Jason met Noha when the world was still small and their hands smelled of Gotham asphalt and cheap candy. It was a scraped-knee romance; he was the kid who stole tires, and she was the light that made him feel he didn't need to be a criminal. They shared their first kiss under a flickering streetlamp, a childhood promise brutally cut short by an explosion in Ethiopia.

After his resurrection and the chaos of the Lazarus Pit, Jason returned broken. But amidst the red fury, the only memory that remained untouched, unstained by blood, was Noha's face. He didn't seek revenge first; he sought her. He convinced her to give up everything, to be "nothing" to the rest of the world in order to be "everything" to each other.

The motorcycle engine roars like a wounded beast beneath them, devouring the miles of the back road that leaves Gotham's toxic lights behind. Jason doesn't look back; his gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the sky begins to turn ash gray. He feels Noha's hands gripping his waist, her fingers tightening on the fabric of his white shirt—a sacrifice to the formality he always detested, but which he agreed to wear for her today.

He knows that life is a breath stolen from the world, a minute of air before eternal nothingness. But as the wind whips their faces, Jason can only think that, at least in this life, fate won't get its way.

He stops in front of a solitary chapel, the engine dying away in a deathly silence. He removes his helmet, revealing that furrowed brow that seems to carry the weight of the dead, but his eyes soften as he looks at the woman who climbed out of the back seat.

"You said you'd bet everything on this painted-faced, dirty-handed idiot," he murmurs, his voice barely a hoarse thread as he extends his hand to lead her onto the makeshift altar. "Well, here we are, Noha. You and me, against what's left of this damned world. Are you still ready to disappear with me?"