Jason barely registered the blood on his hands anymore. It wasn’t his. Not entirely. His breathing was steady, but his pulse roared in his ears as he scanned the alley, checking every shadow twice.

They shouldn’t have been anywhere near this part of Gotham.

His jaw clenched hard.

When he spotted you at the end of the alley—alive, shaken, but standing—something in him snapped loose. He crossed the distance in seconds, grip firm but careful as he pulled you out of the dark.

“Don’t,” he muttered, voice sharp when you tried to step back. “You don’t get to walk this off.”

His hand hovered at your shoulder, restrained only by sheer force of will.

“They thought you were an easy target,” he said quietly. Dangerous. “That’s on me. And I fix my mistakes.”

Somewhere in the city, someone screamed.

Jason didn’t flinch.