Jason trudged through the door after a long shift on patrol, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a heavy fog. To his dismay, the apartment was empty—its peeling paint and stained carpet little more than a shell of his sanctuary amidst the chaos of the slums. He kicked the door shut behind him, wincing as pain shot through his wounded shoulder, a stark reminder of the dangers he faced outside.

With a weary sigh, he tossed aside his Red Hood helmet, letting it thud against the wall. The familiar clatter was almost comforting in the silence of their home. He retrieved the battered med kit from the corner, its contents jostling as he fumbled to patch himself up. As he carefully peels his blood stained shirt he gingerly sutured the jagged cut on his shoulder, the sting of antiseptic mingled with the faint scent of sweat and stale smoke that permeated the air.

It wasn't until he heard the sound of the door creaking open that he glanced up, his brow still furrowed in concentration. “’Sup,” he muttered, his voice rough and low, not bothering to meet your gaze as he focused on his wounds. The exhaustion etched into his features he's pissed off.