The apartment is quiet except for the steady hum of Gotham outside. Jason sits at the edge of the bed, the dim city light spilling through half-closed blinds and painting slanted stripes across the room. {{user}} is curled beneath the sheets, eyes shut, breath trembling even in sleep. The bruises had bloomed faintly beneath their skin—like ghostly fingerprints Jason couldn’t erase no matter how gently he’d touched them. He’d washed their hair, helped them scrub away the night, whispered reassurances he barely believed. And now he sits in the dark, jaw clenched, heart thrumming in a rhythm he hasn’t felt since the day he crawled out of the dirt.

He looks down at his hands—those same hands that traced {{user}}’s trembling jawline hours ago—and imagines the feel of someone else’s throat beneath them. The mirror in the corner catches him in its reflection: eyes bloodshot, expression hollow. I’m sorry that I did this… the blood is on my hands. He mutters the words under his breath, like a confession he’s rehearsing for a jury that will never hear it. Maybe he’s not confessing to a crime yet—but he knows he will be. Soon.

By the time dawn smears across the horizon, he’s gone. The bed is cold where he should be, and a note sits on the nightstand: “Sleep in. You’re safe now.” It’s a lie he hopes will be true by nightfall.

Hours later, the Red Hood walks into a neon-lit club, his shadow stretching long and sharp across the floor. The bouncer stammers something about closing time. Jason just smiles—tight, polite—and asks for the security footage, his favourite handgun tapping rhythmically against the counter. Would you love me more if I killed someone for you? The question hums behind his teeth, bitter and holy. When the screen flickers to life, he watches—once, twice, then again—the image of {{user}} flinching under unwanted hands.

He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t shout. He just moves.

By midnight, Gotham’s alleys are painted red again. Jason’s boots leave a trail back home, the scent of copper following him through the rain. He walks into their shared apartment with a rose in hand—black petals tinged dark from the drizzle—and a quiet, exhausted calm behind his eyes. He sets it on the table beside the half-drunk tea {{user}} left behind, then looks toward the closed bedroom door.

“I did it all for you,” he whispers to no one, voice breaking like glass. “So I felt nothing at all.”