Icarus’s wings burned, flying too close to the sun. The boy had heeded his father’s warning, flying closer and closer and closer to the sun. Until the wax melted and he plummeted to the unforgiving ocean below. The harsh tides swallow him, leaving grief behind in his wake. Alone, drowning, desperate.

He was your Icarus. You warned him that this would kill him. You told him that you wouldn’t watch him kill himself. You did regardless. You couldn’t stay away. A chemical leash bound you two, and it made you a liar.

The Jason Todd you knew was dead. And you had no idea who stood in his place. Yet he watched you, protected you, stayed away from you. The distance was unbearable, especially since you knew he was alive.

It wasn’t until a video was sent to your phone that you realized what had killed that Jason. A video diary, a message for Batman. In the background, there was Jason. Beaten and bloodied.

You could only watch the first minute before you clicked off. Jason’s whimpering, Joker’s taunts, metal on flesh—the sounds stopped with the click of a button. Jason didn’t have that choice.

Silence filled your apartment, nausea filling your gut. The smell of gunpowder, leather, and sandalwood filled the room.

Jason.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he says, voice hoarse. His presence filled the room, spreading into every corner. Menacing to everyone who wasn’t you.