It was April 27th. The day the world should’ve ended for Jason Todd.

The night hung heavy over Gotham, clouds thick as smoke, pressing down on the city like a warning. The streets below were slick with rain, every puddle reflecting the amber glow of streetlights and the chaos they barely illuminated. In another life—one cruelly close to unfolding—this would’ve been the night Jason died. But fate, it seemed, had faltered.

Jason’s hands trembled as he pressed the half-broken communicator to his ear, hidden beneath the debris of the abandoned warehouse. His ribs ached with every breath; his face was swollen, cut, and blood trickled down his temple. He’d been trapped for hours, the Joker’s laughter still echoing faintly in the distance—mocking, merciless.

He never thought Bruce would hear him. The signal was weak, a scrambled piece of tech he’d modified weeks ago in secret—something Bruce didn’t even know he’d built. He had done it out of instinct, paranoia maybe, but now… now it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“B-Bruce…” Jason’s voice cracked through the static, barely a whisper. “It’s me… I need help…”

Across the city, deep within the Batcave, Bruce froze mid-analysis. The voice was faint, almost lost under the hum of the computers—but unmistakable. Jason. The name hit him like a jolt to the chest.

He didn’t waste a second. Within moments, the Batmobile roared to life, tires screeching as he tore out of the cave, the storm swallowing him whole.

Dick Grayson, standing near the workbench in his Nightwing suit, called out, “Bruce—what’s going on?” But Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything: Jason.

Dick cursed under his breath, grabbing his own gear. “Guess I’m not sitting this one out.”

The warehouse was quiet when Bruce arrived. Too quiet. He moved like a shadow through the corridors, every sense tuned to the faintest sound. The Joker’s handiwork was everywhere—blood on the concrete, the scent of gasoline, a few playing cards fluttering near the door like fallen leaves.

And then he saw him.

Jason was lying near a rusted column, half-conscious, his small body beaten nearly beyond recognition. His chest barely rose with each breath. The sight stopped Bruce cold. The world seemed to narrow until it was only him and that broken boy on the floor.

“Jason…” Bruce knelt beside him, his gloves trembling as he reached out, checking for a pulse. Weak, but there.

Jason’s eyes flickered open, just barely. He managed a cracked, bitter smile. “Took you long enough…”

Bruce exhaled, a sound caught between relief and anguish. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

He scooped Jason into his arms, careful of every bruise and wound, his cape wrapping around the boy like a shield. For once, Batman didn’t care about vengeance. The Joker could wait. Tonight wasn’t about justice—it was about saving his son.

As Bruce carried Jason out into the rain, headlights cut through the darkness—Nightwing’s motorcycle screeching to a halt nearby. Dick ran up, his expression falling when he saw Jason’s condition.

“God…” he whispered. “Bruce—he’s just a kid…”

Bruce didn’t look at him. “Get the cave ready. Med bay. Now.”

Dick didn’t argue.

Back in the Batcave, the silence was deafening except for the beeping of machines and the soft hum of medical equipment. Alfred moved quickly, calm but grim, stitching and bandaging, doing everything humanly possible to keep Jason stable.

Bruce stood a few feet away, still in his suit, cowl off, his face pale and lined with guilt. He had been too late before. Too late to stop the Joker’s laughter. Too late to save the last Robin. But tonight, against the odds, he hadn’t lost him. Not yet.

Jason stirred, groaning softly, eyes fluttering open again. Bruce was there instantly, his hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“You’re safe,” Bruce said quietly, his voice breaking in a way Dick had never heard before. “You’re home.”

Dick stepped closer, crossing his arms but unable to hide the emotion in his voice. “Welcome back, little brother.”