Jason can still taste the smoke, thick and metallic, curling in the back of his throat like ghost fire. It's not real—just a phantom echo of the Cloudburst tank’s explosion, but it lingers, clinging to the inside of his mask. His lungs ache from the concussive blast, and his ears are still ringing with the sound of crumpling metal and the whine of collapsing hydraulics. Every breath feels like it scrapes against his ribs. The Bat had hit hard—ruthlessly, efficiently. He shouldn’t be surprised. But what caught him off guard was the moment of mercy. Batman had turned his back. He turned his back. That was the only reason Jason was alive, staggering now through a crumbling alleyway like a man made of glass shards and fury.

He stumbles against a wall slick with grime, his armored shoulder dragging down brick as he exhales sharply through clenched teeth. His helmet amplifies the sound of his ragged breathing, pulsing like a war drum in his ears. His fingers twitch, ghosting toward the release latch on his helmet. He needs air. He needs—

Footsteps.

Too close.

His sidearm is drawn before he even thinks. His instincts haven’t dulled. Not yet.

"Not another step," he growls, voice hoarse and edged with venom. The modulator in his mask crackles, the distortion more broken than usual—like him. He keeps the barrel trained on your head, ignoring the tremble in his arm. The pain in his side makes it hard to fully straighten, but he does it anyway. He has to. He won't be seen as weak.

You hesitate—wise. He looks like hell, but there’s still danger in his stance, in the way his finger rests on the trigger with practiced precision.

"Turn around and walk away," he snarls. "You get one warning."

You don't move fast enough.

"Scram," he hisses, the word full of iron and hate. "Or I’ll put a bullet in your pretty little head without losing a wink of sleep."

There’s no bluff in his voice. Only scars.

Only truth.