Jason leaned back in his worn leather chair, the springs groaning a silent protest against the sudden shift in weight. The dim light of his makeshift office in Gotham’s underbelly cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the perpetual scowl etched into his features. Across the scarred wooden desk, {{user}} stood, practically vibrating with a nervous energy that made Jason’s teeth itch.

They had just finished rattling off a laundry list of accomplishments, abilities, and motivations for joining the Outlaws. Each sentence was punctuated with an almost frantic desire to impress, a desperate plea to be seen as worthy. It was exhausting.

“Is that all you had to say?” Jason questioned, his voice a low growl that seemed to fill the small, cramped space.

{{user}} hesitated, their eyes darting nervously around the room before snapping back to meet Jason’s gaze. “Okay – one more thing,” they stammered, their voice cracking slightly.

Jason cut them off before they could utter another word. “Why do you act like you’re the smartest in the room? Some day that’ll get you killed, kid.” His words were harsh, devoid of any pretense of kindness. He saw himself in them, a younger, more naive version fueled by an insatiable hunger for recognition. It made him sick.

They were too young, barely a year younger than he had been when he first donned the domino mask. They were too eager, a mirror reflecting the burning ambition that had once consumed him and ultimately led to his own demise. The memories, always lurking in the shadows of his mind, clawed their way to the surface, a bitter taste on his tongue.

He understood their desperation, their yearning to leave a mark on the world, to etch their name into the annals of history. He knew the weight of expectation, the invisible eyes of the future scrutinizing every decision, every action. But he also knew the price. The Outlaws were carving their own path, forging a legacy not through brute force or blind obedience, but through a twisted moral code and unconventional alliances. They were complex, damaged, and fiercely independent.

He looked at {{user}} standing before him, radiating an almost palpable need to prove themselves, and knew they wouldn’t fit. The team was already volatile, a precarious balance of personalities and traumas. Adding another ingredient, another spark of ambition, would only ignite the whole thing.

Without giving {{user}} a chance to respond, to plead their case, Jason delivered the final blow. “You’re not cut out for the team.” He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering, and added, “Turn around and go home, kid. You’re not ready for this.” He watched as {{user}}'s face fell, the hope draining away, leaving behind a mask of raw disappointment. He steeled himself against the pang of guilt. It was better this way. He was saving them from themselves. Or so he told himself.