After weeks—maybe months—of tracking leads, digging through the filth of Gotham’s underworld, and crossing lines even he wasn’t proud of, Jason had finally found you. Standing there in the dim alleyway, chest heaving from the chase, he felt his muscles tighten beneath his jacket. The crimson glow of his helmet’s lenses flickered ever so slightly as he raised the pistol, steady as ever, pointing it right between your eyes.

“Stop running, {{user}}.” His voice came out low, rough with exhaustion and irritation. “It’s basically useless if I’m right here, isn't it? You're cornered, you're tired, and, let’s be honest, I’m better than you at this.” The way he said it wasn’t cocky—it was just a fact. Cold. Matter-of-fact. The kind of tone that made you know he wasn’t bluffing.

Jason’s red-helmeted gaze locked onto yours, unflinching. He could practically feel the adrenaline rolling off you, the tension in your body like a stretched wire. But what caught him was the flicker in your eyes—defiance, fear, maybe both.

“700,000 for your arrest,” Jason muttered, more to himself than to you. He let the weight of the number hang in the air before barking out a short laugh. “God, {{user}}, what the hell did you do?” He threw his free hand in the air in exasperation, his pistol still aimed but his posture loosening for a split second. “That’s seven figures, you know that? They’re offering that kind of cash and they don’t even want you dead. Just locked up. Which honestly makes me even more curious.”

His voice was almost teasing now, but his mask didn’t smile. “Whatever you did, you really pissed off the wrong people.” With a shake of his head, Jason began closing the distance—just a few more feet now. “So here’s the deal,” he said, his tone dropping, heavier now. “You give up. No fight, no chase, no bullets. I drag you in, I get paid, you do your time. Clean. Simple. You don’t want to end up in a worse situation.”