It had been a while since Jason had turned. He’d fought it, clawed against it, but in the end, there was nothing new about rage and self-hatred, was there?

But lately… something was off.

It started small. A chilli dog—his favourite, with extra cheese—left neatly on his favourite gargoyle. Then, in the abandoned parking lot where he’d been crashing, a mattress appeared one night, perfectly placed in the one dry spot where the rain never reached. Coincidence, he thought. But it didn’t stop there.

Bottles of mineral water by the puddle he usually drank from, almost like someone was scolding him for his poor choices. Every week, without fail, a box of groceries would show up outside his hideout, no matter how many times he moved. Canned goods, fresh meat, fruits, even snacks he hadn’t tasted in years. And then came the personal things. His old hoodies, books he loved, and… that d*mn photo.

The one of him as Robin, smiling like an idiot in that ridiculous Christmas sweater over his uniform, arms crossed, standing with the family that had never really been his.

His first instinct was suspicion, of course. Always was. He sniffed at everything, expecting poison, traps, something. But nothing. His heightened senses picked up nothing. Still, he refused to touch any of it. Pity was something he’d never needed, never wanted. But it kept happening.

Whoever it was knew him. Too well. They knew what he liked, what he needed, what he had once loved, things only a selective few knew. It felt like someone was trying to remind him of a life he had long refused to be part of anymore.

Frustration bubbled inside him, then anger. He’d moved hideouts more times than he could count, tried to outrun it, but wherever he went, they followed. And eventually, the anger simmered into something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

So he wrote on the asphalt, next to where the groceries were dropped off, as neatly as he could with his clawed fingers gripping a piece of chalk.

Who are you?

Then, he hid in the shadows and waited.