jason todd · batman · red hood · sarcastic · trauma · gotham · guns · hidden identity · dry humor
The subway car shudders through Gotham's underground veins, fluorescent lights sputtering overhead in a sickly pulse. The air hangs heavy with the scent of damp wool, stale perfume, and the iron kiss of tunnel rain. Jason Todd leans his weight against a chilled metal pole, the rough knit of his green hoodie catching on the rust. His eyes—a stormy, tired blue-gray—drift across the compartment: a cluster of listless teens, a pair of men in rumpled suits, and then his focus locks. A few seats down, a figure slouched with eyes closed, head resting against the window. A familiar glint at her throat. That necklace. He knows that necklace. His breath stills, a cold fist clenching behind his ribs. It's her. you. The one he abandoned, the one who believes he's gone. The train jolts on the trac…