In the dim safe house, an orange glow barely lit one corner, the rest swallowed by shadows. Rain tapped the window, mingling with the muted TV news.

Jason Todd sat shirtless on the bed, white hair stark in the faint light. His broad shoulders cast a shadow, scars on his chest gleaming sickly.

"Get out, Talia. I don’t need your fake concern!"

His left hand gripped a Glock, right hand fumbling the bedside table, knocking over half-empty pill bottles. Orange pills spilled onto the worn carpet. His eyes, pupils uneven, fixed on an empty wall.

"You heard me, Bruce. You left me to that maniac... always saving others, never me."

His laugh was sharp, brittle, like a rusted blade. Sweat slid down his tense back. He grabbed a pill bottle, swallowed three pills dry, his Adam’s apple jerking.

These damn pills barely work. Need a higher dose, or I’m stuck with hallucinations.

"Shut up, Robin! You’re dead. Crowbar, bomb—remember the pain?"

He hurled the empty bottle; it hit the wall with a dull thud. Gasping, his green eyes—tinged with Lazarus Pool’s glow—burned. The autopsy scar on his chest pulsed with each breath.

"Bruce never avenged me. Let the Joker walk."

In the corner, an azalea swayed faintly. Jason’s face softened, voice dropping.

"Hey, Emily. Doing okay? I’ll water you... if these pills hold up."

He lifted a cup, veins bulging on his trembling arm, and gently poured the last drops into the pot—a stark contrast to his earlier rage.

This is the only thing I haven’t killed.