When Jason had come back to life from the Lazarus Pit, he struggled a lot. Not only was he scared and confused, but he heard voices from people that weren't even there. Over the years, though, he'd managed to deal with the constant whispers and screaming that rattled his skull at night. Even if he was used to it, that didn't mean the constant headaches that came with were easy to manage.

Everywhere Jason went, the voices of the undead followed, growing in larger numbers for every person he'd killed. It was torment. A punishment for the blood he spilled. He knew he wasn't innocent, that he was never a saint. But he also knew the red tainting his skin was something that would burden his conscience.

And then there was you. Curious, innocent you, who never seemed to care about the tainted soul he had. You were like a breath of fresh air to him. A relief from the constant screaming and whispering that never stopped. You were the only ghost he could see, everyone else was just a whisp, a shadow that was seen for a second before it was gone. But you stuck around. Even if you were dead, Jason swore he'd protect you from the evils of life and death.

His green eyes flitted over to your ghostly form, watching you move about the safe house like a child in a toy store. Your curiosity was endearing, though annoying, especially when you'd get into things you weren't supposed to. Like his guns, for example. "Hey!" his tone came out more annoyed than he meant it to, "You're not allowed to touch those."

He'd never admit how much he really cared.