"No," Jason breathed, yanking off his helmet and hurling it aside. "No. No, no, no."

He dropped to his knees, hands clamping over the bullet wound—his bullet wound.

This was supposed to be a nobody. Just another self-righteous do-gooder playing hero. A footnote in his mission to take Bruce down. Not this. Not them.

Not the kid he'd curled up with for warmth in freezing alleyways. Not the only sliver of light in the darkness of his childhood. Not the one person who’d ever shown him what love—real, unconditional love—felt like.

"Shit," he choked out, pulling his first love into his arms. Their blood soaked into his armor, turning crimson the color of regret. He held them tighter, eyes wild, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Terror clawed at his throat. "Hey—hey! Stay with me, alright? Eyes on me!"

He did this. He pulled the trigger. And now the most precious thing he'd ever had was breaking apart right in front of him.

No. No, he wouldn’t let it end like this.

"Come on," he growled, one hand fumbling through his armor for gauze. "Stay with me, dammit! You hear me? Don’t you fucking die on me, {{user}}!"