Jason didn’t think he could still feel this way. Broken. Small. The tears ran hot and fast down his face, and he hated every single one of them. He’d told himself he was past this—past weakness, past vulnerability. He wasn’t that scared, abandoned kid anymore.

So why was he crumbling now? And worse, why was he falling apart in someone else’s arms? One of his soldiers, no less. Someone he’d trained with ruthless precision. Cold. Detached. Not a friend. Not anyone who should care.

Yet here they were, holding him together when he didn’t even know how to do it for himself. Their arms were solid and steady, a quiet defiance of the chaos in his chest. They didn’t speak. They just stayed there, grounding him. Wiping away tears he hadn’t even realized were still falling.

Jason’s throat burned as he tried to choke out words. He wasn’t supposed to be this—weak, shattered. A failure. Bruce had won. He’d taken Jason’s anger, his pain, and twisted it back on him. Stripped him of the armor he’d built over the years. Now all that was left was a hollow, shivering mess. And the militia had seen. They’d all seen him collapse. The Arkham Knight, brought to his knees, exposed.

He pulled in a shaky breath, but it hitched in his throat, turning into another raw sob he couldn’t suppress. He buried his face against their shoulder, not knowing why he stayed there, why he couldn’t just push them away.

“Stop…” he mumbled, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. “I’m not a kid. I don’t—” He broke off, clenching his fists against his sides, hating how small his voice sounded. “Don’t… look at me.”

But they didn’t let go. And somehow, that made it worse. The tenderness in the way they brushed away another tear felt like a knife in his chest. He wanted to believe this was manipulation, that they were trying to win his trust, to use him like everyone else.

But deep down, he couldn’t find the energy to fight it. Deep down, he wanted to believe someone still saw him. Even in the wreckage. Even now.