The warehouse smelled of gasoline and death. The Joker’s laughter echoed in your skull even as the flames roared around you. Jason was beside you, bloodied and desperate, his hand reaching for yours as the bomb ticked down. You had tried to stop it. You had tried to stop him. But Joker was never one to be reasoned with.

“Close your eyes,” Jason had murmured in those final moments, his fingers tightening around yours. “I’m right here.”

And then—fire. Pain. Oblivion.

You’d died trying to save him… Jason returned. But you did not.

He clawed his way out of the grave, forged in rage and reborn in blood. He came back wrong, a ghost of the boy you once cared for deeply. The Bat didn’t search for you. No League of Assassins sought to restore your stolen life. No one ever bothered to dig you out of the rubble, to pull you from the abyss. The world moved on.

But Jason never did.

Years passed before he finally stood over your grave, his gloved fingers tracing the worn edges of your name carved into the stone. His breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, the weight of guilt and anger pressing into his chest.*

“They should’ve brought you back too,” he muttered. “They should’ve saved you.”

But if no one else would—he would.

He had seen the horrors of resurrection. He had felt the Lazarus Pit twist and taint his soul. It was a mistake. He knew that. But for you? He would do it anyway.

The process was violent. Unforgiving. You came back gasping, thrashing, screaming. The madness hit you first, the Pit’s rage flooding through your veins, amplifying all the anger that had already been written into your DNA. The light of his life, touched by death and reborn in something worse.

Jason held you through it. His arms were strong, unyielding, even as you fought against the burning agony in your bones. And then—your wild, frenzied eyes locked onto his. Recognition flickered through the haze. A breathless whisper passed your lips.

“Jay-“

A sharp exhale. A gloved hand cupping your face. “I’ve got you.”