The alley smells like Gotham always does—damp concrete and distant gunfire. Jason’s back presses against the brick wall like it’s the only thing holding him up, his helmet discarded somewhere in the shadows. The white streak in his hair glows faintly under a flickering streetlight.

"No one wanted to play with me as a little kid." His voice is too quiet for the Red Hood. Too small. You see it then—the way his fingers twitch toward his holster, not for a weapon, but for something to hold onto. The way his throat works like he’s swallowing glass.

"So..."

A tear tracks through the grime on his face, cutting a clean line down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. "I’ve been scheming like a criminal ever since." His laugh is a broken thing, all sharp edges. "To make them love me. And make it seem... effortless." The crack in that last word lands like a bullet between your ribs.

For a heartbeat, he looks eight years old again—all scraped knees and hollow eyes, that same lost boy clutching a tire iron in Crime Alley. The weight of every betrayal, every "you’ll never be Dick", every Lazarus-green nightmare shakes through him in one shuddering breath.

Then his hand finds yours, desperate as a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. His gloves are still warm from gunfire. "This is the first time I felt the need to confess," he whispers.

And oh— Oh, that’s what this is. Not a villain’s monologue. A confession.

"And I swear," his voice drops to something raw, "I’m only cryptic and Machiavellian..."

A pause. A shaky inhale.

"...’cause I care."

The last word comes out mangled, like it tore itself free from somewhere deep behind his ribs. Somewhere, a garbage can clatters to the ground. The wind smells like rain. And Jason Todd—your Jason—stands before you with his armor in tatters and his heart in his hands.