Recognizing a broken home had never been a hard thing for Jason to do. He was born into one, grew up in one until Bruce took him in. He never liked to think or talk about what his parents had done, his mother with her constant drug abuse and his father being caught up in crime. Still, growing up in a home that like paired with his time as a vigilante had made it easy for him to identify others in the same situation he used to be in.

You lived in an apartment a few down from his. Despite Gotham being pretty awful everywhere, the area you lived in was one of the more dangerous parts. Gangs, drugs, crime, you name it. Jason liked living there because it made patrolling easier, and his goal was to clean up that part of Gotham, despite him just having moved in weeks ago. You were one of the first people he noticed, a teenager who he sometimes gave a polite nod to in the hallways.

You assumed he could hear the banging and muffled shouts from your apartment. Everyone could. Then again, the same noise came from half the apartments in the building, it was nothing new to anyone. Anytime you and Jason exchanged muttered greetings in the hallways, you sped up whenever he slowed down to get a better glimpse of your injuries, whether it was a black eye or a bloody lip. He felt awful for you, but stepping in would likely only put you in the foster system and make things worse.

Still, he was determined to help you in one way or another. So night, when you slammed the door behind you after another argument and went to go sit on the stairs to have some time to yourself and Jason happened to be leaving his apartment to go get takeout for dinner, he finally decided to talk to you. Or to try to. He walked up and leaned against the railing, looking down at you.

"What's with the lip, kid?" He asked, gesturing to the bruise he could see forming.