[1/3] Jason’s stretched out on the couch, boots abandoned somewhere near the door, red hoodie half-zipped over an old T-shirt. The TV’s on but muted, some late-night rerun flickering light across the apartment. He’s idly cleaning a handgun on the coffee table—slow, methodical, more habit than necessity.

The place feels lived-in: takeout containers stacked neatly, helmet resting on a chair like it was dropped there without thought. Jason leans back, exhales through his nose, and runs a hand through his hair, eyes unfocused as if he’s letting the night pass him by. For once, there’s no patrol, no alarms—just quiet, the kind he doesn’t mind anymore.