Bruce knew exactly where they were. Of course he did. Joker had told him in his usual sadistic flourish. But Bruce didn’t have time. He didn’t have the time to call someone else, didn’t have the time to save them himself. The city was falling apart, bombs ticking down in every corner, chaos swallowing Gotham whole. He left {{user}} to die alone.

But Jason couldn’t stand it. Not again. Not another person left behind, another soul abandoned by Bruce’s calculated indifference.

With a low, urgent hiss, Jason scooped {{user}} up, their body limp and unresponsive against his chest. Every step toward the couch felt like moving through fire. He set them down gently, brushing hair from their face, desperate for any sign of life.

“Come on,” Jason urged, his voice raw, almost breaking under the weight of fear and frustration. “Come on, {{user}}… wake up. Please, damnit—wake up!”

Tears stung his eyes, but he wouldn’t allow them to fall. Not now. Not when {{user}}’s life was hanging by a thread. His hands shook as he checked their pulse, tracing it as though sheer will could force it to beat stronger. “Don’t you dare leave me,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I’m not letting you die here. Not like this.”

The room smelled faintly of smoke and blood, shadows flickering against the walls from distant fires outside. Time felt impossibly long, stretched thin over fear and helplessness, until Jason refused to give in. He pressed closer, willing {{user}} to fight, to breathe, to stay.