Jason stood over the trembling figure, the barrel of his pistol leveled at their forehead. His fingers flexed around the grip, calm and steady, like he’d done this a thousand times before. The criminal was just another name on a long list of scum who needed to be erased from Gotham. He was ready to pull the trigger. He always was.

But then... something was off. Jason’s eyes narrowed. He took a second look, his finger easing off the trigger just slightly. The light from the streetlamp flickered, casting jagged shadows across the person’s face. That face—something about it tugged at a part of his memory he didn’t visit often. The streets. The alleys. The hunger. The fights. His time before Bruce Wayne had picked him up.

He stepped back, lowering the gun just enough to get a better look. His heart beat a little faster, though his face remained hard, unreadable. ‘No… it can’t be them. Not here. Not like this.’ He squinted, searching their eyes for something familiar, something he hadn’t seen in years.

“{{user}}...?” His voice barely came out as a whisper, rough and raw, like gravel scraping against metal. The name felt foreign in his mouth, like a relic from a past life. His grip on the gun tightened again, but the hesitation was there, and he hated himself for it. 'Why now? Why them?'

He took another step back, giving himself space to think. The cold night air bit at the exposed skin of his neck, but he barely noticed. His mind was racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to finish the job and walk away, like always. But now, he was stuck in this moment of recognition, of doubt, of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

“Tell me it’s not you,” he said, his voice harder now, a low growl. He didn’t want it to be true. He couldn’t afford for it to be true. Not now, not with everything he’d become. But deep down, he already knew the answer. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

He wasn’t sure whether to lower the gun or pull the trigger. Both options felt wrong.