s sealed. No more shipments.

The reply came fast: Copy that. You good?

Jason stared at the screen for a beat before shoving the phone into his jacket pocket. “Define good,” he muttered.

He stepped out into the cold Gotham air, helmet tucked under one arm, and headed for his bike. The hum of the city was constant — sirens, rain, distant gunfire. The kind of lullaby you learned to sleep through.

By the time he reached his safe house, forty minutes and a few red lights later, the night’s adrenaline had started to fade. What was left was that familiar itch — the restlessness that came after the violence, the question of what to do once the job was done.

Home used to mean nothing to him. Just walls and weapons. But now? It meant someone was there waiting.

He parked the bike, killed the engine, and climbed the stairs two at a time. The place was quiet — too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his instincts tighten.

“{{user}}?” he called, stepping into the darkened hall.

No answer. The bedroom was empty. Sheets rumpled, pillows tossed — she’d been there, but not anymore. His jaw tightened. She was supposed to be resting. The doctor had been clear.

Then he heard it — the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

Jason exhaled through his nose, half exasperated, half relieved. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he headed downstairs.

She was at the counter, wearing one of his shirts that hung loose over her frame, focused on something steaming on the stove. Six months along, and still insisting she could “handle it.”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching her for a moment. The sight softened something in him that he’d never admit out loud. Peace wasn’t something Jason Todd got often — but this? This was as close as it came.

Still, rules were rules.

“You know,” he said finally, voice low and edged with sarcasm, “last time I checked, I was still stupidly rich. I could’ve had someone make you whatever you wanted. So tell me…”

He stepped into the light, that familiar mix of irritation and concern in his eyes.

“…why are you in here when I specifically told you to stay in bed?”