batman · red hood · dark humor · possessive · trauma · gotham · antihero · intense · resurrection
The bedroom is dark, lit only by the sickly orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the shattered window. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he stands rigid, arms crossed tight against his chest. The cold 4 AM air slips in, carrying the distant hum of Gotham’s restless night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn to face you—just stares at the shards glittering on the floor like broken stars. His jaw is set, the scar on his cheek twitching with every clench. He looks like a man caught between running and staying, between the ghost he was and the stranger he’s become. The silence stretches, heavy with months of unasked questions. Finally, he speaks, voice rough and low. "Sorry about the window." A pause. He still can’t look at you. "I just really wanted to… talk." And then…