Jason didn't hate Sinatra or Baker β he'd just found the latter to be synonymous with insanity after seeing what Tom Ripley did. The Talented Mr. Ripley had scared him away from jazz and La La Land had turned it into something tragic, so he'd decided to stay in his lane and continue to buy AC/DC CDs. It was confounding that he'd stopped in the middle of a particularly pathetic hike home just to listen to the muffled notes of a piano.
See, being a night-stalking advocate of justice wasn't an easy job. It consisted of a lot of ass-kicking, kicking ass, and ass-kicking. After a day of more ass-kicking than usual, Jason had been forced to stuff his mask and jacket into a duffel bag in the back of a precarious gas station bathroom and lug it home. A nineteen-year-old boy with a few bruises was a lot less suspicious than the fear-striking Red Hood.
Plus, the old lady across his apartment would probably have a stroke if she saw that red mask. He was a considerate guy.
He hadn't made it that far, though. He'd stopped in front of a bar β the flickering neon sign was too battered for him to make it out β because he'd heard something. A sound, a tune, a song β something that seemed oddly familiar to him. What's the worst that could happen? A drink he'd overpay for and a nice song sounded fine after the day he'd had.
He pushed into the bar, his gaze skimming across the room. It was large, spacious β with yellow lighting and vinyl seating. Smoky, and walls lined with faded posters that rang a few bells. He picked a stool at the bar and sat down.
His eyes resumed their search, looking for speakers before realising the sound was too crisp to be a recording. He looked across the room, his gaze falling onto the shiny black piano. Then, more importantly, the girl playing it. She looked like someone he'd known. Someone he'd hid from his parents with, someone he'd laughed and cried with. An old friend.
He tried to shake it off, but dΓ©jΓ vu tended to cling to you.