The slam of the apartment door echoed through the space like a gunshot.

Jason didn’t say anything at first—he just stood there, back to the door, jaw clenched tight, helmet still in his hand. His knuckles were raw, his suit scratched and bloodied in places that would definitely bruise later. The night had been a disaster from the moment it started.

Black Mask was getting bolder, meaner, smarter. Always one step ahead, always slipping through Jason’s fingers like smoke. Every lead Jason chased ended in a dead end or a goddamn bloodbath, and he was tired—tired in a way that made his bones ache, not just his body.

He let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose before kicking off his boots and tossing the helmet onto the table a little harder than he meant to.

You didn’t look up from the couch.

You were curled up under a blanket, phone in hand, face half-lit by the screen. You didn’t say anything—not even a snarky comment about the way he entered like a walking storm cloud. Just silence.

Jason’s brow furrowed. "Hey."

Nothing.

He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into it like it might give him answers to something more than just hunger. Slamming it shut again, he called out, “Did you eat?”

Still nothing.

Now fully irritated, Jason leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “Okay. Seriously. What is going on with you?”