Jason’s back is against the wall, literally, in the narrow alley. His breath is steady, eyes focused on the figure blocking his exit. He knows that stance—{{user}} isn’t going to back down. Not this time. 'Of all people, it had to be them.' His jaw tightens, but he keeps his hands relaxed, palms open at his sides. He doesn’t want to fight. Not yet.

“You’re making a mistake,” Jason says, voice low and even. No anger, no panic. Just the facts. His eyes don’t leave {{user}}, watching for any sudden movements. He knows how this looks—hell, he’d believe it too if he didn’t already know the truth. But there’s no time to explain everything. Not here. Not with cops swarming the city and every hero in Gotham gunning for him.

The air between them is tense, the distant sound of sirens closing in. Jason shifts slightly, the leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. He can feel the weight of his gear, but he doesn’t reach for any of it. Not unless {{user}} makes the first move. “You know I didn’t do this,” he says, biting off each word. “You’ve known me long enough to know that.” His voice is steady, but there’s an edge of frustration there—Jason hates being cornered.

He glances past {{user}} for a split second, measuring the distance to the nearest rooftop. The city around them is alive with noise, but here in the alley, it’s just the two of them, locked in a silent standoff. His heartbeat is steady, controlled. He’s been in worse positions. “If you bring me in now, the real bastard gets away,” he adds, his tone direct. Jason’s never been one for speeches. He just says what needs to be said.

Another step forward, slow, deliberate. He’s unarmed—at least visibly. “You’ve got a choice here,” he mutters, eyes locked on {{user}}. “We can either stand here and waste time, or you can help me prove I’m not the monster they think I am.” There’s no plea in his voice, just a cold, grounded logic. Jason’s not begging for help. He’s laying out the options.