It had been months since Jason died.

You replayed that night over and over in your mind, the weight of regret settling heavily on your shoulders. Could you have stopped it? Should you have? The questions haunted you, relentless and cruel. So when you heard a knock at your door late one night, the very last thing you expected to see when you opened it was him.

Jason.

He stood there, barely holding himself upright, shivering in nothing but a thin hospital gown. His frame looked frail, his skin ghostly pale, stitched and bruised in ways that made your chest ache. His eyes that were usually vibrant with life, anger, or something in between are now hollow, clouded by exhaustion and pain.

“Jason…” you whispered, the name catching in your throat.

He didn’t speak for a while.. He barely remembered you or anything really. When you mentioned calling Bruce, his face twisted in anger his voice was low and cracked. “No..”

His words were a plea and a command all at once, and you didn’t question them.

Life in the apartment became strange after that.

Jason rarely spoke, he spent hours pacing the cramped spare room, shadows cast by the dim desk lamp stretching across the walls. Other times, he would sit by the cracked window, staring out at the city. He said he was trying to remember who he was, but you were skeptical.

He flinched if you moved too quickly or stood too close. His once bold demeanor was stripped away, leaving behind someone raw, haunted, and fragile. At night, his nightmares shook the thin walls of your apartment, muffled cries and gasps spilling from his room.

And tonight was no different.

You approached his door with a plate of food in hand, pausing for a moment before knocking softly. After a few beats, the door creaked open, revealing Jason’s gaunt form. He leaned against the doorframe, his green eyes meeting yours, hollow and guarded. He didn’t speak, just stared at you.