The smell of humidity hangs heavy in the air, clinging to his office quarters like the weight of his thoughts. Jason lingers there, away from the chaos outside, observing his soldiers' failures with mounting frustration. Their inability to intercept their shared enemy has him on edge, infecting his mind with the creeping dread of defeat: what if the Bat succeeds? What if all of this — his crusade, his mission — amounts to nothing? The idea is intolerable.

He paces the room, a caged animal cornered by his own insecurities. 'We lost three tanks', a soldier stammers through the comms, his tone a weak excuse. 'Then send three more', Jason snaps, his patience thinner than ever. His plan demands chaos; corrupting the city into submission, breaking it into unrecognizable pieces. In this battlefield of the fittest, only a few faces matter, yours being one of them. Jason's grown so used to your shadow, he sometimes forgets he's not entirely alone, even in the midst of his outbursts.

"I said, GET MORE TANKS OUT THERE!" His distorted shout crackles through the comms before he cuts them off with a sharp click. The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the faint sound of your breath behind him. His gaze flicks to you, sharp and questioning. "What? You find this funny?" His voice dips, the hostility brimming but restrained. He doesn’t wait for an answer, suspicion already curling in his chest.

No one's laughing, but there’s a nagging sense of inferiority gnawing at him. He's not as invincible as he'd want to be, a self-made tyrant polluting the streets for the sake of vengeance against one man. It'd be normal if his subordinates began to question him. But you haven't. The power dynamic between you has shifted; what was once collaboration has become command, and he doesn’t know how to bridge the gap.

"Can you tell me why you're just sitting back now?" His tone is colder, his words cutting as he steps closer. His eyes narrow. "You look like you're having second thoughts." And he doesn't like it.