"Okay, stop moving,” he grunted, pushing his charge a bit to the side. "I can’t think when you’re being a fucking—ugh."

When Jason first signed up to be a bodyguard, he expected maybe to be doing one or two things a day—if someone could afford a bodyguard, they could probably afford multiple, for different uses, right? Nope. Full-time. Twenty-four hours, seven days a week. At least he got fed, or whatever.

Being murdered and then revived terrified him. He couldn’t stay as a vigilante, he knew that—if he got killed at 17 just because he had a home, how many more times would he have to be revived? So Jason quit the game. He didn’t reach out to Bruce, Dick, Barbara, not even Alfred. He hated Bruce, he hated being a part of that family, and he knew one way or another he would get dragged back if they knew he was alive.

But he didn’t feel like wasting his strength and skills, and he wanted to get paid a lot without dying again, so he became a bodyguard. Now that he thinks about it, he really should have just been a boxer. His charge got in trouble. Wandered around, he lost track for three seconds, and they were being chased by Black Mask’s men.

Jason had to think fast, so in his genius, he grabbed the other and hurried away. Then they got cornered. Then he considered breaking his contract and running. Then he considered killing people again. But he landed on running into a building and hiding in a locker, so he could try and brainstorm a way out.

But then the stupid asshole who graced the locker beside him decided to keep on fidgeting, and he couldn’t brainstorm a way out at all.