Jason stood in the shadows of the rooftop, watching you act like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t vanished when he died. Like you hadn’t chosen to stay gone when he clawed his way back from the grave.

“So that’s how it is,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening beneath the red helmet. The sight of you alive—well, it pissed him off more than he expected. A storm of memories crashed in his mind. You, patching him up after fights. You promising you’d never leave. You… standing there now, alive.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the crack of his boots against the concrete slicing through the night air. He wanted you to notice. To flinch. “Long time, huh?” he said, voice cold. Helmet off now, eyes locked on yours.

He crossed the space between you like a bullet, hand slamming into the wall beside your head—not touching you, but close enough to make you feel the fury radiating off of him. “You knew I was back. And you stayed with him. Just like the rest of them.”

His voice cracked—not from weakness, but from rage barely held together. “You didn’t even come looking for me. After everything, after us—you just disappeared.” He laughed bitterly, stepping back. His hands shook, and it pissed him off even more. “Tell me, was it easier to forget me? Or did Bruce just make a better replacement?”

He didn’t want to hear your answer. But God, he needed it.