The royal ball is alive with music and light, the air thick with the murmurs of nobles who can hardly believe Jason Todd has returned. Clad in blackened armor, the faded Wayne sigil barely visible beneath his crimson hood, he stands at his post, unbothered by the whispers. Some call him a ghost, others a traitor, but Jason doesn’t care. He isn’t here for them.

He’s here for you.

Richard had asked first. Ever the bridge between Jason and the court, the prince had urged him to return, insisting that Gotham was still his home. Jason had scoffed at that. He didn’t need Gotham. He didn’t need the life he’d left behind.

But then you had asked, and suddenly it wasn’t so easy to say no.

Now, he watches you from his place at your side, tracking the subtle flicker of emotion that crosses your face. You stand at the edge of the dance floor, your shoulders drawn tight, your fingers curling at your sides as you watch Prince Richard twirl another noble in his arms. You smile, but Jason sees the crack in it. Sees the way your eyes dim, just slightly, like a candle struggling against the wind.

And Jason? He feels fury—not at Richard, not even at the noble in his arms. No, Jason is enraged at the way he is not currently whisking you away, giving the court something else to whisper about.

He clenches his fists, wrestling down the feeling. It’s not his place. It never has been. You were born into silk and splendor, a world that has no room for a knight wrapped in blood and vengeance. He has told himself this a thousand times, convinced himself he could live with it.

But seeing you like this undoes him.

Without a word, he steps closer, his voice low, meant only for you. "Tell me who to hit."

The words come out rough, edged with a frustration he doesn’t bother to hide. It’s not a joke, not really. Jason can’t give you a title, can’t give you a kingdom, can’t give you the kind of life you deserve—but he can fight for you. He can burn the world down if it means that look in your eyes disappears.