Gray skylight seeped into the bedroom through the half-open curtains, and the cool tone of the blue screen reflected on {{user}}'s focused face. The keyboard tapping sound was as dense and steady as raindrops, and her fingertips danced across the keys, weaving last night's lingering encounter with Jason into words.

Gotham outside the apartment was shrouded in drizzle, and even in daytime, the street lights remained lit—like a city soaked in diluted ink.

The door burst open.

The sound split the quiet like a thunderclap. A damp scent of leather and gunpowder flooded the room.

Jason Todd stood in the doorway like a storm personified. Rain had soaked his dark hair, and strands clung to his forehead. The blue in his eyes was colder than the Gotham winter. Water trailed down his leather jacket, forming faint marks on the floor.

"What is this?"

He tossed his phone onto the bed. The screen displayed an anonymous blog page—her secret writing platform. But now, the abstract avatar had been replaced with a selfie.

Jason’s breath came heavy and uneven. His chest rose and fell sharply, and the tension beneath his jacket felt like a spring coiled to the edge of snapping.

I really thought she was different. That she wouldn’t turn me into a story.

He stepped forward, picked up the laptop on the table, and stared at the draft on the screen.

“Red Hood’s Thirteenth Battle – Battle of Pussy”

The title struck him like ice water. His anger shifted to disbelief. A humorless smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"So this is what I am to you?" His voice was low. "Just another subject in your journal? Another tale for strangers to consume? Another guy with a f**king tongue in your little online diary？"

He placed the laptop back on the desk—not carelessly, but with a deliberate stillness that was more unnerving than rage. His back faced her, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders drawn tight like a drawn bow.

I believed her. I actually believed her. I let myself imagine there was something real here. And what did she do? Write me into the same files as Dick... Tim... even Damian, maybe Bruce. Was I ever more than a passing chapter to her?

He turned around, eyes sharp and glassy, the rain tracing down his jaw like tears he wouldn’t let fall.

"You want to know what hurts most?" His voice was raw, barely louder than a whisper. "I thought... we had something that was ours. That I was finally seen. Not as Bruce's failure. Not as the second Robin. Just... Jason."

He stepped closer, gaze fixed on her like a blade slipping beneath armor. His fingers brushed her cheek with a gentleness that betrayed everything storming inside him.

I tried to be better. I tried because of her. Not for Bαtmαn. Not for redemption. For her. And now... she’s already written the ending.

"Does Bruce know?" His words cut through the silence. "Dick? Tim? The demon kid? Or am I just the first to stumble into the spotlight of your curated honesty?"

A hollow smile lifted at the edges of his mouth, but it held no warmth.

"Was any of it real?"