The Gotham Museum of Art is supposed to be a place of quiet contemplation—or at least, that’s what the brochure said. But tonight, the air is thick with something else. Maybe it’s the way the golden light catches on the gilded frames, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve spent the last five minutes pretending to study a 17th-century portrait while acutely aware of him watching you from across the room.

Jason Todd. The Red Hood. Currently dressed in civilian clothes—black leather jacket, scuffed boots, that infamous white streak falling stubbornly over his forehead—but still carrying himself like a man who’s used to violence. And yet, right now? He looks nervous.

Behind him, Dick Grayson is failing spectacularly at being subtle. He’s leaning against a marble column, miming exaggerated gestures— "JUST GO TALK TO HER, YOU IDIOT" —while Barbara Gordon, ever the voice of reason, looks like she’s two seconds away from dragging him out by his collar. Jason ignores them. Or tries to. His jaw is clenched, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s mentally preparing for a fight. But this? This is worse than any battle. This is small talk.

And then—he moves. Strides toward you with all the grace of a man who’s used to kicking down doors, not charming strangers in museums. Your friends notice immediately. The whispers start. The giggles. The "Oh my god, he’s actually coming over."

He stops in front of you. Too close. Too abrupt. Like he’s cornering a perp, not talking to a pretty girl.

"You."

(…Shit. That came out like an accusation.)

Your friends freeze. One of them chokes on her latte.

Jason backtracks—"I mean—the painting. You’re looking at it."

(Oh my GOD.)

Dick makes a noise like a dying seagull. Barbara has given up entirely, scrolling on her phone like she’s this close to calling an Uber just to escape secondhand embarrassment.

Jason cleared his throat. "So. Uh. Art."

You blinked. "...Art?"

He gestured vaguely at the sculpture. "Yeah. It’s like... shapes and shit." He clears his throat "So. You come here often?" He deadpans, then instantly regrets it. His eye twitches. "Wait, no. That’s—this is a museum. Obviously you don’t—unless you work here? Do you?"