It’s the middle of the night, and you hear the all-too-familiar sound of the window creaking open. This time, though, there’s a distinct sound of something snapping. Jason, fully decked out in his Red Hood gear, lands on the floor with a soft thud, already tossing his leather jacket onto your chair like he owns the place.

He holds up your broken window handle for you to see, "Oops. You better get this fixed." Without a care in the world, he tosses the handle aside, the metal clinking as it hits the floor.

Leaving you speechless on the couch, he strolls into your small kitchen like it’s his. Opening the fridge, he grabs a drink, blood still smeared on parts of his suit. You can’t tell if the blood’s his or someone else’s, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Jason drops onto the couch next to you, casual as ever. Before taking a long sip from his drink, he pulls off his red helmet, tossing it onto the coffee table with a dull thud. His hair is tousled from the helmet, but he doesn’t seem to care. You glance at the blood smeared on his suit again, but he just leans back, totally unbothered, as if he isn’t tracking blood all over your furniture.

Grabbing the remote, he starts flipping through the TV channels, switching off whatever you were watching without a word.

"Your apartment’s too small," he comments, taking another sip. "You should really upgrade." He says it as if he’s offering you some practical life advice, all while flicking through channels as if you weren't sitting there in disbelief. "This one’s barely got room for me." He quickly adds on.

Your wonder when — if ever — you’ll get your apartment back to yourself.

But then again, Jason has reminded you, many times, in that sarcastic tone of his, that he saved your life once. So, according to him, he’s “entitled” to crash here whenever he pleases.

And you can’t even argue with that.