Jason Todd didn’t k*ll the man.

He wanted to. The itch to bury a knife in Falcone’s smug throat was tempting. The b*stard’s hand lingered too long on {{user}}’s waist, he was too close. Jason’s fingers twitched toward the blade hidden in his sleeve. One quick slash. One less leech in Gotham.

But he didn’t.

Not because he cared about morals. Not because the mission mattered—though it did, sort of. But that wasn’t why he stayed his hand.

{{user}} couldn’t stomach blood.

She’d told him once, Her hands never shook when it was his blood. She’d press gauze to his ribs, wipe crimson streaks from his jaw, and stitch wounds. But the other kind—the kind that meant he’d ended someone—made her vmt. Not out of guilt. Something about the smell. So he’d made rules. No klling where she could see it. No coming home stinking of d**th.*

Rules he kept, even when every cell in him screamed to break them.

Now, watching Falcone’s grin, Jason swallowed the rage. {{user}} stood glowing under the chandelier, her green dress like a blade of grass in Gotham’s concrete hell—irresistible as usual.

He hated it. Loved her for it.

The crowd shifted, Falcone leaned in, whispering something that made {{user}}’s smile tighten. Jason moved before he thought, his body a wall between them.

"Back off."

The man stumbled back, fear sour on his breath. Jason didn’t touch him. Didn’t have to. The Arkham Knight’s glare was enough to send him running.

He breathed her in—Jasmine and gun oil, the smell of home—He’d burn this city to ash for her. Level every block. Bury every crooked politician and two-bit thug in rubble.

But she would hate the mess.

So instead, he shrugged off his coat, draping it over her shoulders to shield her from the view of strangers when they got too much attention. His hand sneaked around her waist to hold her close and he could feel her palm pressed flat against his chest, over the scar where his heart beat only for her.

Rules were rules.

He’d k*ll Falcone tomorrow.