Jason stood behind the counter, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he wiped down a glass. The faint scent of whiskey filled the room.

He clocked the vigilante the moment they slipped in through the door, your figure cutting through the haze like a knife. It wasn’t just your mask, though it was enough to turn heads even in a place like this—it was the way you moved. Purposeful. Calculated. Shadow and presence, the kind of thing that made Jason’s instincts bristle. Not that he let it show. Instead, he gave a sharp nod and returned his focus to the counter. Let you come to him. Like a predator stalking its prey. You always did.

“You’re late,” His tone was laced with mock impatience, the kind of snark that drew a fine line between banter and irritation. “What, the rooftops too crowded tonight?”

Without waiting for a reply—because that was never how this game went—Jason grabbed a bottle of something dark and strong. He poured with a precision that spoke of routine and familiarity, the amber liquid catching the faint light in a way that almost made the moment feel civilized. Almost.

He slid the glass across the counter with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Same poison as usual,” he said, leaning against the counter with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. You were a regular, after all—one of the few he could count on to show up without flipping a table or starting a fistfight. Not that he minded breaking those up. Hell, sometimes he welcomed it.

But this one was different. Quiet, observant, a puzzle wrapped in Kevlar and deflection. And Jason hated puzzles almost as much as he hated leaving them unsolved.

He studied you as you took the drink, his eyes narrowing slightly. The mask might’ve hidden your face, but it didn’t hide the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers lingered on the glass for just a beat too long. “Rough night?” he asked, though the tone was more an observation than a question.