The world ended on a Tuesday.

Jason Todd remembered the exact moment the news feeds cut to static—the panicked reporters, the blurred footage of things that used to be people, the President's final address before the White House went dark. He remembered the way Gotham's streets had smelled in those first days: gasoline and gunpowder, burning flesh and fear.

Now, six months into the apocalypse, the city belonged to the dead. And Jason? Jason belonged to the ruins.

He moved through the skeletal remains of Gotham like a ghost, his Red Hood helmet filtering out the stench of decay, his modified rifle slung across his back. The safehouses were running low on ammo. The gangs that had survived were worse than the infected. And the voices in his comms grew quieter every week as the Batfamily's signals dropped off one by one.

He found you in the wreckage of a looted pharmacy, your knife buried in a hunter's skull, your backpack full of antibiotics you clearly didn't know how to use. The way you'd squared your shoulders when he stepped from the shadows—like you'd fight him bare-handed if you had to—made something long dead stir in his chest.

"You're gonna die out here alone," he'd said, his voice distorted through the helmet.

Now, as you both crouched on the roof of an abandoned police precinct watching the horde shuffle through the streets below, Jason felt the weight of your shoulder against his. The last light of sunset painted the broken skyline in shades of blood and gold.