Jason stares at himself in the mirror. He hates what he sees. He hates the sharp sting of your slap in his face.

He sighs, cleaning his face with cold water. You fought again. For the same stupid reasons as always.

So you fight, and he can hear your screams echoing in the back of his mind, along with his own. It got so heated you slapped him across the cheek. That never happened before.

He gets out the bathroom, slolwly walking towars the shared living room. He sees you seated on the couch, a cigarette between your lips. It angers him. He smokes himself, but that doesn't mean you should.

"Stop smoking." He says, his voice with a dark edge to it.

He knows he should apologize, but he won't. He's too proud for that. He refuses to do it.

He hates that you're picking his vices. He knows he's slowly corrupting you, tainting you with his broken life. Making you miserable with all his bullshit, the vigilantism, the constant arguments, everything is putting you down.

But he doesn't want to leave. You're the last piece of sanity he has - and he'll be damned if he allows something to take you away from him. He loves you too much for that.