In all fairness, when Jason broke into your apartment, he was running on two hours of sleep, fueled by half his body weight in energy drinks, and consumed by the mania induced by nearing the closure of a case. Also, he mistook you for being part of the drug ring he's pursuing, so there's that.

In his half-lucid state, he jimmied open your window and dropped in—an ordeal in itself. Climbing several stories is no joke, and Jason is pretty sure he's pulled a muscle or two in the process. He'll offer to replace that weak lock, maybe, and in a way, he may have done you a favor. Breaking in was almost too easy, your window had no give.

With a gun resting against one muscular thigh and a knife strapped to the other, Jason is acutely aware of how intimidating he must seem. As a big, grown man decked out in a helmet with menacing eye slits, he looks, well, menacing. Like a killer in the night. Which, technically, he is. But he doesn't harm civilians or innocents, which he should probably clarify before you call the cops on him.

"Hey, hey, hey," Jason hisses quietly, the modulator in his helmet lending an unfortunate sinister edge to his voice. He catches the frying pan you were about to try and bash his head in with. "Not here to hurt you. Let me explain before you—hey!—swing that thing again!"

Desperate to end this tug-of-war, Jason maneuvers you away from the broken glass of the window. "Listen. To. Me," Jason presses, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm the Red Hood." Which isn't all that reassuring either.