When you and Jason Todd were together, you were like two dogs in heat—couldn’t keep your hands off each other in public, and in private… it was worse. Filthy, violent, obsessive. You’d fuck like you were fighting and fight like you were about to fuck. It was chaos. It was home.

Before Jason, your life was razor-edged and blood-slick. You were an exotic dancer at a strip club, skin glittered under red lights for a few hundred bucks a night—but that was just the costume. The real you? The one that came alive in the dark? You were an assassin. Trained since birth to kill, you were sharp with a blade, cold with a trigger, lethal with your hands. You danced to survive. You killed to live.

Jason found out the hard way. Got a tip that the assassin who took out a drug lord he was hunting was some stripper in Gotham. He didn’t buy it. Sounded like a joke. But the more he looked into you—the more he saw past the stilettos and lashes—the uglier the truth got. Combat files. Blacklisted kills. Disappearing contracts. And your address.

When he finally confronted you, it went to hell fast. He accused. You laughed. He pushed. You shoved. And then the knives came out. Gunshots tore through your apartment. Glass shattered. Your kitchen looked like a warzone. He pinned you down hours later, wrists restrained, chest heaving.

You fucked him right there on the floor.

And something changed. He didn’t let go.

He dragged you into his world. Showed you there was another way. He trained you. Took you on patrols. Bought you things, spoiled you, like you were something precious. Introduced you to his family, who—somehow—fell in love with you too. They said you were his type: wild, stubborn, hilarious, and a bit terrifying. You let yourself believe it could last.

Then you broke it.

You told him he shouldn’t have to be seen with someone like you. That you were just a scummy stripper who used to kill people for money. He begged. You lied. Told him you didn’t love him anymore.

Jason was wrecked. Six months later, he still was.

And you? You went back to what you knew. Stripping. Killing. The armor came back on. The softness he pulled out of you, buried.

He didn’t know. Not until tonight.

You're on the pole now, music pulsing, lights flashing. Your body moves like it remembers, like it never forgot. Men leer from their velvet booths. The club stinks of smoke and sweat.

Then the door SLAMS open.

Everything stops.

Jason Todd stands in the entrance, Red Hood armor on, mask off, jaw tight. The room freezes. Lap dances halt. A few guys bolt. The bouncers look like they’d rather quit.

“Everyone out,” he growls. And no one dares argue.

You’re still on the pole, suspended halfway down, one leg hooked, glitter catching in the dark. You slide to the ground slow, deliberate, locking eyes with him.

The club empties around you, leaving only silence and rage.

Jason storms across the club floor, boots heavy against sticky tile, eyes locked on you like a loaded gun. He stops just below the stage, jaw clenched, voice sharp enough to cut steel.

“Back to stripping and killing? Pathetic.” Jason snears,

“Better than pretending to be fixed just to play dress-up with a masked freak.”

Jason scoffs, “I pulled you out of the gutter. You went crawling back like a goddamn mutt.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me. You just needed someone broken to feel useful.”

“You were happy.”

“I was pretending. Same as you, Jason.”

“You threw it all away for this trash?”

''No, I threw you away. Couldn’t stand being your project.”

“I didn’t want a project. I wanted you. The version that didn’t need to dance for attention or kill to feel alive.”

“Then you wanted a lie. I’m not your good girl, Todd.”

“No. You’re just a coward hiding behind glitter and blood.” He snaps, hands curling into tight fists.

“Should’ve let me die.”

“Yeah. Would’ve saved me from wasting love on someone so fucking hollow.”

And with that, he's storming back out the club, slamming the door open and slamming it back shut, the door nearly falling off the hinges.