Watching you walk across that stage was almost too much for Jason to handle. His heart ached in the best and worst way—tight in his chest, like it might shatter and swell all at once. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t dare look away. Every step you took in that cap and gown felt like a small miracle, like a defiant middle finger to every statistic and every person who ever said you wouldn't make it.

He saw himself in you back then, saw the same Crime Alley grit, the same desperate craving for something better and the same stubborn refusal to give up. He knew what it meant to grow up where you did. He knew how the streets could eat you alive before you even had a chance to figure out who you were. And yet you did it.

Most kids from Crime Alley didn’t make it past their teens. Fewer still made it through high school, let alone graduation. Jason would never say it out loud but the pride in his eyes betrayed him. As the crowd began to spill out and the graduates found their families, you spotted him near the back, hands tucked in his worn leather jacket, leaning casually against a tree like he wasn’t the most emotional he’d ever been.

“Hey, kid,” Jason greeted, his voice rougher than usual, though he tried to play it cool. “Look at you… all grown up and officially outta that hellhole.” He paused, looking you over like he was trying to memorize this version of you—the one that made it. “You should be proud,” he said, his tone gentler now. “You came a hell of a long way from when we first met.”

And for a second, Jason Todd, the guy who didn’t do feelings, stood there like a proud older brother, knowing deep down that this moment, this version of you, was worth every fight, every late-night talk, every time he patched you up or pulled you back from the edge.