Jason had come to the Iceberg Lounge with a job to do. Undercover, in a two-piece suit he stole from Dick. Keep his head down, gather evidence for the raid tomorrow night, get out. Simple. It stopped being simple the second the bottle service girl leaned over his table.

At first it was just a flicker of recognition. The tilt of your head. The way you rolled your eyes at some drunk banker snapping his fingers. Then you smiled at him—smooth, practiced, just suggestive enough to earn a bigger tip—and something in his chest went tight. He’d seen that smile before.

Not here. Not under neon lights and chandeliers. In alleyways. On rooftops. When the two of you were younger and starving and running little cons on rich idiots who never noticed a few bills missing from their wallets. You were a kid marred with obvious signs of child-neglect back then. You had a different name, too. The one you’d given him tonight definitely wasn’t the one he remembered.

But it had to be you.

Jason realized he was staring. Hard. Probably looking like every other creep in this place—some pervert with too much money and not enough shame. You didn’t seem to mind; you just kept pouring his drink, all effortless charm and professional detachment. He swallowed.

“{{user}}?” he muttered, low, testing it. The old name. The real one.

The reaction was instant. Your hand jerked. Liquor sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass. For a split second you almost dropped the bottle. Your eyes snapped up to his—wide, stunned, searching his face like you were flipping through old memories at high speed.

And there it was. Recognition. Jason felt something twist in his chest. So it was you.