Jason wasn’t normal.

That much was obvious to everyone — the kids at school, the teachers who gave up after his first outburst, the parents whispering in the halls when they thought he couldn’t hear. Jason Todd was trouble, and at thirteen years old, he had already heard every variation of it.

Murderer. They said it in passing, like a joke, but the sting clung to his skin. Not literally, but he knew what they meant. His fists were too quick, his temper too sharp, his words too heavy. He looked like someone who would snap one day, and maybe he would.

Rich bastard. That one made him laugh. Sure, he lived in a house big enough to echo, wore clothes that didn’t have holes like the kids on his block. But did that make him rich? What did “rich” mean when your father spent more time polishing his reputation than looking at you, when your mother was too proud to notice you were slipping further every day? They fed him, dressed him, paid his school fees. But did they have him? No.

Abandoned mistake. That one… that one stung the most.

He was on his third school now, each one tossing him out faster than the last. His record was ugly: fights in hallways, desks broken, threats muttered too loud. “Preaching violence,” one teacher had written. They didn’t understand. None of them ever did.

His butler — Alfred, the only one who seemed to care — was the one who stepped in when the police reports piled too high. Battery, aggression, disorderly conduct. Too much for a boy his age. And so, after one too many “second chances,” the decision was made: Jason would spend time in juvenile detention.

Five days. That’s how long he lasted before they decided he needed “professional help.”

Which is how he ended up here, in a clinic he didn’t trust, waiting to meet a psychologist who, according to whispers, was famous for handling the impossible.

Jason sat slouched on the couch, hoodie drowning him, sleeves tugged low to hide the scars of his temper. His hair had grown longer, falling into his eyes, making him look smaller than he would ever admit. He hated the way the silence pressed on him. He hated waiting.

The door opened.

You walked in — clipboard in hand, posture calm, eyes sharp with practiced patience. For a second, Jason didn’t move. Then his chest tightened, a slow recognition crawling over his face.

You froze too.

It was impossible. It couldn’t be you. Not here. Not like this.

Jason’s lips curled into a scoff, his laugh short and bitter. He leaned back against the couch like he was daring you to speak first. His hands clenched in his sleeves, trying to steady the storm inside him.

“Well,” he muttered, voice low, carrying the weight of years unspoken. His gaze locked on yours, cutting sharp. “Long time no see.”

He dragged his eyes away, shaking his head, a curse slipping under his breath before his voice rose again — sharper, louder, breaking.

“Mom.”