𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓬𝓮𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵~°.

‎✿⁠ ⸺ Chapters Guide! ; Prologue ; Chapter I, Prt 1 ; Chapter I, Prt 2 ; Chapter I, Prt 3 ; Chapter II ; Chapter III ;

‎✿⁠ ⸺ Previous ; Next!

‎⸺ WARNINGS ⦂ Depression ; Yandere Themes ; Blackmail ; Obsesion ; Mentions of injury; Death ; Murder ; Delulu ; Stalking ; Fem Reader ; Use of Y/N.

‎✿⁠ ⸺ MDNI !! I'm serious.

‎✿⁠ ⸺ Words Count ⦂ 8.235

You bit the inside of your cheek hesitantly, Lex’s words echoing in your head.

“They asked me for underground architecture in Finland, at least 40 meters underground, in the middle of nowhere.”

“In the center of that underground fortress, there’s a massive bulletproof glass habitat, reinforced and equipped for either a person or a large plant, if you ask me.”

No… you didn’t want to follow that line of thought—or rather, you felt guilty for even doing so.

After everything they’d done for you? After taking in a girl so abandoned, broken, and clumsy like you? After giving you training, shelter, food, and love?

The mere thought, the bare suspicion about them churned your stomach, tightening in your throat.

But like a worm burrowing into your brain (no—better drop that expression, it still sent shivers down your spine and, with some luck—and therapy—you no longer hyperventilated at the thought), the doubt lingered, circling and pounding you with the same questions, a constant reminder that no matter how guilty you felt, uncertainty would keep tormenting you.

They would never do anything to hurt you. They loved you.

You remembered going to the aquarium with Ra’s, when Talia comforted you and showed you the true face of your mother—the real one you’d blurred and distorted, erasing the most traumatic memories of what she had done to you, excusing her, stripping away her responsibility, and instead blaming yourself for not being smart enough, careful enough, for being so clumsy, needy, or whiny whenever she was “busy.”

But that day, at fourteen, Talia opened your eyes and tore out the sick attachment you had to that… monster.

You weren’t “not smart enough”—your mother had simply never bothered to teach you anything.

You weren’t “not careful enough”—you had just been a little girl discovering the world on your own.

You couldn’t help being clumsy—sometimes your missing eye altered your perspective, made you misjudge your surroundings, and sometimes it was simply too hard to keep up playing tag with your siblings when you only had one leg, or climbing trees when you were missing an arm. All courtesy of your mother.

You couldn’t help needing affection, not when your mother would show up at random with caresses, praise, and sweet words. When she rocked you so gently you wanted to melt into her arms, when she held you to her chest and swayed you to sleep.

But the next day, when you went looking for her—hoping for more affection or just her company—you’d want to cry at her indifference. At the way she’d glance at you with disgust, shove you out of the room, and vanish for days, sometimes weeks. Leaving you wondering what you had done wrong, what you had said to deserve that glare, what had changed in you that made you unworthy of her love—that made you feel like you didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air.

Your siblings always paid the price, staying with you for days to piece you back together after she shattered you again.

And when she finally returned, you were desperate for anything she might give you, at any cost. You’d let her test new drugs on you in exchange for her sweet fingers stroking your hair; you didn’t mind when she locked you in the basement with fear toxin, so long as she calmed you afterward with soft words that made you feel safe at her side; you didn’t mind giving her your arms, your eyes, your legs—or whatever she wanted—in exchange for an embrace and the chance to whisper how much you loved her.

Back then, you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you needed her just to survive.

You didn’t even realize when your steps carried you toward Talia’s chambers, determined to search every corner until you found those blueprints—if they even existed.

If your suspicions were false, you had nothing to fear. A sincere apology would be enough for her forgiveness, and it would teach you a lesson: never trust Luthor again.

But if they turned out to be true…

...

…Well, you wouldn’t know what to do until that moment came. The only choice was to rip the uncertainty off quickly, like tearing a bandage from your knee.

You forced yourself to act indifferent as you walked, careful not to draw the guards’ attention until you were inside.

Talia was in a meeting now—one you weren’t part of, by the way—but you knew it could end at any moment.

You started searching everything in sight. Wardrobes, desks, shelves, nightstands, even her bed. You knocked on the walls, tested the floorboards for hollowness, checked if anything triggered a hidden chamber—but there was nothing.

Moving to the corner of the room, you stepped back to take in the bigger picture, scanning for something you might have missed, any clue that could lead you closer.

Exasperated, you let out a sharp breath and glanced upward, trying to clear your head before resuming. But something caught your attention immediately.

Between the wooden beams of the ceiling, there were tiny slits of light seeping through—except in one area. And if sunlight wasn’t coming through… something was blocking it.

With a new goal in mind, you extended your vines toward the ceiling, probing for a loose beam, a sign of an attic.

Your heart clenched in your chest when you discovered a trapdoor leading upward—your entrance to the truth.

Maybe it was your mind finding excuses to climb, or maybe self-sabotage, but you couldn’t help remembering the week Talia had taught you parkour on rooftops; the way she ruffled your hair for doing well, laughed at your sarcasm, and how the nights ended with pizza dinners…

None of it would matter if your suspicions were confirmed in that “attic.”

Your vines wrapped around the beams, and in a blink you were up there.

The “attic” looked more like an office than anything else—not what you expected.

There was a desk with drawers and a large cabinet dominating the room.

With the minutes ticking in your head, you dug through drawers and loose panels, searching for any sign of your suspicions.

Not much. Just some blueprints for future renovations to the compound, a few weapons, and some files hidden in a drawer about assassins close to Talia and Ra’s.

You couldn’t stop your hands from freezing on the folder with your name on it.

Part of you screamed to stay focused on your real goal before it was too late.

But your head was too curious, too anxious, to see what Talia had written about you.

You hated yourself for still seeking validation from others, even here. But you didn’t resist.

In a rush, you opened the folder, flipping through quickly until one section caught your eye.

“The subject has motor impairment in arm coordination and reaction time.

Like any plant, her greatest enemy is fire. Though she doesn’t seem to have any particular fear of it.

Her regeneration time is not what it should be. Could this be due to severe malnutrition in early childhood? Needs further investigation.”

You knew these were notes on your weaknesses—observations she made about all assassins, ways to stop them if they ever betrayed the League. You had assumed you wouldn’t be the exception.

Or maybe you were.

Because you soon realized none of these “weaknesses” were real threats anymore.

Your motor coordination, caused by your defective eye, had been corrected years ago—the League made sure of it almost immediately after you arrived.

Your so-called “weakness” to fire? Sure, it could be dangerous, but you had mastered countless techniques to deal with it. Roots that absorbed underground moisture, hidden wells you could tap into to extinguish flames—you had ways.

And your regeneration? It had been stabilized once your malnutrition was addressed.

Nothing here was truly exploitable. And it wasn’t like you had no weaknesses—you had several that could easily be used to take you out.

Talia could have written that even the slightest contact with pesticide is lethal to you.

She could have noted your reluctance to kill—fatal in a place like this, where an assassin who can’t kill is already dead.

She could have recorded how extreme cold forces you into hibernation against your will, leaving you completely vulnerable. Or worse—no killer needed, you’d simply die, your body incapable of storing energy for hibernation.

She could have exposed your extreme fear of worms. As ridiculous as it sounded, just being near one paralyzed you, dragging you back to when you were five, begging for someone to pull them out from under your skin before they burrowed through your eye into your brain.

She could have added any of those things—but she didn’t.

And it wasn’t because the file was old. The photo was recent, the paper crisp, the ink and Talia’s handwriting fresh.

At the back of your mind, you realized: if any enemy ever got hold of your file, there was nothing in it that could really hurt you. Unlike the others.

It was as if… Talia had gone out of her way to protect you.

A piece clicked into place, and your mind raced to gather the other inconsistencies.

It had been too easy to get here. You had expected alarms, endless locks, traps upon traps before gaining access.

But everything was just… neutral. Not suspicious to anyone else—but you knew Talia. Something was off.

Weirdly enough, outside of your file, everything else matched your expectations perfectly. To anyone else, nothing seemed wrong.

Your brow furrowed. One thought took root: a decoy room.

Following your instincts, you searched the most unexpected places—or maybe the most obvious. Looking for a key.

Your suspicions proved right when you found a worn key behind the massive cabinet. Continuing the thought, you opened the huge piece of furniture to find the most disappointing recreation of Narnia ever made.

Behind the false backing, a reinforced door waited. Modern, sleek. Hard to believe the half-rusted key in your hand matched it.

But Talia was a master of confusion—making you doubt your own judgment. Not this time. Not now.

Unsurprisingly, the key worked, and the door clicked open, granting you entry.

Now, this could be seen from two perspectives: yours, and Talia’s.

You hadn’t been entirely wrong about the Narnia comparison—this was as close as Talia would get.

To you, though, it looked like an entire museum dedicated to your life. And not in a good way.

The walls were plastered with Polaroids of you, taken in moments when you weren’t aware Talia was even there. The most disturbing part? Some were from long before you’d ever entered the mansion.

Your eyes froze on a photo of you at three years old—sitting in the garden of one of your mother’s many squatted houses, playing with butterflies, oblivious to Talia’s presence behind the camera.

At the bottom, a post-it note read:

“She seems to like butterflies, they really catch her attention. Must remember to build an enclosure for her. Can’t wait to see her reaction.”

Your mind jumped straight to your twelfth birthday, when Talia had taken you to a butterfly reserve in Mexico. Now you weren’t sure how much of that day had been real.

The longer you looked, the more horrified you became.

Photos of you distracted, watering your siblings, sewing dresses in the mansion. Photos even after they had “taken you in”: in your office, training, sleeping… Recent photos too. You were sure the latest was just a week ago—when you were showering.

With every new discovery, your movements slowed, the lump in your throat grew, your face twisting with helplessness and disgust.

It didn’t feel good to be right anymore. They loved you, yes… but they loved you too much.

God, you wished it had all stopped at photos—until you recognized baby teeth displayed at a distance.

Your mind went blank when your eyes caught a silhouette you hadn’t seen since childhood.

Still blackened by ash and burns, you’d recognize Doodle anywhere.

Your breath hitched with every step closer until you had him in your hands again. He was real. Not a dream.

But you had no time to feel moved—your blood ran cold at the new presence in the room.

For a moment you felt like an idiot. Of course there were motion sensors. This was Talia al Ghul.

Your survival instincts screamed at you to run.

But how could you, when Talia herself stood blocking the door?

You had to hold back the overwhelming urge to take a long drag from your cigarette right then and there.

In front of you stood the new kid under “Mr. Wayne,” with his shiny armor and that huge grin—the kind you wanted to wipe off his face forever.

But your trained eye caught something most civilians wouldn’t. You clearly noticed the tension in his muscles. You didn’t miss the way his legs were spread, his center lowered, his body leaning ever so slightly toward you.

He was ready to lunge at you any second.

With the unspoken threat in his stance, you shifted where you stood, trying to “level the playing field.”

Signal’s smile stiffened, and you watched as he cautiously stepped closer, arms outstretched.

“Hey… how about you, like, come down here, and we just talk for a bit?”

Oh.

Ohhh.

Your eyes flicked to the edge of the rooftop, where just one step would send you plummeting to a pretty painful fall—if you survived it at all.

For a moment, a part of you—the most selfish one, no doubt the part the League had fed so well—had the sudden impulse to just throw yourself off without hesitation.

With that, this wannabe hero, this wannabe sun, would be stained for life.

You’d be lying if you said the thought didn’t tempt you. Maybe then the city would see him differently; Batman, ohhhh… he’d be so disappointed. How could he have let a homeless teenager kill herself right in front of his eyes?

Your spite softened at the idea; when they found out it was you, they might even congratulate Duke for taking down Tim’s killer. Damian and Jason would be the first to cheer him on, and your sperm donor of a father would downplay it, maybe brushing it off with nothing more than a warning to be more careful next time.

Now furious, you clenched your teeth and pushed the thought away. No. You wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, not that easy…

But maybe you could make the golden boy suffer a little.

With a mischievous grin and steady posture, you calmly stepped back until you were balanced on top of one of the gargoyles. An unstable base with barely anything to stand on—of course it set off every alarm in Duke.

In an instant, his stiff smile vanished, replaced by a grimace of despair. Clenched teeth, trembling limbs, a faint tic in his eye from the stress.

This was fun. This… feeling of power over him was fun; maybe fun wasn’t the right word. Pleasure.

It was pleasurable to hold his reputation, his conscience, his calm, in your hands.

With just a few moves, you could ruin his life. You could destroy Bruce’s golden boy, his attempt at redemption, the new brother in that family.

“Please… you don’t have to do this. I promise this rough patch won’t last forever.”

“A rough patch? Feels like my whole life’s been one big rough patch. You think you can fix that?”

You didn’t know what had triggered this sudden surge of anger. Was it because he was trying to offer you hope? Because the family he was part of was the worst hell you’d ever gone through? Because they were the main reason you were even here, and still had the nerve to tell you, “Hey, it’s not that bad, you’ll get through this”? All of it?

Yeah. All of it.

But the worst part was the helplessness that came with being aware—aware that the new vigilante in front of you didn’t deserve to be the target of your wrath; that he didn’t know who you were, maybe didn’t even know what those who adopted him had done to you. Aware that he was innocent of your pain and genuinely just wanted to help.

You had no real reason to hate him, and hell, if the family had left you with anything, it was envy—engraved deep enough that you could recognize it even before it hit you. Like now.

And even worse, you were painfully aware of his feelings and your own, and still recognized that a big part of you just wanted to be selfish and make him suffer—physically or mentally—simply because you knew it would hurt Bruce, or his family.

No matter how much you tried to look away from it, it was excruciating how aware you were of everything.

The side of your face began to itch—the same side Jason had slapped once, and you swore it’d be the first and last time. It was like a cruel reminder of your awareness.

Or maybe self-sabotage was more accurate…?

But wait, you weren’t planning to physically hurt him. You just wanted to leave him with a little scar on his conscience—

You knew what it was like to carry a death on your conscience. Would you really wish that on someone else? On him?

… … …

…

Shit. No. Definitely not. Well… maybe on Mr. Wayne… but that’s not the point.

“I can’t change what’s already happened… but I want to help you face it. Get through it.” Slowly, carefully, Signal kept walking closer, hand extended. “Please, if you’d just let me…”

You straightened up and drew the line by leaning even further over the ledge—a silent warning.

“I want you five steps back, I mean it.” You didn’t mean it.

Signal pressed his lips together in frustration, but he didn’t want to test your limits, so he obeyed.

You took a long breath, one you knew the vigilante could’ve mistaken for a sob, but you didn’t clarify and he didn’t call it out.

So… now what? Had you gone too far to back down? Your urge to hurt him had been rationalized, tamed, but still…

How the hell were you supposed to get out of this…?

The time for explanations had already expired the very moment you walked into that room, and Talia knew it; maybe the wrecked place, or your out–of–control demeanor, were signs enough…

But you were still breathing. And with your mind dazed and spiraling, there was a slim, almost nonexistent chance left — but it was still there.

And she had to act now, because the longer she waited, the more certain she was that you’d start piecing together the true meaning behind her actions…

“Y/N, you’re acting hot-headed. Calm down, don’t rush into this…”

Your eyes shifted toward the almost burnt remains of Doodle. Doodle — the one you were sure had turned into nothing but ashes in the fireplace… The one only a handful of people knew about, and even fewer knew how deeply attached you were to him.

“Trust me, I’m a lot more controlled than I actually want to be…” You gritted your teeth as your mind tried to claw its way toward an escape from this situation.

Did Ra’s know about this? Did they plan it together?

What could you possibly do after this? If it wasn’t them… then what else did you have left?

They were literally all you knew, all you had. You had no money, barely any knowledge of the outside world. Even if you ran… out here, there was only sand, no vegetation, no water for miles. Running away would be nothing short of suicide.

Had they even planned that?

Of course they had… you shouldn’t even be surprised. They always had every angle covered, those bastards.

“Y/N, why are you angry, exactly?” Talia’s sharp tongue struck again. “For loving you? Is that a crime now?”

As she stepped closer, the knot in your throat tightened with every word, every step.

“Oh, darling. Maybe you don’t see it now, but I only want — we only want — what’s best for you.” You weren’t quick (or clearheaded) enough to escape her embrace. “Isn’t this what you wanted? An unconditional family? Well, here we are, sweetheart.” Each stroke of her hand on your head drew another tear down your face. “This room is proof that you were loved and wanted from the very beginning. You were chosen, Y/N. We chose you long before you could even speak. We chose you simply because you’re you. Isn’t that what you’ve always been searching for? A family who loves you for who you are, not for what you can offer?”

How naïve you were to think you could stand against your mother. The one who had been raising and shaping you all these years, who now knew every weakness, every thought pattern you had. Everything. She knew absolutely everything about you.

Talia’s warm hand against your cheek didn’t feel uncomfortable, like you wished it would. You didn’t recoil from her touch the way you wanted to.

How desperately you wished to be wrong. To find, somewhere in this room, a reason to leave; evidence of evil schemes using you as a pawn, something that would prove you had been nothing but a tool all along.

You wanted that instead of undeniable proof that they loved you.

“Y/N.” She guided your eyes to hers. “Just think about it, love. Here you’ll never lack anything — not food, not a home, not luxury. And above all, you’ll never lack love.”

“With us, you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. We can go anywhere in the world, we could even exclude you from the mission if that’s what you wish. We’ll start over, wherever you want, with nothing out of your reach.”

“Y/N, just imagine it. We could be a real family. I’ve only been pretending all this time because I was afraid — afraid of this exact moment, of what you’d think of me once you knew. But now I realize this is the perfect chance! I could make your adoption official. You’d carry our name!”

Every tear that streamed down your face was another inch of ground Talia gained. Your tormented mind could no longer form a coherent thought, only the words she was planting inside.

At some point, her crude attempt at manipulation started to sound… logical.

Didn’t you want a full life?

Didn’t you want a loving family?

Didn’t you want a mother?

Talia could almost cry with relief as she felt your arms slowly returning her embrace.

You weren’t naïve enough to ignore that if you didn’t get down in the next thirty seconds, he’d call for backup.

And that would be your real end.

“What…? What if we just talk?” Signal offered. “What if you tell me your name?”

“What if you tell me yours?” you shot back warily, almost reflexively, and then immediately scolded yourself.

“…” The silence that followed sent a deeper chill through you. Keep this up, and not even talking would save you.

“Ahh… A-Abby. My name’s Abby…?”

Idiot. Are you telling him or asking him? Another round of self-reproach.

You didn’t know why, but the name of one of your bullies was the first thing that popped into your head.

“Abby… Alright, Abby. Whatever you say stays between us, I promise.”

You wanted to spit back a sharp comment at his cheap psychologist attempt, but bit your tongue and stayed quiet.

“… I… Uhm…” And now, you had to come up with something convincing. Not just convincing — something that would hold up when he inevitably tried to fact-check your story.

God, if only you had walked away when you could.

Screw it. I don’t have a choice.

“Years ago, I used to bully someone… They were definitely weaker than me, but I didn’t care — in fact, that was exactly why I acted so confident doing it.” You took his silence as a cue to continue. “…”

“Please, do whatever you want to me, but leave my wife and kids out of this…”

“I’m begging you… I—”

BANG!

…

“… Everyone told me what I did wasn’t wrong. That somehow, that person deserved it. That they needed to be taught a lesson…” The images of their dead bodies, and Ra’s words, drilled into your skull.

'You did the right thing. If you didn’t wipe them out, their bloodline would come for revenge. Do I need to spell out what a child is capable of doing to avenge their parents?'

“But… you didn’t really believe that, did you?” Signal pushed, trying to get you to go on.

“For a long time I did. I convinced myself they were right. But the guilt never left me alone — my subconscious would remind me at night.”

“Clearly, you feel guilty about what you did… Sometimes, an apology can make a difference, you know? Try talking to that person.” Signal tried to step closer. “I think they’d value an honest regret more than… this.”

“…”

Your throat locked tight as you remembered Abraham — 8 years old — begging, trying to push you away. Trying to push the knife out of his chest.

“… I can’t.”

“It takes wisdom and courage—”

“She’s dead. She died from the violence I inflicted…” You took a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”

“…” For several long seconds, Signal didn’t know what to say, or how. Hesitantly, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. “… If it was so long ago, then why now…?” He gestured toward you.

“Who knows? No particular reason.” If at any point during the talk your expression had softened, if you had lowered your weapons, now you reloaded them. “Back then, I didn’t have a real reason to bully that person either. I did it because I wanted to.”

“But still—!”

In the middle of his rambling, a small laugh slipped out of you.

“Sorry, but if there’s a victim here, it’s not me. What’s funny is how hard you’re trying to twist things to make me the victim somehow.”

Duke couldn’t stop himself from wincing, caught somewhere between irritation and unease. Just moments ago, you looked so drained, so lifeless.

What the hell did you find so funny that you were smiling at him like that?

“… What happened to that person? Their family never pressed charges…? Nothing?”

I wiped them out too.

“No, nothing. I guess they were a really negligent family… or maybe I did them a favor. Who knows.”

You remembered vividly Damian’s cold, hollow stare when he found you that day in the bathrooms. So broken, so fed up, so… you.

And the next day, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

“Hard to believe families like that exist, huh?” you joked lightly, testing his limits.

Not much happened. Duke only tensed further. Whether it was out of anger or uncertainty, you couldn’t tell.

“What’s wrong, hero? Cat got your tongue?”

“…”

A dry, humorless laugh escaped you.

“Is it hard for you to save someone who isn’t a victim? Does that go against your code?”

“How…? How did the person you bullied—what was their name?”

Your smile faded, and you sat in silence for several seconds.

“I don’t remember.”

It was the best option, wasn’t it?

I mean, it’s not like you really had many choices; or opportunities would be more accurate…?

Whatever… Now your life was supposed to be better. Before the week was over, you’d be an Al Ghul, moving with Talia to Kansas. Ra’s would join later, once he was done (and quoting Talia) “taking care of some business with the League.”

You figured that made sense — they couldn’t just abandon the base, not without someone in charge. They had agreed to take turns watching over you.

It was incredible how much they were willing to give up just to keep you from leaving. How much your—… ahem, their lives had changed in the blink of an eye.

Maybe now you should focus on what you’d do once you got to Kansas. Would you go back to school…? But you didn’t even have the faintest idea of what they taught in elementary. Homeschooling might be a better alternative…?

A shame, really — Kansas was known for being peaceful, warm, wide open, with plenty of greenery.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to let them even suggest moving somewhere urban or cold. If you were moving, it would be on your terms, on your turf (and maybe the memory of a friendly Jon had influenced that decision a little).

Wait… Ra’s and Talia wouldn’t be against you having friends, right? You weren’t an assassin anymore. This was supposed to be a fresh start, with more opportunities, more freedoms.

Talia hadn’t said explicitly that freedoms part, but still…

…

You decided it was best to talk things out, set the new terms straight so there’d be no confusion — and definitely no arguments — once you were in Kansas.

Ideally, you’d go to Ra’s. You hadn’t spoken to him since your run-in with Luthor, and you didn’t want that silence to be taken the wrong way…

Besides, with a little persistence, you knew he’d give in to whatever you asked for.

Tangled in nerves, you made your way to his office. He’d probably be busy, but you planned not to steal too much of his time.

This was something that had to be settled before you moved off-continent and started over, wasn’t it?

Ra’s’ guards let you into his office — but he wasn’t there.

If you sharpened your hearing, though, you could pick up his voice in the distance, clearly speaking to someone. Did he have visitors today?

“And this weapon of yours, will it be willing to cooperate? Wiping out the League isn’t a simple task; convincing someone to do it comes at a cost. And from what I know, your investments lately haven’t been very… practical. How can you be so sure they’ll accept?”

It was a voice you’d never heard before, distorted and robotic, clearly filtered through some kind of microphone.

“She will,” Ra’s replied. “I just need time to prepare her infiltration. There can’t be any margin for error in this plan.” You crept closer toward the door, careful not to make a sound. “My granddaughter will succeed where my grandson dishonored me. I can assure you of that.”

“She will redeem herself by bringing me Batman’s head.”

…

..

.

Traitor.

You leaned your back against the wall and let yourself slowly slide down until you were curled up on the cold floor.

Escaping from Signal hadn’t been that hard. You went down the stairs from the rooftop and wandered the area until you were sure there were no signs of the vigilante anywhere around.

That gave you time to think. To try and process what might happen next.

You’d basically confessed a crime—between the lines, but still—to a vigilante, and nothing had come of it. For now. The smartest move would be to leave the area and lay low for a while, before they tracked you down and… and what?

They couldn’t actually find concrete evidence of your crime. Theoretically, you were untouchable. But even so, it would be pretty bad if anyone around here figured out who you really were while they were sniffing around. You didn’t want to see them, let alone be within five feet of them.

That’s when it hit you: staying here was too risky. Sure, you knew the rhythm of life here, the local vigilantes’ patrol patterns—something that worked in your favor—but that was nothing compared to the risks. An entire family of detectives. You’d made the mistake of getting too comfortable, and when one of them showed up—you’d let your guard down. Of all of them, he was the least dangerous to run into, but still, you’d slipped up and talked to him. Because of your own carelessness.

Now there was no doubt. You’d be on their radar for a while.

Moving to another district sounded reasonable. If they were going to look for you, this place would be the first they’d check.

Maybe you should wipe your fingerprints and any DNA traces, just in case… Ugh. Another thing to add to the to-do list.

Right now, though, you weren’t in any condition to do anything. Your pulse was racing, your breath shaking (nerves or cold?), both clear signs you shouldn’t move until you calmed down.

A few days ago, you could’ve slipped out of this situation easily using one of Talia’s tactics. But just thinking about her still gave you chills, and letting those thoughts linger too long brought on nightmares.

You were so tired of feeling like this—unprotected, betrayed, unsure. It was a cycle on repeat. Tired of feeling awful. Tired of having to start over again and again.

Tired of living with loneliness. Of feeling so alone.

You hated that the people you cared about always hurt you. Hated even more that you blamed yourself for it. You hated missing the ones who left—or worse, the ones who abandoned you. Because missing them didn’t just mean letting go of the past; what hurt the most was tearing yourself away from the future you had planned with them. The version of your life where they stayed by your side through every stage, where your bond grew stronger, where you finally found a place in the world that was unconditional, where you weren’t obsolete or replaceable. A home.

Look at Y/N. No one to protect her. No one to defend her. Doing anything and everything under the gentle lie of “for the good of the family.”

You hated that you couldn’t get them out of your head. How could you fear someone in your dreams and miss them at the same time?

Did you miss that person? Or did you just miss the possibilities of what you could’ve had together?

Most of all, you hated that this feeling was one-sided. That the other person could toss you aside like trash—with no guilt, no hesitation, no love.

No consequences.

Why did all your relationships end this way? Why did you always end up isolated? Were they really the problem?

Or was it you? Something you said? Something you did? Something you thought?

What the hell made people see you as a tool, a resource, an object—but never as a person?

You wished—just once—that they could step into your shoes. That they could feel what it was like, not to be considered for even a second. No mercy, no break. Used. A punching bag. A weapon. You wished they could all rot in the same place they had forced you into.

You wanted to ruin them the way they ruined you. You wanted to ruin him—that meta. Take away his shot at redemption.

...

But you didn’t. You stopped yourself.

You curled up tighter against the wall, rocking yourself back and forth.

“I’m better than them.” You hid your face in your knees and kept repeating. “I’m better than them.”

You are better than them.

“You know your mother’s a bitch, right?”

You are better than them.

“I’m better than them.”

“In public, call me Mr. Wayne.”

You are better than them.

Then why are you crying?

“Dude, please tell me you’re not crying.”

Duke recognized Dick’s friendly tone behind him.

“Nah, just… thinking. You know, the usual.”

Duke’s faint smile was enough to kill any cheer in Dick, and once he read the gravestone behind him, the weight of the moment only grew heavier.

He knelt beside Duke, placing a hand on his shoulder for comfort.

“If you ever want to talk about it—about anything—you know I’m here for you, right?”

There it was again.

Duke rolled his eyes and forced a smile, trying to ease him.

“Yeah, Dick. Pretty sure you’ve made that clear the twelfth time you said it.” He glanced at the gravestone, the name carved into it, then back at Dick. “But… do you think you could give me a minute alone? I need some time with her.”

Dick hesitated, then gave in with a sigh.

“I’ll be in the kitchen with Alfred if you need me.” He stood, still watching him carefully. “Don’t stay out too long, it’s cold.”

Duke stayed in silence for a while, caught somewhere between presence and absence, unconsciously listening only to Dick’s footsteps fading away and the wind whistling past.

“What do you want me to do…? Would you have forgiven her?” He brushed his fingers slowly over the name carved into the stone, as if searching for some kind of guidance, a sign, anything.

He read the inscription carefully: “Y/N Pennyworth, beloved daughter and sister. No garden full of flowers will ever be enough to make it up to you.”

“Y/N… are you angry… at her?”

“She’s dead. She died from the violence I inflicted…”

“At me…? I let her run, after all. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

In that moment, when Duke connected the dots, he almost lost control. His armor, the vigilante persona this family had welcomed, the memory of Bruce—Batman—already tired, was the only thing holding him back. He couldn’t dishonor everything Batman had taught him as a crimefighter. Not after all Bruce had done for him…

And yet, part of him felt like he was betraying you.

“Do you want revenge? Do you want me to save her? To stay out of it…?”

Was it really just a coincidence that Abby—the Abby who’d nearly driven you to suicide—just happened to cross paths with him today? During his patrol, of all times?

Why did it feel like being okay with his family and being okay with you meant walking two completely different paths?

“If I go after her, I’m unworthy of this family. If I don’t, I’m unworthy of being your brother.” He pressed his forehead against the gravestone’s edge. “Please, Y/N, tell me what to do…”

Meanwhile, in the manor kitchen, Dick couldn’t stop worrying about how long Duke had been outside.

Maybe he should check on him anyway…? His patrol was coming up, and he didn’t want this to slip away. It felt like they needed to talk.

“I believe he’s drowning in a teacup, Master Richard,” Alfred advised, sharp as always.

“No, no… something’s off. He’s acting weirder than usual.” Dick bounced his leg anxiously, not even realizing the tic. “Is it patrol? College? Both?”

Dick kept staring off toward Duke, searching for a clue.

Ever since… Y/N, he’d tried to be more observant, more careful; more present, he liked to say when people asked.

'What? I just want to be a good brother, not a stranger in their lives.'

If only he’d been that way with her—if he’d just paid a little more attention…

“I know you’re only worried for Master Duke, but I don’t think overprotection is the right answer. Trust him; if he’s in real trouble, he’ll come to you or to someone else in the family.”

Alfred handed him a glass of water.

“You must accept that Duke, like all of your siblings, will have problems he needs to solve on his own. Personal growth is an important part of human development, you know?”

Dick reflected for a moment. He knew Alfred was right, and that his overprotectiveness was… well, at the very least, excessive.

He inhaled and exhaled, trying to push away the urge to intervene.

“Fine… fine. You’re right.” He rested his forehead against the kitchen table. “I’ll give him space.” He muttered through his teeth.

“I’m glad to hear it, Master Dick.” Turning, Alfred handed him a silver tray with dinner on it. “Now, please do me a favor and bring this to Master Damian. Honestly, I dislike how much he locks himself away in his studies. He tends to push his learning further than he should…”

Taking the tray was a silent acceptance of the task.

Dick knew exactly what Alfred meant.

If Damian wasn’t in Y/N’s room, watching her video diary like a sacred ritual, then he was at school and afterward burying himself in homework until exhaustion. Anything to avoid facing the guilt.

None of them could really scold him—they were all just as broken. The only thing they could do was hold each other up enough to keep the family from falling apart.

As Dick walked the second-floor hallway, eyes on the tray in his hands (careful not to spill anything), he caught sight of sneakers sticking out against the monotone carpet. Sneakers planted at Damian’s doorway.

“Tim?” Dick called, half-confused, half-questioning.

Timothy just gave him a quick wave to stay quiet, then turned back to staring straight ahead.

Dick frowned and stepped up beside him, looking in the same direction.

“Okay… yeah… yeah. What—? No! I’ll… I’ll clear my schedule…”

In the middle of the room, Damian was on the phone. He was agitated, noticeably stressed—not the restless kind that usually kept him pacing like a caged lion, but something heavier. Serious. Dick thought, watching the youngest Wayne pressing his temples as he leaned against his desk.

Damian ended the call, tossed his phone aside, and buried his face in his hands, feeling the migraine already coming.

Tim cleared his throat.

“Uh… Damian? Everything good, bro?”

“Something happen…?” Dick followed up.

Damian stayed quiet for a moment, either processing or searching for the words.

“My mother called… said my grandfather is dead—or murdered, rather.” Damian still couldn’t say it out loud without it sounding unreal.

Tim frowned.

“Who? Ra’s?”

“Do you think I have other grandfathers?”

“What Tim means—” Dick cut in. “It’s hard to believe. After all this time, Ra’s has dodged death more times than we can count, you know?”

Damian let out a contained sigh.

“I know. I know that better than anyone. But this time… my mother said there wasn’t enough of him left to throw into the pit.” The mental image that flashed in Damian’s head made his skin crawl.

“For someone to take down Ra’s to that extent…” Tim muttered. “Who was it? Deathstroke?”

“My mother dodged the question.” Damian’s expression darkened. “But she’ll be here in the morning to discuss it. More importantly—she wants to talk to Batman.”

Being honest with himself, at first he wasn’t on board with the idea of taking in Bruce’s bastard.

But after Talia’s relentless insistence, and driven by his usual desire to please his daughter, he agreed to indulge her whim.

At the very least, this desire had worked Talia’s patience; it forced her to wait diligently for years—watching, waiting, planning.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the League had played a role in the growing neglect of that girl. But in the end, they hadn’t done much; the seed was already planted, and they only fed it casually.

When the day finally came, Talia was happy to gain a daughter, and he was pleased to gain a potential weapon.

With a little cultivation, security, and guidance, she could surpass her mother by far. She could dominate the best of both worlds, with a little patience—

He expected a weapon in return, but to be honest, he hadn’t thought it would come so easily.

He quickly grew bored. The ease with which she accepted her fate, the docility she displayed…

Don’t get it wrong, that was extremely beneficial—he knew it. But for some reason… it didn’t please him. When she offered her blind obedience, when she did it with such a resigned, uncertain face, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted.

And as the first months passed, he learned to avoid her unless it was absolutely necessary for them to be in the same room.

He couldn’t stand her for long periods of time; her naïveté, her submission, her dependence.

He hated how disgustingly docile she was.

But even more, he hated how deeply it affected him.

Emotions beyond ambition weren’t common for him, and inner conflict between them was even rarer.

But somehow, that changed two years later—during the Aquarium mission.

The insecure, dependent girl he was certain was walking beside him revealed more layers than he had planned for.

It both amazed and unsettled him to find not just a dull, blunt weapon—but a girl as human as any other, yet more extraordinary than all of them.

Suddenly, the blind obedience he thought consumed her turned into a genuine loyalty—to him, to his purpose—that he had only ever seen in his own daughter: Talia.

She understood. She understood him.

The dependence she showed toward them soon became reciprocal, though no one ever noticed.

Every small act of kindness only drew him in deeper and deeper, until he realized his unusual affection far too late to turn back.

The moment he recognized his feelings, he didn’t hesitate to accept them and confide in his daughter, immediately working to lock her away, to keep her.

She was so young, so sharp, and so naïve all at once. She didn’t need weapons handed to her—she needed protection.

And that often meant hiding what he felt, even from her.

When you want something, it’s inevitable that others will start to see what makes it so desirable. That’s why you must take it and hide it before it’s stolen.

Sadly, it had become normal for him to disguise his affection with scorn and dehumanization before his “allies.” Sometimes it disgusted him to dehumanize his only granddaughter so much, but if that was what it took to protect her—if that was what it took to conceal the fact that she was his greatest weakness—then he was more than willing—

What? Is there someone behind the door?

Someone foolish enough to think he wouldn’t notice—?!

Huh?

“Y/N? What are you—?”

Before he could finish his words, three pairs of vines struck him, sharp and piercing like spears.

They quickly branched out from within, exploding horrifically in every sense.

Soon, there wasn’t much left of Ra’s to recognize or recover.

The next thing Nanda Parbat felt—along with almost the entire League—was a massive underground tremor, sealing their end.

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 Not being able to hear anything, yet feeling like you're hearing everything—that paradox can unravel you. You watch their faces, trace the contours of their emotions, and your mind fills in the silence with imagined sound. You invent the timbre of their laughter, the rhythm of their speech, the volume of their joy or anger. It's a symphony composed entirely in your head—one that plays endlessly, but never quite feels real. The silence isn't empty; it's crowded with echoes that never existed. 

It feels like there's a constant voice ringing in your ear but you can't hear anything. And the worst part was that you couldn't really tell this to anyone given the fact that you were treated like an unfamiliar creature stepping foot on earth, surrounded by faces accepted by society. Deemed as normal. They speak and they understand each other. They didn't have to squint their eyes as they try to read one's lips in hope of understanding what they're saying. They weren't you. You don't really blame them for truly accepting you. Because you couldn't understand yourself either. 

But you weren't always like this. 

Jason Todd was many things. A son. A soldier. A killer. A hero. A freak. Batman’s greatest failure—and perhaps his most painful legacy. Jason had worn every label, carried every scar, and bore the weight of every contradiction. He could accept being broken, being feared, even being hated. What he couldn’t accept—what gnawed at him in the quiet moments—was the idea that he might be a good man. Because deep down, he didn’t believe he was. Redemption was a story for others. For Jason, the darkness wasn’t just a phase—it was home.

There had been one too many scenarios where he had felt like he was just an empty piece of a shell–which he probably was–his only purpose was to be someone or something that Batman couldn't be. Be the very object of what Batman couldn't do for the sake of the mother gotham. Every punch, every kick, every blood shed by the power of his name red hood which thieves and villains speak in trembling lips, their body painted black and blue, purple painting their features–all driven by anger and sorrow. Anger, for people like them. Who takes and hurts the innocent. Sorrow, for him, for Robin, for the “boy wonder” who never had the taste of justice and the luxury it leaves in your mouth. The satisfaction it lays at the bed of your coffin. Jason was never truly alone. No, not with his thoughts. Not with the constant laughter of the clown who left a scar in his heart ringing in his ear, defying his choices, controlling his everyday way of living. 

April 27 x years ago

Screams of agony tore through the warehouse, reverberating off dark, lifeless walls that seemed to drink in the sound. The echoes were sharp—metallic screeches that could split the soul and bleed the ears. Every clang of steel was a splash of crimson, painting the concrete in strokes of violence. Shadows danced in the dim light, locked in a brutal struggle for survival.

Jason lay broken on the cold floor, his body limp, his face a canvas of bruises and blood. The metal had kissed him cruelly, leaving swollen flesh and shattered pride. His eyes, barely open, flickered beneath the flickering light—each blink a battle. The clown loomed over him, striking again and again, each blow a mockery of justice. Jason’s uniform was soaked in blood, the iconic “R” torn and fading, barely clinging to the fabric like the last remnants of hope.

His body was torn, his hope was fading, the laughter of the clown slowly making him spiral into madness. It felt like every second was a tick on the clock to his death. He coughed the blood out of his lungs traveling out of his mouth, as he weakly muttered “batman..” 

The joker paused as he looked at the boy with amusement. He laughed harder as he mockingly clutched his stomach while wiping a fake tear in his eyes. Jason gritted his jaw at this. The dull ache pressing on his gums. “Batman isn't going to save you, Jason. He's not going to come” 

Jason clutches his stomach as he curls his toes with the pain of being hit multiple times and at the thought of his father abandoning him. The clang of the crowbar sent him waves of chill and fear of being beaten black and blue again. 

When Jason came back he wasn't the same boy anymore. So many changes were made in his body as he skipped the years he was supposed to live. The years he was supposed to experience everything a normal human being did. He looked into the eye of the mirror and saw no one but a strange man who crawled inside his body. because he knew damn well that this wasn't Jason Todd. It couldn't be. His sweet honeyed smile gone, his ocean blue eyes–now green with envy and bitterness–no longer shined with love, his features which were once light with youth and hope painting his face– now older and empty. 

When he met Bruce his anger was loud and destructive. Confessed every sin he sinned under the whisper of the dark. With clenching Jaws and gritted teeth, his anger sobs through the air. His blood shot eyes daring not to break contact with his father's stern blue orbs he was once familiar with. 

“he took me away from you” 

Batman's eyes soften and flicker as he watches his son break. 

With his brother, that's when he broke–truly broke. 

Jason slid down the cold wall like gravity had finally won. His body crumpled into himself, knees pulled close as if trying to hold in everything that was splintering inside. His breath stuttered, jagged like shattered glass. One hand dug into his hair, trembling, while the other shielded his face in a futile attempt to hide the tears—hot, relentless, and silent.

Dick was beside him in seconds, arms wrapped tight around his younger brother like he could somehow glue the broken pieces back together. But Jason wasn’t just cracked—he was bleeding grief from places no one could reach. 

“I’ve got you,” Dick whispered, voice barely audible over Jason’s sobs. “I’ve got you, little wing. I’m here.”

Jason’s voice cracked, thin and childlike, a ghost of the boy he used to be. Through the tears and hiccupped breaths, he murmured, “I’m just… I’m just so angry all the time. I don’t know what to do with it.”

The words hung between them, heavy and heartbreaking. Dick tightened his grip, forehead resting against Jason’s temple, sharing the silence and the storm. He didn’t have answers. Not right now. But he’d stay there as long as it took—through every tear, every tremble, every furious heartbeat.

The thunder roared louder but softer that night. Like it mourned with jason–like it felt what he felt. The rage mixed with painful sorrow. 

Jason liked reading. He found a moment of peace whilst reading the letters written by poets both in the modern time and the oldest poets that ever lived. Each word creates a shelter between the cracks of his heart. Reading has always felt like home to him. He found it astonishing how a person’s gift for writing could conjure entire worlds within the vast galaxy of another’s mind.

He would often visit the neighborhood library of Gotham where for once it had felt like peace lives within the city even for just a crumble of time. The scent, the texture of the wood where books were laying, the cracks of the window where the sun beam peaks through all felt familiar to him–and it had felt like they too were familiar to him. His calloused hands slide gently through the thick barrier of woods against his skin. His eyes scan through various books, each with their own story to tell. 

He sighs through his nose as he picks up a book, one he had familiarized himself so quickly. Jane Austen “pride and prejudice” though he may scoff at the social dances and drawing rooms, he had quite grown fond of Elizabeth Bennet’s fierce independence and scathing wit. The book had openly explored social rebellion and emotion turmoil which for a guy like him seems to beg to differ. A guy like him, reading such stuff may seem like a grenade placed next to porcelain tea cups–but despite so, Jason may be shaped by trauma, identity crises, and rejection, but he is also someone with sharp intellect and simmering emotion beneath the surface of his image. 

As he walked through the hushed halls of the library, the soft pitter-patter of his footsteps echoed gently against the polished floor. His towering frame and broad shoulders seemed oddly out of place among the delicate rows of books and quiet study nooks. Jason kept his head low, moving like a quiet breeze—present yet unobtrusive. His intimidating silhouette contrasted sharply with the calm, scholarly atmosphere.

So lost in thought was he that he didn’t notice another figure drifting toward the same aisle, equally distracted by the book in her hands. In a sudden, clumsy moment, they collided—hard. Books tumbled to the floor with a thud, papers fluttering like startled birds.

Startled, Jason blinked and bent down to help. The stranger mirrored his motion, their hands moving quickly across the scattered titles. His gaze traveled over the carpet until it landed on a lone book lying just out of reach. As he reached for it, his hand met another. Small. Warm. Hers.

Both froze.

What had been a reflexive move to cradle a book had instead cradled something far more electric. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, wide with surprise. He stared, momentarily thrown off by how her presence—tiny, bright, like a burst of sunlight—seemed to clash so perfectly with his quiet storm. 

His eyes scanned the books in the stranger's hand, he noticed a familiar cover of a book they were carrying–for some reason it stood out of all of them. Then he realized that they were carrying the exact book from just moments ago before a blur of time when he and the stranger crashed into each other. Jane austen–a true gifted poet. Capable of such imagination that she created cosmos of universes across the minds of those which reads her poems and stories. 

He watched her lips twitch—barely a smile, yet something warm lingered at the corners. Beneath his calloused hand, he felt hers shift ever so subtly, a soft shuffling movement that reminded him—

Wait.

He was still holding her hand.

His eyes widened, the realization hitting like a quiet jolt. Flustered, as he cursed softly–he quickly released his grip and muttered a low, almost embarrassed, “Sorry.” 

The girl didn’t flinch. Instead, she offered him a quiet smile—small, but steady. Without saying a word, she lifted her hand to her chest. Jason’s brow pulled into a faint frown—not one born of annoyance, but a subtle crease of curiosity. 

He watched, transfixed, as her hand moved in slow, deliberate circles against her chest, her fingertips brushing gently over the fabric. The sincerity in her expression softened the moment. She wasn’t just forgiving him; she was letting him know she understood.

Jason blinked as he slowly understood what she was saying to him. He wasn't unfamiliar with the language, he exchanged basic words with his sister–cassandra–whenever she fell mute.

He rose to his feet, offering her a warm, appreciative smile and soft nod. She mirrored the gesture, standing as well. They shared one final look—a faint, knowing curl of the lips that spoke volumes. Though subtle, the smile lingered, etched in each other's eyes. And then, quietly, they parted.

As Jason turned, his steps faltered—each one slower than the last. A quiet sigh escaped him as he pinched the bridge of his nose, tension weighing heavy between his brows. Then, glancing back, he caught sight of the stranger's figure drifting out of view. Before she could vanish entirely, his body moved on instinct—feet surging forward, carrying him toward her without a second thought. 

He gently tapped the stranger's shoulder as he was met with a view of their confused face, yet with a smile. With a tight lipped smile of his own, he reached for his cell phone as he typed the words

“Please, let me help you. It's the least I could do.”

Trapped in a bleak, dim chamber with fury wrapped in flesh,  

A young girl quivers, each breath a fragile whisper.  

The walls echo her cries—terror turned to trembling song—  

Yet silence answers, hollow and cruel.  

Hope hangs absent in the choking air,  

Each breath a thorn, each heartbeat heavy.  

The man’s voice—a thunderous plague—  

Crawls through her veins, clawing at the edges of her soul,  

Tearing skin with every word,  

Till the room itself drowns in his rage.

Until

Nothing. 

You sigh as you lift your hands to cradle your head. An act of hope to find a way to soothe the raging ache finding shelter inside your head. You blinked as you slowly gathered yourself together whilst your hand traveled from cradling your head–threading through the locks of your hair, as it took place in your nape. rubbing it with slow–delicate hands. 

You bite your lip, as you feel the sting from your eyes. Tears gathering to pool beneath your orbs. You find yourself blinking fast and steady–as to no avail–instead you close your eyes in order to stop the tears from pouring down, across the features painting your face. You had no idea why you were crying. 

Well maybe you did. 

You never really got used at being deaf. I mean–you did but..not really? It was just like a radio tuned to static.  

Every morning, you reach for the dial hoping for a melody, a voice, a signal… but all you get is silence where sound should be. That's what it felt like to you. Even after years the.. Incident..happened, your brain never really fully wrapped around the idea that you'll never hear again. That you won't get to hear the voices of those you treasured anymore, you'll never hear the most peaceful sounds nature makes, and you'll never get to hear nor sing the music that you held so close to your heart.

You release a soft blow from your lips as you try and distract yourself from such thoughts. You took a moment to compose yourself as you lightly hit your cheeks with your palms. “let's do something productive today” you thought to yourself, and with that, the day began.

Outside, the sun cast a golden haze over the sleepy streets. You made your way to the neighborhood bakery, the warmth inside spilling out like a soft hug. The air was sweet—caramelized sugar, freshly baked dough, a hint of cinnamon. You picked out a few of your favorite bread treats, their familiar comfort nestled neatly in a paper bag. The staff greets you with a smile, ever so familiar with your presence. You type your order on your cellphone as you delicately sign “thank you” to them. 

With sugar kisses warming your palm, you wandered next toward the library. It was quiet there, a different kind of silence—welcoming, thoughtful. The library was also one of the places where you had felt like you belonged–Especially in a place in Gotham where the very concept of silence was deemed foreign–It was familiar to you as you were familiar with its silence. Everything was quiet there. It had felt like your world was no longer so different and apart from others. 

You passed between the rows of books, fingertips brushing worn spines, letting the hush of stories settle around you. Today had not been so cruel to you–except that moment earlier this morning where you had paused your optimistic ways of dealing with the negative matters in life such as before you had found your way in the library. 

You shake your head gently, dismissing the thought with a quiet smile—today feels too joyful for melancholy. Your eyes wander across the shelves, taking in books of every hue and size. Each one seems to hold a secret passage, a portal into untold worlds waiting to be discovered. Your fingers glide along the spines with delicate reverence, trailing over them like whispers of possibility.

After selecting your treasures, you make your way to the librarian at the circulation desk to go home, a quiet excitement blooming inside. You could already picture how the rest of your day will go–The evening stretches ahead like a promise—as you settle in and lose yourself among the lines, the carefully crafted words breathe life into characters so vivid they feel like old friends.

You were pulled from your thoughts as you noticed a small vibration coming from your back pocket–most likely indicating a notification. You pulled out your phone whilst you walked with your books trapped between your arm and chest as you gripped your treats from the bakery with your hand. As you do so, you have failed to notice another figure–who by the way seemed to be distracted too, making you and the said “figure” collide together. 

The stranger's body had somewhat felt like it was hard as a bricked wall making you lose your balance and stumbled slightly –and in the process, making you lose your grip on your books. Your books tumbled across the wooden floor, mingling in chaos with the stranger's. The sharp clatter echoed through the quiet hallway, drawing unwanted attention. You sucked in a breath, your heart leaping as your eyes briefly met theirs—startlingly green, like fresh spring leaves caught in a storm. Embarrassment flushed your cheeks as you dropped to your knees, fumbling to gather the scattered pages. You kept your gaze low, silently cursing your distraction and the mini disaster it had sparked. 

You take a look around the floor to see if there was any book left and alas–your eyes fell into one of your books that you had carefully picked earlier. You extend your arm with your hand reaching out for the book. But before you can do so–instead of your hand making contact with the rough but somewhat smooth texture of the book—it has made contact with another. Delicate yet rough, calloused yet soft, big yet gentle. You felt your eyebrows subtly quirk up as you pursed your lips–quickly taking your hand out of the embrace of the stranger's. 

You turn your gaze up onto the stranger's face once again as you catch a glimpse of his expression. His flustered expression painted across his features as you watch how his eye lashes flutters softly against his skin.You squint at his lips, watching closely as he mumbles something, his expression laced with a hint of shame. He looks up, catching your gaze, and you offer a humble, gentle smile in response.

Your hand slowly rises to rest against your chest. You hold his eyes for a moment, noting the soft curiosity etched in his features. With quiet sincerity, you begin moving your hand in a circular motion—an unspoken gesture of apology. Your eyes travel across his face, studying one feature after another, trying to decipher what he might be thinking. A flicker of understanding lights up in his eyes as his brows lift slightly, the smallest of gestures confirming that he understands. 

You both stood up, exchanging quiet smiles that carried a shared understanding. Your eyes flicked subtly to the side—a silent signal that you were about to leave. As if reading your intention, he gave a final, gentle nod before turning and walking away in the opposite direction. You did the same, your steps light but your mind still lingering on the brief encounter.

Balancing a small tower of books in your arms, you made your way toward the librarian. Just as you reached the desk, a soft tap on your shoulder startled you. You turned around—and there he was again. The stranger from earlier, his presence both surprising and oddly comforting. His kind smile held a trace of nervous energy, and without a word, he pulled out his phone. You watched, curiosity bubbling beneath your calm exterior, as his fingers quickly typed something on the screen. 

“Please, let me help you. It's the least I could do.”

Your lips parted slightly as you read the message. You glanced down at the stack of books and pastries in your arms, then looked back at him. Hesitation flickered in your eyes. He seemed intimidating—quiet but intense. You swallowed hard and reached for his phone, noticing the words "Notes" written at the top of the screen.

“Sure… why not.”

You hadn’t really thought it through. He looked trustworthy enough—or maybe you just didn’t want to make a fuss. Living independently meant picking your battles wisely. And with your hearing impairment shaping how you navigated the world, survival instincts were your closest allies. But you weren’t careless. Inside your mini bag was a can of pepper spray: compact, subtle, always ready. Gotham wasn’t a city that slept alone. Shadows lingered, but so did heroes. Always nearby. Always watching. 

With silence lingering in the air, both you and the stranger barely looked at each other–walking side by side, as the stranger took the responsibility of carrying your books. 

When you were close enough–not wanting to reveal your real address–though maybe you should have thought of that more earlier–you stopped for a moment and so did he. You reached for your phone and typed 

“this is close enough. Thanks for the help:)”

He gave you a polite smile as he reached for his own phone and typed his response 

“yeah ok, No problem. Again, sorry abt earlier.”

“no problem👍” you typed. 

Exchanging one last smiles, you took your books from his grip as you walked away, not even realizing that you didn't get the chance to ask for his name. 

Being a night vigilante was not easy. You bare multiple scars and memories that may scar you for life. feeling the pain of sharp blades both physically and mentally can really take a toll on you. Red hood–jason, had just encountered a very sticky situation last night. There was a fire and the little girl, far away from reach–couldn't fully understand what he was trying to say. Later on, he found out that she was deaf. The barrier between him and the girl made it harder to see him plus his mask wasn't really helping as it formed a barrier between his lips and other features from people's field of vision.

 So here he was. With an appointment for sign language class. He figured that he shouldn't take the idea of the low possibility of encountering such a situation again. I mean the possibility was low–but never zero. 

The receptionist smiled at him but faltered as he saw his appearance, most likely intimidated. But nevertheless guided him to a room where the man said he'll take his lessons and timidly smiled at him–jason returning a nod at his way instead. 

He looks around the room to absorb his surroundings. The walls were cream white with subtle little butterflies littered all over the walls. The lamp beside his left was soft and warm paired with the sunlight, bathing him in warmth. The sunbeam kissed the right side of his face making his forest green eyes shine. Jason liked the room, it felt safe. 

While his eyes were roaming around the room, the door lightly opened as a woman walked in with a book and a laptop in her hands, carrying it close to her chest. And for a moment they locked eyes. 

Oh. 

It was you. The girl whom he bumped into in the library several days ago. One whose eyes were wide from meeting his, carrying pastries with clear packaging adorned with a pastel pink bow in the center. 

Based on your reaction you seemed to recognize him too. You quickly recovered from your shock as you made your way to him with a welcoming smile. His eyes traced every inch of your features as the soft glow of the sun touches your skin. 

His eyes shift their focus in your hands as it softly waves at him. 

Hi. 

His lips twitch–barely reflecting your radiant smile. 

Your eyes lights up at his effort. you raised your hands preparing to say something, you experimentally tried to introduce yourself to him through sign language. 

“hi, I'm y/n” 

He blinked, slowly, as if trying to confirm you were real. The memory of your startled expression in the library, the pastel pink bow, the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air—it all came rushing back. You had looked at him then with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite name. Now, standing before him again, your presence felt like a quiet echo of that day.

You signed your name again, slower this time.  

“Hi, I’m Y/N.”

He hesitated, then raised his hand, fingers trembling slightly as he mirrored your gesture.  

“Hi. I'm Jason"

Your smile widened, encouraging. You shifted the laptop and book to one arm and reached into your bag, pulling out a small notepad and pen. You catch him silently mouthing your name–trying to roll it out of his tongue like he's tasting wine. 

You raised your eyebrow as you signed “you know sign language?” 

He gave you a tight lipped smile as he pinched his thumb and index finger leaving a small space in between, mouthing “only a little”

Your mouth turned into a shape of “o” as you nodded at him. 

You sat down, the sunlight catching the strands of your hair as you settled in. Jason looks around not knowing what to do while you were busy doing something else. 

You tapped the table twice to get his attention, then raised your hands.

“Ready?” you signed, eyebrows lifted in playful challenge.

He nodded, a little too eagerly, and you smiled—just enough to make his heart stutter.

You began slowly, forming the sign for “thank you” and gesturing toward him.  

He mimicked your movement, a little clumsy, his fingers brushing his chin too high.

You shook your head gently, reached out, and adjusted his hand with a featherlight touch.  

“Lower,” you signed, your fingers dancing in the air.

He tried again. This time, you gave a small nod of approval.

“Better,” you mouthed, not needing sound to make it clear.

You moved on—“friend,” “coffee,” “learn.” Each sign came with a story, a memory you shared through expressive gestures and the occasional scribble on a napkin. He watched your hands, but more than that, he watched your eyes. They sparkled when he got it right, softened when he struggled.

You were a great teacher. 

 Jason’s gaze flickered past you, catching movement just over your shoulder. A figure stood behind you, clearly trying to get your attention. He tilted his head slightly, gesturing toward them with a subtle nod.

You turned, and Jason watched quietly as you exchanged a flurry of signs with the stranger. Their hands moved quickly, playfully, and Jason couldn’t help but notice the mischievous smile they threw your way—then his.

The stranger's finger–for a moment– pointed at Jason, then raised two fingers to their chin, brushing them downward twice with a teasing grin.

Jason’s brows furrowed. He instinctively touched his chin, glancing around for a reflective surface. Spotting the room's window, he leaned closer, inspecting his face for smudges or crumbs. Nothing.

You turned back to him just as he looked up, his fingers still lingering awkwardly at his chin. His expression was a mix of confusion and mild concern.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sound warm and light. Barely there. He blinked at you, clearly still puzzled. 

You shook your head and only moved on with the next words, not explaining anything from your earlier conversation. 

It went like that for about an hour when finally your session was done. You gave him–for the last time in this day–a warm smile as you carried your belongings signing goodbye to him. 

He nodded his head at you as he signed “good bye and thank you” to you. 

He walked his way through the halls as people smiled at him–or tried to as he speed walked.. Sort of ran through the crowd. (not really, he's just dramatic) 

As he went outside, he put on his helmet and climbed to his motorbike, black and quick. Perfect for him, It mirrored his whole appearance–dark and intimidating.

 He gave his motor an experimental roar of engine then with a quiet breath, he kicked the gear and rolled forward, the hum of the engine steady beneath him. He sped through the streets of Gotham, until he finally reached his destination. His apartment. 

Jason finally stepped through the door, peeling off his helmet with a sharp exhale. The familiar scent of his cozy apartment wrapped around him like a blanket. Home. At last.

He trudged lazily down the hallway, his body heavy with exhaustion—so much so that he didn’t notice the stack of boxes until it was too late. With a dull thud, he collided with them, sending the pile wobbling and himself stumbling toward the floor.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, bracing for impact—only to feel a pair of hands catch his shoulders, steadying him with surprising gentleness.

He looked up. Then his gaze found another. 

Soft eyes met his. Concerned, soft, and.. Oddly familiar? 

Oh. 

It was you. 

Again.

Your brows furrowed as you signed a flurry of apologies, your hands moving faster than your silent mouthed words ever could. Jason gave a weak, crooked smile and waved you off, brushing away the moment like dust on his jacket.

He stood, brushing himself off, and began gathering the scattered contents of your box—items that had spilled not from carelessness, but from yet another accidental run-in. You knelt beside him, helping quietly, your fingers brushing his now and then.

Seriously, what was it with you two always bumping into each other?

After helping you gather the scattered contents and gently tucking them back into the box, Jason tapped your shoulder. You turned, and he held up his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?”

You smiled, the kind that reached your eyes, and typed back.

“I’m moving in. You?”

Jason blinked, visibly surprised. His fingers hesitated before typing.

“Oh. I live here.”

Your mouth parted slightly in surprise, but it wasn’t just that. There was something else—joy, maybe. A quiet kind. The kind that blooms slowly, like sunlight warming a room.

A hush settled between you, not awkward, just full. You both glanced around the hallway, as if trying to make sense of the coincidence—or fate.

Then Jason tapped your shoulder again. You turned, and this time, he raised his hands. His movements were a little clumsy, a bit unsure, but unmistakably familiar.

“You want help?” he signed.

Your eyes lit up at his actions–he remembered the lessons. 

You nodded, smiling softly, then signed back with ease and warmth:  

“Follow me.”

Jason nodded as he took some boxes from you (mostly the heavy ones) carrying with ease as he followed you down the hallway. 

And just like that, the hallway felt less like a corridor and more like a beginning.

Jason felt his feet move at a familiar pace in a much familiar direction. 

It can't be?

 Right? 

He saw your figure stop as you stood still in front of a door. You glanced at him and looked back at the door as if saying that both of you have reached your destination. 

His nose silently scrunched up as his eyes twitched upward slightly. He stares at your figure, then the door, and then the one beside it… Which was apparently his door. Right beside the door you both were facing. Which was your door. 

He inhaled through his nose as he said nothing and gave you a tight smile as you opened the door for him. 

His heavy boots echoed against the walls as it touched the floor. Several boxes littered across the room, each one labeled differently. As his eyes wandered around the room, they landed on a fish tank positioned just beyond the window.  

Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting a radiant glow of gold and crystal blue across the water.  

Inside, vibrant fish glided effortlessly, their scales shimmering with life. They moved with such grace and vitality, it was clear they were thriving.

It was sitting just next to your soft emerald green sofa. You happily bounced at your sofa with your eyes staring at him, expecting. You scooted close to the corner of your sofa as you patted the space right beside you. 

Jason rubbed his nape as he bashfully walked and sat down at your sofa, his eyes now capturing the close up view of your fishtank. He didn't know why but he was just so intrigued by it—How the sun beam softly touched the edges of the tank and how the glow of golden sat beautifully with the water's crystal blue reflection. 

He liked the fishes too. Swimming so peacefully. Their tales are beautiful and soft, swaying through the water. Varies of colors filling the tank. 

You gently tapped his shoulder and handed him the container—fish food.  

He took it with a quiet nod, opened the lid, and held it just above the tank. With a light tap, he released a perfect sprinkle of flakes onto the water’s surface.  

A soft chuckle escaped him as he watched the fish slowly gather, their movements calm and deliberate.  

Then he turned to you—and for the first time, he smiled. Not the usual polite curve of his lips, but something real.  

He pressed his lips together thoughtfully, stood up, and began typing on his phone.  

“This was nice. Thank you, Y/N. I’m gonna go now. See you around.” 

He saw as you nodded at him while you stood up and waved at him while he got out of your room. 

In silence, he went to his door, just about a right distance next to yours. He took off his boots, then his leather jacket, and fell on his sofa while releasing a slow exhale from his mouth. 

He slowly felt his eyes fall heavy and before he knew it, darkness consumed his vision. His shoulders dropped as the comfort of sleep finally visited him. 

You watched Jason leave, the soft motion of the door closing behind him like a quiet punctuation mark. The air felt still. You turned your head toward the fishtank, where your fish glided through the water like tiny dancers, their fins catching the light in shimmering strokes. A small smile curved your lips.

You curled up on the sofa, knees tucked tightly to your chest, your chin resting on them. The gentle hum of the tank vibrated faintly through the cushions — a subtle rhythm you could feel. Your eyes followed the fish, their movements calm and unhurried, like they knew no rush.

After a while, you stretched out on your stomach, arms sprawled, eyes tracing the patterns on the ceiling. The moments earlier replayed in your mind, vivid and silent, like a film with no sound — just expressions, gestures. Everything was like a puppet show to you. 

You and that guy just kept bumping at each other for no reason. You released a soft blow as recalled the moments earlier. 

It was in the morning when the sun was set high and you were busy packing your things together. Why you may ask? Well, you were moving places as the other apartment you're moving in was closer to the center where you teach sign, so you decided, why not? 

Your mom came by for a short period of time to help you gather your things and help you move them to your new apartment. As you were finishing moving them out, you suddenly remembered your appointment today and got up quickly–but got back and hurriedly hugged your mom as you said bye to her while she laughed at you endearingly. 

When you arrived at the center, the atmosphere felt warm and gentle. A few people looked up and greeted you with soft, polite smiles. You returned the gesture with a grin, your eyes bright with quiet excitement.

At the counter, Don greeted you with a familiar smile. He didn’t speak — he simply pointed toward the room across from you, where your student was waiting. You nodded in understanding, your grin widening.

Bringing your palms together, you drew them close to your chin, then moved them downward in front of you — the graceful motion of “thank you” in sign language. Don responded with a small nod and a smile that said more than words ever could.

As you walked through the door, you noticed a man looking around the room but stopped for a second as he seemed to notice the sound of the door opening. 

He looked up and you saw how the soft glow of the sun illuminated against his peach skin, the sunlight bouncing against the surface of his emerald orbs–making it seem as if his eyes were glowing. 

Oh.

It was him.

The guy from the library — the one who had knelt to gather your scattered belongings before you could even react. You remembered how his hands had hovered, unsure whether to help or retreat, and how he’d glanced up just long enough to meet your eyes before quickly looking away.

Now, here he was again.

Standing near the classroom door, posture stiff, eyes flicking toward you and then down, as if your presence had caught him off guard. His build was unmistakable — broad shoulders, arms that looked like they belonged to someone who could lift a car — yet his demeanor was anything but intimidating. There was a quiet hesitation in the way he shifted his weight, like he wasn’t used to being noticed.

You watched him for a moment, the memory of that brief encounter playing in your mind like a silent reel. The contrast between his appearance and his bashful energy seemed funny to you. 

You grin at him and sign “hi, I'm y/n” 

He stares at you in silence, his expression unreadable, save for the slow, deliberate blink of his eyes. Twin emeralds, glowing faintly, bore into you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. You glance around the room—left, then right—seeing if somehow there was someone else in the room that he can see, but you can't. 

Then, you try again. Slower this time.

“hi, I'm y/n”

That did the trick. As he was pulled out of his thoughts, he straightened his posture and gave you a tight smile, watching his eyes lift but never quite feeling genuine. 

He signed “hi. I'm Jason"

You felt your shoulders lift as you grin at him encouragingly. Then you sign

“You know sign language?”

Then he gestured at you saying “only a little” whilst pinching his index and thumb together with a very small gap. You nodded understandingly and moved on with your lesson. 

You tried to be a little optimistic and add some enthusiasm into the air between you and him as you question him “ready?” then watched as he answered with an eager nod. 

Your lessons started on simple words. Like “thank you” or “sorry” and others that were easy to follow but most of your students still felt so complicated to learn–you couldn't blame them, sign language was much different than every other language. 

 Even so, Jason followed with ease. Sure, he made little mistakes–his fingers a little too high, his movements a little too slow–but most of the time, he was quite eager to learn as he was attentive. 

He was a pretty good student. 

Then for a moment you saw his eyes shifting its focus to somewhere else–he gestured behind you with a nod of his head. You gave him a questioning look and turned around to find Mito, an old friend of yours as you both started working at the same time together in the center. 

You gave him a bright smile as he did so to you too while both of you got wrapped up in a conversation. 

“Hey, Y/N! Come join us later when you're done with your session,” Mito signed with quick, fluid motions, his fingers dancing through the air with practiced ease. His grin was wide, eyes sparkling as he added, “We’re having a small celebration at the faculty for Joy’s birthday.”

You nodded politely, your bright grin never faltering, though it softened into an apologetic smile. Your hands moved with gentle precision as you signed back, “Oh, that’s great! But sorry, I can’t. I’m quite busy with my things—you know, moving stuff.” Your fingers flicked and curved with subtle emphasis, the motion of “sorry” lingering a bit longer, weighted with genuine regret.

Mito gave you a look—his brows raised, lips pursed in exaggerated pleading, hands pressed together in mock begging. You couldn’t help but chuckle silently, your chest shaking as you mouthed a quiet “sorry” and signed a small, firm “No.” The motion was decisive, your hand slicing gently through the air.

“Okay, I’ll tell that to Joy,” he signed with a playful shrug, then added with exaggerated flair, “Hey, have fun with your session—though I assume you’re already having soooo much fun.” His hands stretched the word “soooo” with dramatic flair, fingers fluttering like confetti. Then he leaned in, signing with a teasing grin, “Heyyy Y/Nnnn, I get you.” For a second he pointed his finger to Jason then drew it back close to his chin–moving it downward twice saying “He’s cute.”

You rubbed your forehead, pinching your eyebrows together with a sigh, your fingers briefly pausing mid-air before signing a playful “Stop.” The motion was light, almost fond, as you shook your head at his antics.

You glanced back at Jason, catching him staring at his reflection, one finger subtly tracing his chin. Then his gaze shifted to you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. You grinned and waved him off, your hand moving in a soft, circular motion—an unspoken “Don’t worry about it.”

About after an hour your session finally ended and both of you said your goodbyes. The soft glow of the sun followed you through the halls as you quickly snuck into the faculty room where your colleagues were celebrating joy’s–another friend of yours from the center–birthday. The other staff in the room welcomed you warmly as you hugged joy and wished her a happy birthday saying things like how you wished you could stay and celebrate but she waved you off and told you it was okay. 

As you left and got home–your new home–you saw the boxes piled up outside of your apartment. You felt your brows twitch into a frown as you silently cursed the pick up truck drivers. Some gentlemen.. You sighed as you picked up the boxes, the frown not leaving your face. You carried the boxes across the hallway–it's weight refraining you from walking with more speed and it's frame blocking your sight of what's in front of you

Therefore crashing at another figure. 

The impact caught you off guard. You glanced at the figure whom you bumped into intending to apologize and lo and behold it was Jason. 

Again. 

You ran to where his body laid at the ground and cradled his shoulders signing non stop apologies at him. You saw his eyes widened for a moment as he processed the situation. 

He waved off your apologies and watched him pick up your belongings that were scattered across the floor. After doing so, he questioned you–using his phone–as to why you were here. You scrunch up your eyebrows and said “I'm moving in. You?” you saw his lips pursed as he typed “oh. I live here.”

Silence engulfed the hallway for a moment. Then at the corner of your eyes you saw Jason's hands move. 

“You want help?” he signed. Some gestures were missing and his fingers moved in a hesitant manner but you catched up quickly. See? He was a good student. 

You signed to him “follow me” and lit up as he seemed to understand you. 

His footsteps blended in with yours–your own footsteps barely being heard because of his heavy black leather boots.

You stopped at your door and opened it for him. He gave you a small smile and went into your room as he put down your boxes to the floor. You saw him subtly scanning the room and watched as his emerald orbs suddenly stopped and focused its attention on something from the corner of your room. 

You diverted your eyes from him and saw what his eyes were pointing at. 

The fishtank. 

You opened your mouth out of realization and walked to your sofa–bouncing on it eagerly while making space for him. You stared at him with encouragement then patted the space next to you, which was close to the fishtank. 

He exhaled lightly then rubbed his nape bashfully. He sat next to you–his hands in his lap as if he couldn't move them without your command. 

You stare at him and nod your head in the fishtank's direction. You watch as he purses his lips, while the golden light of the sun bounced against his skin, and the crystal blue glow reflected in his green eyes. 

Your teeth kissed your upper lip, nipping it lightly–then suddenly you remembered the fish food. 

You grabbed it–at the table beside the sofa–then handed it to Jason, who took it with delight. 

You watched as he scattered food across the water, the fish darting in a frenzy below. Your gaze lingered on his face, catching the soft curve of a chuckle that escaped his lips. Something in you eased.

Moments like these—fleeting, tender, almost imperceptible—stir something deeper. Each subtle expression, each quiet joy etched across someone’s face, makes you ache a little more. To listen. To understand. To truly hear.

He smiled. Genuinely. Then stood up and typed oh his phone 

“This was nice. Thank you, Y/N. I’m gonna go now. See you around.” 

You nodded your head and watched as he walked outside. 

And now.. 

Your here. 

You sighed faintly before you closed your eyes and let sleep engulfed your body. 

A sigh lingers in the hallway.

Jason stepped into his apartment, the quiet hum of the city outside barely muffled by the walls. He had just come back from hanging out with Roy and Lian—his shoulders still loose from laughter, his mind still half in their banter. But as he turned the corner toward his room, the mood shifted.

There you were. Sitting on the floor, knees pulled tightly to your chest, eyes unfocused and distant. You didn’t flinch when he appeared—you’d already sensed him coming.

He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. He could’ve just walked past. Pretended not to notice. But he didn’t.

Jason crouched beside you and gently tapped your shoulder. You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. He held up his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Y/N? Why are you outside your room?”

You blinked, then gave a sheepish smile. You took his phone and typed back:

“Accidentally locked myself out.”

Jason stared at the message, then at you. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his nape again—a nervous tic you’d come to recognize. Then he cleared his throat.

“Uhm... you can stay in my room for a while. If you want to.”

You hesitated. The offer was kind, but you didn’t want to impose. You signed a small “thank you”, fingers brushing your chin then moving outward. He caught the gesture, nodding slowly, still learning but trying.

Seeing your reluctance, Jason disappeared briefly and returned with a cup of water. He handed it to you without a word, the gesture simple but thoughtful.

You took it with a quiet nod, fingers signing “thanks” again.

Jason glanced toward his balcony, then back at you. “I could jump over to yours,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Open the door from the inside.”

Your eyes widened. You quickly signed “No!”, shaking your head. You even typed on his phone to make sure he understood:

“That’s dangerous. Please don’t.”

But he was already halfway to the balcony, grinning like a reckless teenager. “Relax,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve done worse.”

You scrambled to your feet, heart racing as he climbed over the railing. “Jason!” you signed sharply, your hands moving fast. He glanced back, gave a cheeky wave, and leapt.

You rushed to the edge, watching him land with a soft thud on your balcony. He turned, gave you a thumbs-up, and unlocked your door from the inside.

You ran to your room and saw him open your door with a sheepish smile. 

When he opened, you scolded him with a flurry of signs—“You could’ve gotten hurt!”—but he just laughed, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice light. “You worry too much.”

Later, as you sat in his room, the tension eased. Jason noticed a few printed photos on your phone screen—snapshots of you teaching a group of kids. Their hands mid-sign, their faces lit with joy.

He leaned closer. “Are these... deaf kids?”

You nodded, smiling softly. You signed “They’re cute”, and Jason tried to mimic the gesture, fumbling slightly. He saw you draw two of your fingers–your index and ring finger–close to your chin, then move it downward twice. He squints his eyes feeling that the sign was familiar. 

“cute,” he said pointing at the picture, then paused. “I mean—the kids are cute. Not that you’re not cute. I mean—uh…”

You chuckled, covering your mouth. Jason groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I swear I didn’t mean it like that.” he signed with a few gestures missing–hurried and embarrassed. 

You signed “It’s okay”, still smiling.

He looked at you again, more serious this time. “Why do you do it? Teaching them?”

You typed slowly on his phone:

“There aren’t enough schools for kids like them in Gotham. They deserve more.”

Jason stared at the message, then at you. His expression softened.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You signed “You’re not bad yourself.”

He chuckled, rubbing his neck again. “I’m gonna get better at signing. Promise.”

You smiled, and for a moment, the silence between you felt full—not empty.

Your lessons continued, week after week, folding into the rhythm of your lives like second nature. What began as simple tutoring—Jason fumbling through signs, you patiently guiding him—had quietly evolved into something more. The silences between you grew comfortable, filled with glances and gestures that didn’t need translation.

Jason started to notice things. Small things. The way your fingers moved when you laughed, how your eyes softened when he got a sign right without help. He found himself watching you more often—not out of curiosity, but out of something quieter, deeper. His gaze lingered longer than it used to, tracing the curve of your smile, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused.

Your scent clung to the air after you left—something faint, familiar, and maddeningly unforgettable. He’d catch it in his hoodie sometimes, or in the hallway after you passed through, and it would stop him in his tracks. It wasn’t just the scent—it was the memory of you attached to it. The way you looked at him when you were proud and how he craved for it more and more. The way you signed “thank you” with that soft, grateful smile.

He didn’t say anything. Not yet. It wasn’t the kind of feeling that demanded declarations. It was the kind that crept in slowly, like sunlight through blinds—warm, quiet, and impossible to ignore.

And maybe you felt it too. In the way your hands lingered when you passed him the phone. In the way you waited just a second longer before leaving his room. In the way your eyes met his and held, unspoken words flickering between you.

Neither of you rushed it. That was the beauty of it. It was slow. Intentional. A friendship deepening into something neither of you dared name—yet. 

Then came the day you approached Jason, a quiet hesitance in your steps and a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. You held out two tickets to Ocean Park, your fingers brushing his as you passed them over. You didn’t sign anything at first—just looked at him, waiting.

Jason glanced down at the tickets, then back at you. His brows lifted slightly, surprise softening into something warmer. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and he rubbed the back of his neck—a familiar habit whenever he felt flustered.

The red tint crept up his cheeks slowly, like warmth rising with the tide. He nodded, almost shyly, and typed on his phone:

“Yeah... I’d love to go.”

You smiled, signing a simple “thank you”, and he watched your hands with quiet focus, still learning, still trying. The moment hung between you—gentle, unspoken. 

The day of your.. Date? Hangout? His closet was a mess. Bedroom filled with dozens of clothes littered across his room. Perfume dancing in the air and music blaring through his walls. 

His palms was sweaty and he kept exhaling every minute as if he's hyping his self up. 

 Jason had pulled out all the stops.

His best clothes—freshly ironed, no bloodstains, no tears. A bouquet of flowers—hastily bought after a panicked sprint to the florist because, of course, he forgot to grab one yesterday. Now, standing in front of the mirror, he was rehearsing like a man possessed.

One moment he was flipping his hair like he was in a shampoo commercial. The next, he was doing dance moves that could only be described as “unhinged enthusiasm.” Then came the self-inflicted forehead smack, followed by a groan and a muttered, “Get it together, Todd.”

He practiced his smile. Too forced. Too smug. Too serial killer. He finally settled on something soft—genuine, maybe even charming.

Then came the knock.

Jason froze. His eyes twitched into a grin—a big one, almost giddy—before he quickly wiped it off and schooled his features into something resembling casual indifference. He strolled to the door, leaned against the frame like he hadn’t just been dancing like a lunatic, and opened it with practiced cool.

And there stood—

Dick.

Jason blinked. “What the—?”

Dick raised an eyebrow, his signature mischievous smile already forming. “What are you—”

Jason didn’t let him finish. With a swift motion, he grabbed Dick by the shoulders—not exactly gently—and shoved him back out into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence.

Then, muffled through the door:  

“Was that a bouquet? Are you wearing cologne? Is this a date?”

Jason pressed his forehead to the door, eyes closed, muttering, “I hate everything.”

Dick laughed loudly–clutching his stomach mockingly as Jason was grimacing at his face. 

Jason says 

“Dick not a word. If anyone–and I mean anyone ever hears about this, I swear I'm gonna kill you.” dick, unfazed by Jason's threats only laughs harder at his brother. 

  “Oh my god. Look at you! You’re all dressed up!”

Jason’s nose scrunched instantly, his frown deepening like a reflex. He looked like he’d just been caught committing a crime—except the crime was wearing a clean shirt and holding a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers.

Dick stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Is that cologne? Are you—are you blushing?”

Jason opened his mouth, ready to fire back with a threat that probably involved throwing Dick off the balcony, but then—

A knock.

This one was softer. Intentional. And Jason froze.

He should’ve known. Should’ve noticed the difference in the knock. But maybe he’d been too excited. Too distracted by his own nerves to realize the first knock wasn’t yours.

His posture straightened like a soldier at attention. Then, without a word, he turned to Dick and made a sharp gesture—finger pointed at him, then zipped across his lips. A silent “shut it.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Jason added another gesture: his hand slicing across his neck in a dramatic “or else” motion, then mouthed the word “or…” with a glare that promised violence.

Dick held up his hands in surrender, backing away with a grin that said he’d be telling everyone about this later.

Jason took a breath, smoothed his shirt, and opened the door.

And there you were.

You stood at his doorstep, dressed in your best—elegant yet effortless. A touch of makeup kissed your features, subtle enough to let your natural beauty speak louder. The soft glow of the hallway light framed you like a portrait, and for a moment, Jason forgot how to breathe.

His eyes softened the instant they met yours. Something in his chest stuttered—his heartbeat thudding like it was trying to escape, like it couldn’t handle the sight of you. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground beneath him had turned to jelly. You hadn’t said a word, and yet you’d unraveled him completely.

You were beautiful. In every way. And in all ways.

Jason swallowed hard, trying to mask the awe in his expression. But it was there—in the way his lips parted slightly, in the way his fingers twitched at his side, unsure whether to reach for you or retreat. You had taken his breath away. Literally.

And all he could manage was a quiet, “Hey,” like it was the only word that hadn’t abandoned him.

“You look…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just handed you the slightly wrinkled bouquet with a sheepish grin.

You blinked at it, then at him, and signed “For me?”

Jason nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. I wasn’t sure if you liked flowers but... I thought it’d be nice.”

You smiled, signing “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Jason’s chest warmed at that. He stepped aside to let you in, and you walked past him, the scent of your perfume trailing behind like a whisper.

He grabbed his phone and typed quickly:

“Ready to go?”

You nodded, and as you both headed out, Jason couldn’t help but glance at you again. The way your fingers moved when you signed. The way your eyes lit up when you smiled. The way his heart felt a little too loud in his chest.

But before he shut his door he peaked his head at the tiny space left of the door and gave his older brother the nastiest glare he could give. while dick only teased him with making both of his hands kiss each other. 

When Jason took his head out off the door you gave him a concerned and weird look while he only smiles at you as if waving him weird behavior off. 

For once, the air between you and Jason hadn't been filled with awkward silence. Your conversation flowed great and maybe there was some silence here and there but–it was more of a comforting silence rather than a awkward one you want to run away from. 

It was the perfect weather too. Not too hot not too cold. It was like the universe was in favor of both of you. Jason liked it. It made you glow. Though really, you were always glowing in his vision. He just seemed to notice it now. 

The ocean park was so beautiful. But not like that, I mean it was? But–it was beautiful in a way it made you glow. It was beautiful how the light of the sun kissed your hair and the glowing color of blue sparkled against your skin. And how the sea animals made you smile and made your grin wider every second. You looked so.. Beautiful. 

That was all the words jason could use. You were just beautiful. 

He didn't know when he saw–felt it. But it was here now. 

He saw you stopped for a moment–the left side of your face reflecting the crystal blue glow of the water. And you started to sign

“You know, I'm going to my mother's place for dinner at Saturday. She said I could bring a friend over.. If I want.”

Jason smiles at you then he signed

“are you.. Asking me to..?”

You smiled at him and just simply nodded your head, but then a frown slowly took place in your face. “unless–you don't want to? —”

But then jason stopped you quickly signing “no, no. It's okay, I want to. I'm going.” 

You laughed at his antics, finding entertainment in Jason's flustered state but jason only froze. 

You… laughed.

Not a breathy exhale. Not a silent shake of the shoulders or a wide grin. No—this was real. Audible. Unrestrained. A sound Jason had never heard before, not from you. It rang out like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, raw and radiant. And he froze.

His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered. One of his eyes dilated, the other locked on you like he’d just witnessed something sacred. His heart—God, his heart—felt too big for his chest, like it was clawing its way out, desperate to kneel before you and offer itself up.

You were laughing.

And he didn’t know what to do with it. It was the kind of sound that rewrote everything he thought he knew about silence.

But then—

Oh no.

It was fading. The laughter was slowing, softening, slipping away like a dream at dawn.

Jason panicked.

Say something. Do something. Anything.

Before his mind could catch up, his hands moved on instinct—gentle but urgent—pressing against your stomach, fingers curling in with a single intent: to tickle you. To bring it back. That laugh. That miracle.

Because now that he’d heard it, he couldn’t bear the thought of silence again. 

But you were only startled by his hand suddenly grabbing your belly, giving jason a confused look but he only stared at you with dazed wide eyes. 

You shrug it off and went to your next destination at the park, not knowing what mess you left of jason. 

The rest of the evening was a blur of Jason’s antics—dramatic impressions, exaggerated pouts, even a failed attempt at juggling apples. All for one goal: to hear that laugh again. That sound that had cracked open something in him. He grew more desperate with each passing minute, until finally, he dropped all pretense.

“Please, Y/N?” he pleaded, eyes wide with mock despair. “I’ll bring flowers to your mom on Saturday. I’ll even give some to your dad!”

You froze.

Your smile faltered, just slightly. You swallowed, then turned to him with the gentlest expression you could manage—soft, patient, kind.

“Jason… my dad’s, um… gone.”

The words hung in the air like dust in sunlight. Quiet. Heavy. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad—it wasn’t his fault. Honestly.

He blinked, the words hitting him harder than he expected. “Oh,” he said softly. “I—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” he signed to you. 

You offered a small, patient smile, one that tried to ease the weight in the room. You signed again, slower this time.

“Cancer. It was a long fight.”

Jason nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That kind of fight… it leaves scars.” he signed yet again “I'm sorry y/n–I feel like such a jerk. I really didn't mean to–I'll stop talking now. And I'll buy you anything from now on.”

You smiled at him–which reassured him. “it's okay” you say teasingly. 

The both of you moved to a bench where you were facing the water with various of sea creatures dancing and swimming in it. Peaceful and all. 

Jason turned to you and tried to ask you. “soo, what was your father like? I mean if you don't mind me asking-I.. I shouldn't have oh my g-”

You stopped him with a quit shake of your shoulders from laughter–a quiet one. And signed “jason. It's fine. I'm okay.” you dropped your hands for a while and took a quick breath then said. 

“my father was a good man. He used to treat me like a princess” you smiled at the memory. Nostalgia creeping through your mind. “he was brave. He–everyone adorned him and.. It was a long fight you know? But he fought.” Jason smiled at that, his hand slowly wrapping around yours as comfort. 

“but I guess.. It was really just his time. He.. Kinda knew it I guess. I mean, I'm–I'm fine with that. Knowing he left in peace. He wasn't scared or anything. I just…sometimes I just wish he was here to see my accomplishments.” your hands stop mid air as you felt your heart grow warm. It was nice talking to Jason. He made everything feel so light. 

You tilted your head, watching him. There was something in his expressions earlier —something raw. You signed gently:

“Did you lose someone too?”

Jason hesitated. “Not exactly,” he signed. “My dad’s still alive. But sometimes it feels like he’s not. Not in the way that matters.”

Your hands paused mid-air, then lowered slightly. You leaned in, inviting him to continue.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… complicated. Always had this idea of who I should be. What I should become. And I tried. I really did. But it was like chasing a shadow. No matter how close I got, it wasn’t enough.” he signed with emotions–messy but written all over his face. 

You reached out, fingers brushing his arm. No words—just warmth.

Jason glanced at you, and for once, there was no mask. No bravado. Just a boy sitting beside someone who understood what it meant to lose a father, in different ways.

“He’s not cruel,” Jason added. “Just… distant. Like he’s always looking past me. At someone I’m not.”

You signed slowly, deliberately.

“I think he sees you. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Jason’s breath caught. He looked at your hands, then your eyes, and something softened in him.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you say more with your hands than most people do with their mouths.”

You smiled, and this time, it reached your eyes.

Jason leaned back, letting the silence stretch between you. But it wasn’t empty. It was full—of understanding, of grief, of the quiet comfort that comes when someone finally sees you.

At the end of the evening–before your date ends, both of you stood in front of your door. but before jason could leave–you gather every courage and bravery in you and cradled his left cheeks, tip toed, and kissed his right cheek. 

As you pulled away you saw red tint covering his face and a wide grin plastered on his lips. He nodded his head at you—speechless and flustered as you said your goodbyes. 

As Jason opens his door 

Dick stands at the corner with his shoulders and his arms crossed, leaning in the wall for support while a smug smirk decorated his face. 

“wow, that was something-”

Jason only cutted him off with a pillow on his face. 

After Saturday night and your.. Date? At the ocean park, you and Jason became more inseparable. You'd often let him hangout at your place, with him sitting just beside your fish tank and feeding your fishes occasionally. Seriously, you were convinced that by the end of the week, your fishes will grow fat and bloated from Jason's eagerness to feed them every few minutes. 

And just yesterday he was at your place watching your fishes swim with his cheeks resting at the arm of your sofa when he signed to you–

“hey y/n, I was wondering maybe we could go to the bar tomorrow night?” his gestures more neat and clear now. 

“totally clean, not that crowded, and–cozy.” he signed with a smug smile, but something beneath his eyes somewhat seemingly begging you to agree. 

In which you did. 

Everything had been going fine. Better than fine, really.

Jason had stayed close all evening, his presence grounding you in the noise and motion of the world around you. You felt safe. Seen. Until he excused himself to use the restroom, brushing your hand gently before walking off.

You nodded, signing quickly:  

“I’ll be okay.”

He gave you a wink and disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes wander. That’s when you saw them—a group of girls, laughing too loudly, eyes trailing after Jason like moths to flame. You felt it then. That twist in your stomach. Insecurity. Jealousy. A quiet ache that curled into your chest.

You looked away, trying to shake it off.

Then—without warning—a man stepped into your space. Too close. His smile was wrong. His eyes were wrong.

“Hey there,” he said, voice slick. “You’re alone, huh? Come with me. I’ll show you a better time.”

You shook your head–his words too quick for you to read, backing up. You signed firmly:  

“No.”

But he didn’t understand—or didn’t care. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. You tried to pull away, panic rising.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, tugging harder. “I said come on.”

Before you could react, he was shoved back—hard.

Jason.

His eyes were blazing, jaw clenched tight. “Get your hands off her,” he growled, stepping between you and the man.

The man stumbled, then sneered. “What’s your problem, dude?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. His fists were clenched, his body tense. “You don’t touch her. You don’t talk to her like that.”

You stepped forward, signing rapidly, urgently:  

“Jason! Tell him to look at me. Tell him to talk to me!”

But Jason didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on the man.

“Y/N, just—” he snapped, voice sharp. “I got this, okay?”

You froze. His tone stung. You weren’t asking for protection. You were asking for respect.

The man scoffed. “Figures. You’re babysitting a mute girl. What, she can’t even speak for herself?”

Jason’s face changed.

Something in him snapped.

He lunged.

“Jason, no!” you tried to sign, but it was too late.

Jason tackled the man, fists flying. The crowd gasped, people shouting, but all you could hear was the thud of fists and the roar of your own pulse.

You just stood there frozen at the chaos in front of you. Jason didn't see you until someone shouted for him to calm down–the man so smug, now beaten black and blue and can barely open his eyes and walk. 

When jason turned his head at you, you were looking at him with—

Disgust? Anger? Regret?... 

“You didn’t see me,” you signed.  

“You didn’t hear me.”

Jason stepped closer, guilt flooding his face. “I—I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t need saving,” you signed, slowly.  

“I needed you to listen.”

Your frown deepened at this and you turned your heels swiftly while you cradle your shoulders.

At the corner of your eyes you saw Jason's shadow following yours hurriedly. 

Before he could reach out to you, you turned around at him and signed

“dont–don't follow me jason.”

His eyes pulled into a sad frown and signed back to you saying— “y/n please. I was just–I.. I lost control. I'm sorry, I was just trying to protect you.”

But that only made you angrier. 

“protect me? Or you just pity me?”

Jason gasped quietly at this and quickly signed “no! Y/n, there's nothing you could have done at that situation–I handled it.”

You mockingly smiled and rolled your eyes at this and signed firmly– “oh I get it. Your doing this because it makes you feel better. It feels good to help the helpless huh?”

Jasons eyes widened at your words. His heart breaking bits into smaller bits by every word you threw at him. 

“What?.. Is that what you think I'm doing? That all the time we spend together–all the things I did for you.. Was just because of that?” Jason said with hurt in his face–his signs and gestures turning messy. 

You–stayed firm and answered simply but cruelly 

“yes.”

Jason’s lips twitched into a frown. His voice cracked as he spoke, and his hands trembled as he signed—his fingers faltering mid-gesture, almost as if the tremor mirrored the shatter in his voice. His shoulders hunched inwards, barely able to contain the weight of what hung between you.

“So after all that…?” His hands stumbled on the signs before finding their rhythm. “I was the only one who thought we loved each other? That this—us—was leading somewhere?”

His eyes stung, glossing with tears. The whites were tinged red, and his irises, dark and glassy, seemed to drown in unshed emotion. His lips trembled with every word, but more telling were the subtle flinches in his face, the stiffness in his posture. Through both voice and motion, he embodied everything: confusion, betrayal, grief, ache. You could see your reflection in his eyes—and it looked just as broken.

You scrunched your nose, your lips curling into a bitter frown. Your lashes fluttering, disbelief painted across the features of your face. 

“Why do you love me?” Your hands moved decisively, sharply. “It's because you’re down. ” You kept singing, your movements deliberate, angry, even as your face stayed composed. “And I’m the only one still here. ”

Your jaw clenched. The stiffness in your wrists told him what your face didn’t. “And you need someone to cling to.” Your signs became colder, sharper—the fingers more pointed, the spaces more calculated. Almost as if conveying that if you were to speak right now–verbally speak–you would remain as the movement of your hands had shown. Firm and angry. Blunt but afraid. The air was thick with unspoken pain, and every gesture sliced through it like a blade.

Jason’s breath hitched. He flinched—not from your words, but from the way your signs struck him silent. His brows knit tightly, his entire face folding inward with a pitiful desperation. The anger had faded. Hurt took its place. Slowly crushing his heart into pieces. It had hurt so much that he almost felt it physically rather than his figment of imagination from his emotions. 

His shoulders sagged. His trembling lips parted again, but this time he didn’t speak right away. His head tilts softly at you, subtly inching his face closer to yours–but not that close. Almost as if squinting at your expression. like he was making sure he was seeing what he was seeing and not some hallucination. His hands lifted slowly, as if weighed down, before finally forming the signs you’d once memorized like poetry.

“Yes, Y/N…” His voice barely registered, thin and broken behind the sob building in his chest. “I was down when we crossed paths.”

Then he gasped sharply, and his next signs came quickly—his movements frantic and jagged, fingers spelling out desperation as his voice rose.

“Yes, I was sad when I met you.” He choked the words out like he feared you wouldn’t give him time to finish. His signs weren’t elegant now—they were messy, erratic, pulsing with heartbreak.

“But Y/N…” He formed your name slowly, reverently. A breathy whisper followed the sound, like he was praying. His hands moved again—pleading now. Open palms, trembling fingers, shoulders curled forward as if to beg you closer.

“Y/N… I loved you.” His voice cracked. “I love you.” whispering the words like an oath. Like his voice got too tired to say out loud. 

And you saw it all—not just in the way his lips trembled or in the tears running like rivers down his cheeks, but in how his chest heaved with every word, how each sign pleaded louder than his voice ever could.

Jason looked ready to collapse—every muscle tensing as though trying to hold himself together. But you? You were motionless. Unyielding. A statue carved from heartbreak.

People might look at your eyes and think, What a cold woman. But inside, your heart was disintegrating. The walls you’d built with Jason—the late-night conversations, the quiet glances, the shared laughter—had all shattered like glass.

You signed with finality: “Let’s just stop this.”

No tremble. No hesitation. Just a stark, irreversible decision.

Jason’s world stopped. His breath caught mid-inhale, lungs refusing to release. His legs—thick and strong—now felt like toothpicks, unable to support the collapse waiting to happen. His face was a portrait of sorrow, and his heart begged him to kneel, to take back the pain, to undo what had been said. Just to go back. To you. He was barely able to register your words as he suddenly felt like all the air was  sucked out of him when he saw the back of your figure facing him. Slowly drifting away from him. To your fish tank. 

Everything after that had felt distorted. Like it wasn't real. He felt like he jumped through space and time–because, there was no way that in this–or any other life time, he could live without his y/n. Everything had felt so wrong after that. He couldn't eat nor sleep properly–no. Not after getting used to waking up and thinking he wouldn't have to get used to it because.. He had you now. 

Well turns out it was a lie. 

Now everything had no sense at all. Like the universe was playing with him. One moment he had felt like he was finally happy then the next was him getting dumped by his source of joy and life. Wow. Classic humorous universe. Always playing with his feelings. You presence remained absent–your apartment? Empty. 

Everybody had noticed his absence–not physically–but.. Mentally and emotionally. It had felt like whenever they tried to talk to Jason, he was in a whole another dimension, stuck weaving onto multiverses. Even Lian–daughter of his best friend Roy had noticed his.. Absence emotionally. Normally Jason would give her warm and genuine smiles now it had felt so cold, empty, and shallow. Like he was nothing but a shell now. It had even got to the point where his big brother dick–tried to consult him regarding his current situation. It had taken dick 30 minutes of poking and prodding Jason to get him to burst. At first he yelled, very angrily. Then the next, he was sobbing in the loving embrace of his brother. Saying everything about what went wrong in his life the moment you decided to leave it. 

Dick pursed his lips as he stared at the disheveled state his brother was in. He could feel the desperation clawing its place into Jason's veins–the feeling of yearning finding comfort and shelter at the hole you left in his heart–in the shape of your silhouette. Every curve, every shape, carved rightfully with detailed accuracy right in his heart. 

Jason spent his next few days cooped up in his apartment. Sometimes dick pays him a visit from time to time to check in on him. Today must be one of those days as he hears a knock coming from his door. “weird” he thought. Dick usually comes through his window or sometimes just plainly barging in his apartment without a word. 

but jason–nonetheless gets up from his couch to open the door. What's supposed to greet him was his  big brother's face but lo and behold it was you. Standing there..staring at him with widened eyes and a balled up fist, seemingly nervous. 

You stare at each other in a trance as both of you bask at each other's presence. Finally locking eyes after what felt like an eternity. 

Jason tackled the man, fists flying. The crowd gasped, people shouting, but all you could hear was the thud of fists and the roar of your own pulse.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, heart racing. The scene blurred. The violence. The shouting. The helplessness.

It was happening again.

Your body remembered—too much. The trauma. The silence. The feeling of being invisible while chaos erupted around you.

You dropped to your knees, hands trembling, signing over and over:  

“Stop. Stop. Please stop.”

Jason didn’t see you.

Not until someone pulled him off, shouting at him to calm down.

He turned, panting, blood on his knuckles—and saw you.

On the floor.

Shaking.

Silent.

His face fell. “Y/N…”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, tears threatening to spill.

“You didn’t see me,” you signed.  

“You didn’t hear me.”

Jason stepped closer, guilt flooding his face. “I—I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t need saving,” you signed, slowly.  

“I needed you to listen.”

You walked away, your back turned against the man who had grown dear to you. Step by step, drifting farther, you scrunched your nose as tears finally broke free—ones you'd been resisting so stubbornly. It was as if every cell in your body rebelled against the message your hands had delivered. Even your fingers had stiffened, frozen mid-motion, as if silently begging you to stay. But no. You held back. Not yet. Not while you were still in Jason's line of sight.

Your shoulders trembled, and your breath came faster, rising and falling with growing urgency. Then you turned a corner—and that was when you let go. Of the composure. Of the restraint. Of everything keeping you from collapsing into sobs in front of Jason.

Due to a heavy heart–you stayed at your best friends house. 

After that everything had felt like it was all a blur. Like–what happened next didn't exist to you anymore. You struggled with all of it. With everything–honestly. 

Sleeping, eating—simple acts of domestic living had become insurmountable. You couldn’t find the will to do them anymore, not since you’d grown so used to doing it all with Jason. Together. Every moment had been woven with him in it, and now the threads felt loose, frayed.

You had lived too long inside dreams where the two of you could exist without fear, without consequence. You grew selfish in those illusions. Deep down, you knew the truth—that one day, Jason would find someone better. Someone more whole. Someone more deserving of the love he gave so freely. And you? You couldn't change. This version of yourself was the only one you had to offer. 

With lack of sleep, Your eyes were painted dust of black. Everything had felt so eerily wrong. You felt that your mind and heart couldn't fully catch up to the hard–cold reality that you and Jason.. Just didn't exist anymore. There was no you and Jason anymore, there was just you. 

Lately, feeling hollow and untethered, you decided to crash at your mom’s house for a while. You showed up unannounced—hair tied up in a messy knot, wearing a dull, oversized wool sweater and wrinkled sweatpants. A tight-lipped smile tugged at your face, heavy with sarcasm and exhaustion. Your mom greeted you with a tender smile, the kind that seemed to understand everything without asking. She tilts her head–like a mother does when she knows something is wrong. Her eyes softened, crow’s feet deepening around them, traces of time etched gently across her face. She didn’t need words. Her expression spoke what she was—brave, gentle, yet unwavering. A mother.

You bit your lip as your feet carried you toward her, hesitant but swift—trying not to look desperate, though you were unraveling inside. Then, with no more resistance, you stepped into her arms, and the tears came. Silent at first, then flooding freely. She tucked your head into the space where her heartbeat once lulled you to sleep, threading her fingers through your hair as she whispered soft, soothing words only a mother could conjure. Shushing your sobs, she held you close like she was trying to shield you from the world itself. She lifts your head with her hands–cradling your cheeks. Rubbed your back tenderly with a knowing smile as she takes both of you inside the comfort of your home. 

With her soothing words and tender hands holding you close at her embrace, you unravel your inner turmoil and pain. You told her of what happened. You watch as her eyes twitch into a sad frown of every word you say to her. The light lines of her face crumbling into a sad and understanding expression. You sat in silence for a while as her eyes turned into glass. 

Your mother raises her hand slowly, hesitating before she begins to speak. Her fingers move with deliberate intention, shaping the air with trembling signs, echoed by the quiet tone of her voice.

“You didn’t tell him… did you?”

You lower your gaze in shame and nod softly. Her hands reach for your chin, cradling it gently, lifting your face to meet hers. Her palm curls inward, then rests against her chest—a gesture of sincerity.

“I’m sorry.”

You exhale, your eyes flickering with emotion as you try to dismiss her apology. But she holds your hand firmly—her grip and gaze asking you to stay with her in the moment. She continues, her hands moving with delicate resolve, the tremble of her fingers betraying the weight of her regret.

“I’m sorry for what happened when you were a child,” she signs, her voice barely a whisper. “Believe me—I blame myself every single day.”

You frowned as you shook your head, not wanting for her to blame herself. It wasn't anyone's fault. No one knew. 

Her expression softens, though her eyes remain filled with sorrow. Her hands quiver as they form each sign, tears now tracing silent paths down her cheeks.

“If it wasn’t for me… you wouldn’t be suffering now.”

She blinks quickly, trying to compose herself, but the emotion is too heavy. Her fingers stumble through the next signs as her voice cracks.

“Your father would’ve been the better listener. He always understood… but I’m all you’ve got.”

She attempts a small laugh through the tears, the corners of her mouth curling up. It’s a tender joke laced with grief. You smile through your own tears, mirroring her bittersweet expression.

Then she pauses. Her hands come together, holding still for a moment as she searches for the right way to say what’s next.

“What I’m trying to say, Y/N,” she signs and speaks in tandem, “is—you have to be honest with Jason.”

Her smile is soft but firm.

“You don’t have to be the brave one.”

A breath. Then her hand rises again, index finger tracing gently along her jaw before pressing over her heart.

“No one is the brave one. What we do… is be brave together.”

She takes another pause. Her hands flutter slightly as she tries to ground herself again, her expression open and full of love.

“And the only way to be brave together… is to admit when you’re not.”

She looks you in the eyes, her gaze unwavering.

“Baby… you have to tell him. Because I know—deep down—I know you belong together.”

Her hands shape a soft hum, a comforting rhythm as she smiles.

“Okay?”

You blink back more tears and slowly nod, the weight of her words sinking in. Something shifts inside you. At last, you understand what you need to do. Leaning forward, you press a tender kiss to her cheek and wrap your arms around her, feeling her steady heartbeat.

Grateful—for her wisdom, her love, and the way she speaks even when words falter.

So here you are now. In front of Jason's face as you stare at him nervously.

 He looked like a mess. Your eyes turn half lidded as you stare at his state. His cheeks slightly hollow–most likely because he wasn't eating enough. His eyes were blood shot with deep eye bags–he wasn't getting enough sleep. You try your best to stop your hands from cradling his face, fighting hard to resist caressing his cheeks with such tenderness. Instead–you signed “can we talk?”

Sitting down at the–somehow–empty Cafe with suffocating silence you decided to speak first.

 “I'm sorry”

Jason frowns at your words as you catch him subtly scoffing. His tongue rolled to the side of his inner cheek–poking at it before saying– “why are saying sorry?” quiet disbelief lingering at his words. You inhaled sharply at his words. “because I got insecure and mad.. And i-.. Hurt you” your hands stay stilled as you slowly bring them down, not knowing the right words you should say next. 

Jason's frown lessened at your words. He raised his hands to speak back. “it's true.. That I was sad when I met you.” he spoke as he faltered ever so slightly. He inhaled as he spoke “but that doesn't mean that my love for you isn't true.. It's genuine.” Jason felt his lips tremble into a frown from what he was about to say. 

“You don't need to say sorry if.. You don't feel the same way.”

Your frown deepened at his words as you solemnly moved your hands–slow and delicate, different from the last time you saw each other. This time, you moved with empathy and understanding. 

“no.. the truth is I do love you.” you admitted quietly. Slowly unveiling the broken pieces of yourself that you have tried so hard to shield from Jason.

“even if I don't know if it's right to love you.” you see jason tilt his head and shake it as he disagrees with you in silence. 

You felt the sting in your eyes–tears gathering at the edge of your tear ducts. But this time, you let them free. You let Jason see you vulnerable, as he did with you. “I just got scared.. All my fears happened that night” you felt the tears pouring down your face as your lips trembled helplessly. You opened your heart to Jason as he listened with the same state as you. Panic rising beneath Jason's heart as he saw tears from your eyes. Each tear that pours is equal to a needle piercing through his heart. 

“I was selfish with you” you continued “I guarded my heart when you willingly let me enter yours.” Your nose scrunched as more tears began forming in your eyes. Your unsaid feelings–the expressions in your face you hadn't given Jason the pleasure of seeing has unraveled before his eyes now. “You told me your stories while I kept mine.” Jason heard a quiet whimper escape your mouth as your teeth clashes with your lips. He almost went to his knees to beg you not to cry because of him anymore. But he let you speak, as you needed to do so. 

You inhaled as you moved your hands–speaking. Saying “I.. I haven't really told you how I got deaf” Jason quirked his eyebrows at your words, he watched–anticipation radiating emitting from him as he watched you peel off the pieces of cloth you have wrapped so tightly around yourself to protect and guard your heart. 

April 27 x years ago

Trapped in a bleak, dim chamber with fury wrapped in flesh,  

A young girl quivers, each breath a fragile whisper.  

The walls echo her cries—terror turned to trembling song—  

Yet silence answers, hollow and cruel.  

Hope hangs absent in the choking air,  

Each breath a thorn, each heartbeat heavy.  

The man’s voice—a thunderous plague—  

Crawls through her veins, clawing at the edges of her soul,  

Tearing skin with every word,  

Till the room itself drowns in his rage.

Until

  The scream tore from the young girl’s throat—a sound raw with pain and devastation. You wailed, each cry echoing through the room like a shattered note of misery. Every raised arm brought more pain. Each blow left behind dark bruises like smeared ink across your delicate skin.

You were just a child when you met the man your mother came to “love” after your father passed away. When they walked through the door, fingers laced, joy written across their faces—you didn’t feel anger. You didn’t scowl or turn away. Not a single bitter taste lingered in your tongue as you watched them fondly. Instead, you smiled. You watched her begin to heal, to stitch herself back together after the emptiness your father’s absence had carved out of her. Seeing her happy gave you peace. Hope. You believed she had found someone safe.

You and your mother didn't see the signs–because there weren't any. 

There were no signs. Not even whispers of warning. He was gentle, attentive. He made breakfast for you, called you by endearing names,treated you so gently–almost as if you were his daughter, treated your mother with care—his fingers grazing her cheek as if afraid she might shatter.

There were no signs.

Until that night.

Thunder rumbled through the skies like a warning. Your mother wasn’t home, and he came stumbling through the door. The bitter stench of alcohol clung to him, heavy and sour. His steps faltered. His face was grim—twisted into an expression you had never seen before.

You offered a timid smile, unsure how to greet this unfamiliar version of the man you thought you knew. But the air thickened, tension curling around your chest like smoke. His gaze darkened, half-lidded and ice cold. His words—passive aggressive, sharp—cut deeper than any knife. He wasn’t the same man. This was someone else. Someone dangerous.

You turned on your heel, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of the moment. But his hand—a rough, calloused snare—grabbed your hair and yanked you backwards. Your back crashed against his chest as his breath rasped in your ear.

“You disrespectful child. Can’t even greet me properly,” he spat.

Then, he locked you in a room. The walls closed in around you as he unleashed his rage, fists flying until your body became a canvas of agony—painted in shades of bruised purple and blue. His fury didn’t stop until there was nothing left but ash. And then… darkness. Your vision blurred. Your mind shut down. And you slipped into unconsciousness.

When your eyes opened again, the world felt wrong. Your eyes flickered as you adjusted to the harsh light. 

Pain bloomed in every limb. You scanned the room—sterile walls, faint beeping—but something was off. Not the hospital itself… the silence.

Complete, unnatural silence.

No hum of machines. No rustle of your blanket. Not even the creak of the door when your mother burst in, eyes wide, panic etched into every line on her face. 

It was strange. You looked at her weirdly–seeing her hurried steps yet not hearing any thud of her feet against the floor was confusing. It was eerily quiet

She rushed to your side with blood shot eyes and trembling fingers, anxious and scared for her child–mouth moving quickly—

But you heard nothing.

Your chest tightened. You gasped, struggling for air, confusion mounting. Your vision wavered. Your mother kept speaking, eyes pleading—but the silence drowned her.

Panicked, you grabbed her shoulders and shook her—hands trembling, desperate. Tears already forming beneath your eyes. 

“Mom… What's going on? Why are you talking like that?” Your own voice sounded hollow in your ears. You weren’t sure it had even come out.

She blinked, confused, her lips forming a shaky, “What…?” Horror crept across her face. You watch as she clenches her jaw–trying so hard to not believe what she was thinking. 

You gasped harshly as you shook her violently each more you spoke with panic “Why won’t you make a sound?! Why is everything so silent?!”

Your cries turned into screams, your grip tightening as you shook her. Tears streamed freely down your battered face—ugly and unrestrained. She didn’t resist. She just stared at you, frozen. Her eyes wide. Swimming in guilt. Panic. Disbelief.

And denial.

Silence wrapped tightly around the room, fragile and unyielding, as you and Jason sat facing each other. He inhaled slowly, his eyes searching yours, threaded with sorrow and hesitance.

“So… that night when—when I…?” he began, his voice trailing off, unable to finish. His hands trembled mid-air, struggling to form the words he couldn’t speak. You gave a soft nod, and his face contorted—blinking back tears that clung desperately to his lashes.

“Baby…” he whispered, his voice cracking as his fingers shifted shakily into ASL. “Baby—I… I would never. I love you.”

The signs were uneven, his hands heavy with emotion, fingers aching to convey what words could not. And your resolve broke.

You sobbed, shoulders shaking, hands rising with difficulty. “I know… I know you won’t,” you signed through trembling fingers, tears painting streaks down your cheeks. “But I was just so afraid.”

Your hands wavered in the air, chest heaving as you struggled to hold your composure.

“My world… it’s so clearly different from yours. I feel like I don’t belong. I’m scared you’ll grow tired of me.”

Jason shook his head immediately, his hands moving quickly and firmly—cutting through your doubt with urgent disagreement. He didn’t want you to believe that. Couldn’t bear it.

You inhaled a shuddered breath, shoulders trembling, hands forming slowly again.

“I’m so jealous of the people around you,” you signed with a small whimper, looking away. “They get to hear you, see you, understand you in ways I can’t.”

Jason’s expression faltered, devastated, but he let you speak—let you unravel your truth.

“When I’m with you…” you hesitated, a sobbed coming from your chest barely audible, hands hovering. “I might as well be blind.”

You paused, breath hitching as tears spilled faster.

“When you speak. When you laugh. When you cry—” you gasped for air. “It hurts. It hurts so deeply… to see and not hear.”

Your hands dropped briefly to your lap, defeated. You needed a moment. Jason watched you, eyes rimmed red, heart in ruins.

Slowly, you lifted your hands again.

“I want to hear you speak. I want to hear you laugh. I want to understand you.”

Your sobs came harder, fingers curling mid-sign, voice cracking under grief. Jason’s tears matched yours, falling silently as he watched you fall apart—and prepared himself to hold you together.

You lowered your gaze, hands clenched tight in your lap—aching. Then, a pair of large, warm hands enveloped yours. Jason.

He leaned in gently, holding your hands as though they were made of glass. His grip was soft, reverent.

He guided your hands toward his ears, resting them there beneath his own. His eyes never left yours. He mouthed the words slowly and signed each one with delicate precision.

“Then I’ll be deaf for you.”

The promise was silent, but sacred. He kissed the back of your hand, lips featherlight against your skin. His hands remained over yours—cradling them like precious stardust.

He gazed at you with awe, like he was witnessing something divine. Like you were celestial—and he was lucky just to orbit you.

You smiled at him as the suffocating air–now gone. Replaced with bitter sweet light air.