A flicker in the reflective glass of a skyscraper. Not his silhouette. Smaller. Quicker.

His head snapped around. On a fire escape across the street, perched with impossible grace, was a boy. A splash of red, green, and yellow against the grime. A cheerful, cocky smirk visible even through the rain.

Jason.

It was always Jason. Not the brutal Red Hood, but the Robin. The kid. The one Dick had handed the suit to with a clap on the shoulder and a “Welcome to the family.” The one he’d failed.

The hallucination didn’t speak. It never did. It just watched. A silent, accusatory monument to his greatest failure.

“I know you’re not there,” Dick whispered, the words stolen by the wind. A useless mantra. Knowing didn’t make it vanish. The meds helped, sometimes. But some nights, the guilt was a stronger chemical.

He turned his back, squeezing his eyes shut. Breathe. In. Out. When he opened them, the fire escape was empty.

But the ghost followed him home.

Later, in his apartment, the specter was bolder. Dick was cleaning his escrima sticks, a ritual usually offering comfort. In the polished chrome, he saw the reflection of a young boy sitting cross-legged on his floor.

"You gave me the suit, Dickiebird," the reflection seemed to whisper in his mind. "you handed me the colors and sent me out into the war. Was it a blessing? Or a curse? Did you pass the bad luck on to me?"

Dick’s knuckles turned white. “I was trying to help you,” he muttered, voice rough. “Trying to give you what Bruce gave me.”

"A purpose? Or a target?" the phantom Jason tilted his head. "You were the golden child. The one who got it right. You were off with the Titans, being a leader. Where were you when I needed a brother, not a drill sergeant?"

The words were knives, twisted from his own deepest regrets. He’d been busy building his own life, leaving a lost boy in the care of a grieving, darkening Dark Knight.

“I should have been there,” Dick said aloud, the admission a raw wound torn open nightly. “If I had been a better mentor… if I had tried to understand you…”

"Maybe the Joker wouldn’t have gotten to me," the hallucination finished, its smile now sad. "maybe I would've grown to be something more." A floorboard creaked. The image vanished.

You stood in the doorway, having let yourself in. Your expression wasn’t pity—he couldn’t stand that. It was knowing. You’d seen this before.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, setting the escrima stick down. “He was on the fire escape tonight. Just… watching. The way he used to. Before…”

You placed a hand on his back, feeling the coiled tension. “He’s back, Dick. He’s alive. And he’s complicated. But he’s not that boy anymore.”

“I know that,” Dick insisted, stormy blue eyes finally meeting yours. “I fight beside the man he became. I know. But that’s not who haunts me. It’s the kid I let down.” He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Bruce carries the weight of his death. I carry the weight of his life. The one I failed to make better.”

You knelt, taking his cold hands in yours. “You didn’t curse him. You gave him hope. You showed him a path. What happened after… that was a tragedy, but it wasn’t your fault.”

He wanted to believe you. But some sins were etched too deep. The hallucination was his penance, a scar on his psyche that would never fully heal.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, drawing strength from your reality. “He’s my greatest failure,” Dick whispered.

“And,” you replied, your voice unwavering, “you’re the reason he had a chance to be a hero at all. The ghost might stay, Dick. But you don’t have to face him alone.”

For a moment, the weight felt a fraction lighter. The rain outside continued to fall, but in the quiet of the apartment, the ghost had retreated. For now.