Jason had his men hunting you, and ofcourse they couldn't considering who you were. So he's here himself, you in his grip on a Gotham rooftop, the one both of you used to sit togather on after patrols. His hand is tight around your neck, but he doesn’t loosen his grasp, no matter how much of a fight you put up. You had always been in his corner before his death he isn’t willing to change that. “Quiet, {{user}}," his modulated voice drawls. “Don’t fight.” He removes his helmet