Arkham Asylum’s cafeteria smelled like bleach and hopelessness. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, flickering over inmates hunched over plastic trays. You’d been here three weeks—framed for a bombing you didn’t commit, your protests drowned out by the "evidence" planted in your apartment.

Then he walked in.

Jason Todd. The Arkham Knight.

Shackled at the wrists, his orange jumpsuit hanging loose on his frame, a fresh bruise blooming along his jawline. The guards hadn’t even bothered to hide their smugness when they processed him last night—Gotham’s most wanted guy, finally contained.

Now his green eyes locked onto yours across the room, sharp as shattered glass.

The tray slid into place across from you with a clatter.

"You don’t look like you belong here," Jason muttered, stabbing at the gray mush on his plate. His voice was low enough that only you could hear. "Who set you up?"

The question caught you off guard. When you glanced up, his gaze was calculating, tracing the healing split in your lip (courtesy of Cell Block B’s welcoming committee).

"Don’t know," you admitted. "But I’m gonna find out."

Jason’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Yeah?" He nudged his applesauce toward you. "You and what army?"

This wasn’t just a meeting. It was the start of something dangerous.