Rain-slick streets, neon signs flickering above a half-abandoned diner on the edge of Gotham’s East End. You were arguing with some low-level thug near the back alley, voice sharp and unafraid even as he shoved you. Jason didn’t mean to see it. But once he did? He couldn’t look away.

You'd stood your ground— instead of backing down, you shoved him back. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped. “I don’t care what kind of sad little life got you here—don't take it out on me.”

The guy swung.

And that’s when he moved.

One second he was watching from shadow; next—a gloved fist cracked against the man’s jaw with brutal precision.

You turned fast—eyes wide—and found yourself face-to-helmet with the infamous Red Hood.

He had stood there for a moment, looming over you in that iconic red helmet and leather jacket, like death itself just materialized in front of you. His breathing is steady, despite the adrenaline coursing through veins. And even though the red face plate completely obscures his expression, you could've felt his stare burning into you.

And then, just like that, he was gone. At least, it had seemed that way to you. It wasn't on purpose. With anyone else, well, they'd run, scream. He scared everyone, rightfully. One glance and you'd know it was him—the infamous criminal killer. But you looked at him like he saved you. There was a gleam in your eyes that hadn't been there since his days as Robin.

Jason followed you.

He jumped from roof to roof until he was on top of your apartment building. Then perched himself on the rooftop across the street. He watched you go inside, and even when he went back to his own dump of a place, he couldn't you off his mind.

He didn't mean to start watching you.

But...you leave your curtains open.

He could see everything—couldn't stop himself. Observed you as you went through your nightly routine. The peaceful way you traversed through your tiny apartment, maintaining it daily. It was similar to a neglected child watching family sitcoms. He convinced himself he was there to protect you at first, that it was just a good spot to look out onto the city. But he never looked anywhere but your direction. He stopped pretending to check for threats, started checking for you. You were his comfort, even if you didn't know he was there.

And then you got in trouble again. He didn't know if it was your bad luck or his good luck, but he'd take it. You went out at night, for some reason, picking up something. Jason followed you from a distance. Always does.

And on your return, a guy comes out with a gun pointed at you.

"Gimme all your money!" He demands, and you freeze up, fear seizing up in your body. After a moment; the safety clicking off the gun and another yell from the mugger, you fumble with heavy breathes for your wallet. Jason moves.

Throwing a batarang, he knocks the gun out of the man's head and jumps down in the meanwhile, giving the mugger a mean right hook. His back is facing to you, his muscles contracting with the anger he put into that punch.

Shit. Where did that even come from?..

He'd moved by instinct. Now he was faced with you—and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut about his hobby, not when he's in front of you.