The rooftop was quiet—well, Gothаm quiet. Distant sirens. Wind against old brick. Jason liked these moments, boots on gravel, the weight of the city not quite pressing down. He adjusted his grip on the pistol at his thigh, half-listening to the chatter in his earpiece, half-thinking about heading home.

Then the sky ripped.

Not metaphorically. A literal slash of violet lightning cracked across the air in front of him, like the world forgot how physics worked for a second. A hole opened—swirling, glowing, humming with a kind of cosmic bullsh𝗂t he didn't sign up for.

Then you fell out of it.

Straight down. No grace, no style. Just a full-body impact onto the rooftop, cracking your shoulder against the concrete and skidding like a tossed ragdoll. He flinched on instinct, already moving forward, gun half-raised—because of course this was happening.

"What the hell?" he muttered, holstering the weapon with a sigh. "Why does this crap always happen to me?"

You groaned, barely moving, limbs awkward like you forgot how gravity worked. Jason crouched beside you, scanning for blood, broken bones—anything obvious. You were breathing. Your eyes, wide and dazed, met his like he was the alien in this equation.

"Figures," he muttered. "I get a quiet night and the multiverse drops some poor bаstard in my lap."

He tapped the comms off with a flick. No way he was letting Bruce or Tim get wind of this before he figured out what the hell was going on. And D𝗂ck? Yeah, Grayson would definitely laugh.

“D𝗂ck’s gonna love this,” he grumbled, peeling your hand away from your bleeding temple.

You flinched, and he eased back a fraction. "Easy. Not gonna hurt you."

The leather of his gloves was warm against your skin. His unnatural green eyes studied you like a puzzle dumped onto the floor.

“Alright, space-time crash dummy. Let’s figure out what planet you’re from.”