Some nights, the weight of his own skin felt unbearable.

Jason sat on the edge of the bed, bare chest hunched forward, hands flexing and curling like he could claw his way out of himself.

The moonlight filtered in through half-closed blinds, casting pale silver over the sharp lines of muscle and the angry stretch of scars—reminders of death and what came after.

He used to be smaller. Quieter. Not this… thing the Lazarus Pit spat out.

"I hate this," he muttered, voice rough, barely above a whisper. "I hate what they turned me into."

His reflection in the mirror never looked right. Too broad. Too tall. Hands like weapons. Shoulders that filled doorways. The way people looked at him now - wary, like he might snap.

Like he wasn't a man anymore, just something walking around wearing his face.

He felt the bed shift beside him - your presence, gentle and warm. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t.

"When I was a kid, I could move through the world without bending it around me. I didn't scare people just by being in a room."

His voice cracked on the next breath.

"Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s body. Like I died, and the Pit gave me a monster suit."

Your hand found his, and he gripped it like a lifeline.

“I know I’m lucky to be alive,” he said, softer now. “But sometimes I wish the world had just left me in the ground.”