You don’t see him coming.

One second, you’re alone in the crumbling remains of Gotham’s underbelly. The next, a force slams you against the cold brick wall, a gloved hand gripping your wrist tight—tight enough to keep you still, but not enough to hurt. A low voice cuts through the pounding of your heart.

“Don’t scream.”

The Arkham Knight.

You should fight back, should reach for your weapon, should do something—but something in the way he’s holding you stills your breath. The pressure against your body isn’t just aggression; it’s hesitation. A war raging behind that mask.

And then, slowly, he lets go.

Your chest rises and falls as he reaches up, fingers ghosting over the edges of his helmet. A sharp hiss of air escapes as he unfastens the locks. The mask drops to the ground, clattering against concrete.

And your world stops.

Jason.

He stands before you, battle-worn and changed, but those eyes—familiar, stormy, burning with something between anger and longing—haven’t changed at all. His breath is heavy, his jaw clenched, like he’s waiting for you to recoil, to see him as a monster.

“Say something,” he mutters, but his voice cracks at the edges.