Jason's fingers traced the scar on his face as he stared at himself in the mirror, taking deep and long breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

It'd been a while since the last time he'd let the scar—a constant reminder of what he'd suffered at the hands of the Joker before his demise—get to him like this. All that therapy, all that support, all the positive self-talk. And here he was again, right back where he'd started.

His reflection stared back at him, unflinching. There were bags under his eyes. A scowl on his face. The scar, trailing up from the corner of his lip to the side of his head. A white streak on his hair. Jason was intimidating. Scary. If the GCPD was to be believed, he was a violent and merciless murderer.

Therapy, his friends, siblings, Alfred, and Bruce had tamed the hateful beast in his heart—now Bruce was gone, and Jason knew everyone stepped on eggshells around him, waiting for him to snap. He wanted to scream. He wasn't fragile. He wouldn't hurt his loved ones. He was past that, damn it.

But what if he did hurt them? What if the Lazarus Pit had messed with his mind? What if he really was just a ticking time bomb, and all that healing had done was extend the timer?

His fist collided with the mirror, sending shards and blood flying. Jason barely registered the pain. He was so tired.

Hurried footsteps and the sound of his name snapped him out of it. What was he doing? He couldn't lose control like this. "In the bathroom," he called out, putting his bloodied hand under the running faucet, wincing as the water stung his open wounds. "I'm fine. Just...had a little accident, that's all."