☘︎

megumi x reader. AYYY MORE FLUFF. megumi is so quiet that reader thinks they're annoying him.

warnings : none

megumi barely talked, always listened. only held your hand silently. somehow never stopped having a headache when he was near you. it was like he was.. embarrassed of you? or rather, irritated at you?

it was weird. all of your past relationships were with very loud guys who wouldn't shut up and would talk all over you if you let them. but megumi was just.. quiet.

was it you or was it him? you, who was annoying, or him, who just didn't talk much?

you loved him, you really did, but the lack of talking from his side was frustrating. you wanted someone who could just pour out their heart to you. but it was like megumi had walls that you just never got close to breaking.

sitting on the bench, hand in hand as you admired the beautiful sakura trees in front of you (while megumi admired you, cause you're his best view). you opened your mouth to speak, only for the words to die in your throat as you closed your mouth again. but you finally worked up the courage to speak up.

"megumi, do I annoy you?" you asked, a mix of concern and frustration in your voice as you turned your face to look at megumi.

he frantically shook his head. you? annoying? no fucking away. "no, of course not. why would you even think that?"

you gave him a simple shrug as a sigh escaped your mouth. "I don't know, you just.. don't talk much, and it's always like you're slightly irritated at me for something."

megumi looked dumfounded. he never knew you felt that way. "I could never get annoyed at you, darling. I love how much you speak. I could listen to you for decades and never get tired."

that was more than enough reassurance for you, and megumi could tell from the soft smile on your face. it made his heart flutter a little.

he finally pulled you in closer, hugging you and stealing a kiss as you giggled.

pairing: jason todd–red hood/ kain kent- kyrus

Summary: The Batfamily notices Jason has been... different. Less explosive. More on time to patrol. They blame the new vigilante in town, Kyrus—until they learn Kyrus is actually Kain Kent, Superman’s eldest, and he’s got a sharp tongue that matches Jason’s bulletproof one.

(i haven't really decided what universe this would be in, but most likely I think it would be in wayne family adventures)

P.S: hi creator here, this is a whole different one than my other work, (wrench in the work) as this is NOT a part two of it! this is just another fic <3

enjoyy!!

The Gotham rain was a special kind of miserable cold enough to bite, heavy enough to drown in. Jason Todd crouched on a gargoyle overlooking the Bowery, his leather jacket doing fuck-all against the damp. His comm crackled.

“Hood, you’re two minutes late to your checkpoint.” Barbara’s voice was flat, unimpressed.

“Tick-tock, Babs. I was getting a coffee.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Crime never sleeps. Neither should baristas.”

From the fire escape below, a low, familiar laugh drifted up. Jason didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He’d felt the shift in air pressure half a second before the voice came.

“You’re impossible,” Kain Kent said, hoisting himself up onto the gargoyle’s shoulder like it was a park bench. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, middle part almost lost to the rain, the short sides making the sharp lines of his face even more severe. A single dark mole sat under his left eye like an afterthought of charm. “You told me you were wrapping up an hour ago.”

Jason finally looked at him. Kain was wearing his usual—dark blue tactical suit, no cape (he’d laughed at capes once, called them “flying trip hazards”), the symbol on his chest a silver eclipse split by a single sharp line. Kyrus. The name the underworld had started whispering. The vigilante who moved like a ghost and hit like a meteor.

“Plans change,” Jason said.

“You mean you wanted to brood in the rain instead of coming home to bed.”

“Home” meant Jason’s latest safehouse. The one with the heated blanket and the stack of dog-eared paperbacks. The one Kain had started leaving his boots by the door.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You’re not my keeper, Kent.”

Kain’s blue eyes. the kind of blue that should’ve been warm but usually ran cold as Lois Lane’s best glare softened just a fraction. “No. I’m your boyfriend. Which means I get to call you on your bullshit.”

Before Jason could snarl something back, a scream ripped through the alley below. Old habits: Jason moved first, grapple in hand, but Kain was already gone—just a faint whoosh of displaced air and the distant crack of someone’s jaw meeting a half-Kryptonian fist.

By the time Jason landed in the alley, three muggers were unconscious, and Kain was wiping a smear of blood off his knuckles. He didn’t have a scratch.

“Learned from the best.” Kain’s smirk was razor-thin. “My dad punches hard. My mom punches mean. I just combined them.”

“Show-off,” Jason muttered.

Later—much later, after patrol, after Jason patched up a graze on his arm that Kain could’ve healed in three seconds but didn’t because Jason hated feeling fragile—they sat on the roof of Jason’s safehouse. The rain had stopped. Gotham glittered like a half-drowned jewel.

“Tim’s been running facial rec on you,” Jason said, passing Kain a beer he didn’t need but appreciated anyway.

Kain snorted. “Let him. He’ll hit the same wall the League did. My face isn’t in any database. Mom pulled strings.”

“Paranoid.”

“Practical.” Kain tilted his head, raindrops sliding down his temple. “You haven’t told them about us.”

It wasn’t a question.

Jason stared at the skyline. “It’s none of their business.”

“Jason.” Kain’s voice lost its usual sardonic edge. It went quiet. Soft in a way only Jason ever got to hear. “You flinch every time Dick mentions ‘that new Kryptonian guy.’ You changed patrol routes so you wouldn’t cross paths with Babs when she’s with Steph because you’re bad at lying. You’re a terrible secret-keeper for someone raised by the world’s greatest detective.”

“Bruce isn’t—“

“He’s already figured it out. He’s just waiting for you to say it.”

Jason set his beer down. Turned to face Kain fully. The light from the street below caught the mole under Kain’s eye, the sharp architecture of his cheekbones, the way his mouth curved like it was permanently two seconds from a cutting remark.

“You’re a lot,” Jason said quietly.

Kain raised an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

“Not a compliment.”

“With you? Always is.”

Jason laughed—a real one, rusty and surprised. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated. We match.”

“Tomorrow,” Jason said. “Dinner. The manor. I’ll tell them.”

Kain blinked. “You’re serious.”

“You were right. Bruce knows. And Alfred’s been making your favorite pie for three weeks hoping you’d come in out of the cold.”

“Alfred knows?!”

“Alfred knows everything.” Jason stood, pulling Kain up with him. “Besides. If I’m gonna be a Wayne-adjacent disaster with a half-alien boyfriend, I want Kon to see the look on his face when he finds out you’re dating his brother’s sort-of-kind-of-not-really murderous adopted rival.”

Kain groaned. “Jon’s going to be insufferable.”

“Your little brother adores me.”

“Jon adores everyone. It’s his whole thing.”

They went inside. The safehouse was small, cluttered with books and ammo boxes and one of Kain’s hoodies draped over the back of the couch. Kain kicked off his boots. Jason locked the door.

Outside, Gotham rumbled on—sirens, shouts, the distant wail of a police cruiser. “you’re an idiot"

And tomorrow, he’d watch Tim choke on his coffee, Dick cry, Damian scowl, and Bruce do that tiny almost-smile he pretended not to have.

part two: Dinner and other controlled explosions.

The Batfamily dining table had seen a lot. Alien invasions. Midnight strategy meetings. Tim Drake falling asleep face-first into his cereal. But tonight? Tonight was something new.

Jason Todd was nervous.

Not the jittery, trigger-finger kind—the quiet, jaw-clenched, staring-at-his-own-hands kind. He’d showed up to the manor fifteen minutes early. Fifteen minutes. Dick had checked the windows for signs of mind control.

“He’s not brainwashed,” Tim said, not looking up from his laptop. “He’s just… wearing a clean shirt.”

“It’s unsettling,” Damian muttered.

Stephanie grinned. “Maybe he’s finally telling Bruce he’s dating someone.”

The room went quiet.

Duke set down his water glass very slowly. “Wait. Is that why he asked if we had any of those fancy vegetarian options Alfred makes?”

“Jason Todd,” Cassandra signed, a tiny smile playing on her lips, “is scared.”

“I am not scared,” Jason growled, walking into the dining room early—because of course he had perfect dramatic timing. “I’m… strategically managing expectations.”

From behind him, a new voice drawled, “You literally paced the car for five minutes before knocking.”

Kain Kent stepped into the light.

He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his black hair still damp from the rain. The mole under his left eye was more noticeable indoors, a small dark comma against pale skin. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. But his hand didn’t leave his pockets, and his eyes—that sharp, startling blue—swept the room with quiet assessment.

“Everyone,” Jason said, sounding like he was reciting a eulogy, “this is Kain. My boyfriend.”

Silence.

Then Dick made a sound like a deflating balloon. “THE ELDEST SON OF SUPERMAN?!”

“Technically,” Kain said, “I’m the eldest adopted son. Kon and Jon are biologically Clark’s. But yes. That’s the one.”

Tim’s laptop snapped shut. “You’re Kyrus. The vigilante who’s been operating in the Bowery. The one I couldn’t ID.”

“You’re good,” Kain said, and it didn’t sound like flattery. It sounded like acknowledgment. “You almost found my MetU student records. Almost.”

“I knew it,” Tim hissed.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Todd. You are dating the spawn of the alien who—”

“Finish that sentence,” Jason said pleasantly, “and I tell Grayson about the hamster incident.”

Damian went red. Then purple. Then sat down very quietly.

Stephanie ignored all of it, leaning across the table with her chin in her hands. “So. Kain Kent. Lois Lane and Clark Kent’s kid. Reporter genes and Kryptonian genes. That’s terrifying. Are you scary?”

Kain considered her. “My mom taught me how to ask questions that make people cry. My dad taught me how to bench-press a building. You tell me.”

Steph beamed. “I like him.”

Alfred appeared in the doorway like a very polite ghost. “Master Jason. Master Kain. Welcome home. Dinner will be served in ten minutes. Shall I fetch extra bread?”

Kain’s posture shifted—just slightly. Less defensive. Almost warm. “Yes, please, Mr. Pennyworth. And thank you for the pie last week. It was the best I’ve ever had.”

Alfred’s eyes crinkled. “You are most welcome, young man. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the young man who makes Master Jason smile.”

“I don’t smile,” Jason said.

“You did,” Cassandra signed, “when he walked in.”

Jason looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.

Bruce entered last—because he always did, like he was born for dramatic entrances. He was out of the cowl but still wearing his sternest dad expression. He looked at Kain. Kain looked at him.

Neither blinked.

“Mr. Kent,” Bruce said.

“Mr. Wayne,” Kain replied. “Thank you for having me.”

“You’ve been in my city for six months without introducing yourself.”

“You’ve known for five of them without saying anything.”

A beat.

Then Bruce’s mouth twitched—the tiniest, most microscopic almost-smile. “Alfred likes you. That’s a better endorsement than any background check.”

“I know,” Kain said. “He already sent me home with leftovers last week.”

“He what.”

Dinner was loud.

Not in the Batfamily way—no shouting, no thrown utensils. Just the comfortable chaos of too many people talking at once. Dick asked Kain about Metropolis (“Do you ever miss it?” “Sometimes. But Gotham has better coffee and worse villains, which is exactly Jason’s brand.”). Tim grilled him about his patrol routes (“You’re avoiding the Diamond District on purpose.” “The Diamond District has seventeen cameras per block. I’m not stupid.”). Duke asked about his powers (“Can you actually hear my heartbeat?” “No. And please don’t test that.”).

Damian, still nursing his wounded pride, stabbed a brussels sprout. “You trained with the League of Assassins?”

“I trained with my mother,” Kain corrected. “She learned from the League. I learned from her. There’s a difference.”

“Which is?”

“She didn’t let anyone throw me off a mountain.”

Jason snorted into his water glass.

Stephanie grinned. “So what’s your deal? You’re half-Kryptonian but you don’t wear a cape. You’re Lois Lane’s son but you punch people at night. You’re funny but you look like you want to commit a crime.”

Kain set down his fork. “My deal,” he said slowly, “is that I grew up watching my dad save the world and my mom save it with words. I wanted to do both. So I help people. Quietly. Without press or parades or Capes with a capital C.” He glanced at Jason. “And I met someone who doesn’t need me to be a hero. Just needs me to be real.”

The table went quiet.

Jason’s ears were red. He didn’t look up from his mashed potatoes.

“Oh my god,” Tim whispered. “You’re romantic.”

“Say that again and I tell Kon about your embarrassing fan edits.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I have screenshots.”

After dinner, while Alfred served apple crisp and coffee, Kain found himself on the back porch with Bruce. The manor gardens stretched out in the dark, wet and green and impossibly peaceful for a place owned by Batman.

“You don’t trust me,” Kain said. Not accusatory. Just fact.

Bruce leaned against the railing. “I don’t trust anyone my children bring home.”

“Fair.”

“Jason has been hurt by people who claimed to care about him. He acts like he’s fine. He’s not fine.”

Kain’s jaw tightened. That one landed. “I know.”

“If you hurt him—”

“You’ll find a way. I know.” Kain turned to face Bruce fully. Moonlight caught the mole under his eye, the sharp lines of his face. “I’m not here because he’s a project. I’m not here because he’s a Wayne or a Red Hood or a redemption arc. I’m here because when he laughs—really laughs, not the mean one—it sounds like my mother’s typing when she’s just broken a story wide open. Like something important is being made.”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “Your mother taught you well.”

“She taught me people aren’t projects,” Kain said. “They’re stories. And Jason’s is worth staying for.”

Inside, Jason watched them through the window, heart in his throat.

Stephanie appeared at his elbow. “He’s holding his own.”

“He’s a Kent,” Jason said softly. “They’re stubborn.”

“Like someone else I know.”

Jason didn’t answer. But when Kain came back inside—shoes wet from the grass, blue eyes finding Jason’s across the room—he didn’t move to touch him. Didn’t need to.

He just nodded.

Kain nodded back.

And the Batfamily, loud and ridiculous and theirs, kept eating apple crisp like this was the most normal thing in the world.

A Red Hood: Outlaws Story

Part One: The Feral Raccoon

The warehouse district of Star City smelled like low tide, rust, and bad decisions.

Roy Harper had made more than a few of those in his time. But tonight, he was sure he wasn't the one making them. The man currently trying to cave in his skull with a pipe wrench? He was the bad decision.

Roy rolled sideways, the wrench sparking off the concrete where his head had been. He came up firing—not lethal, just a sonic arrow to the chest. The blast should have sent a normal guy flying.

The man in the black helmet didn't fly.

He staggered back half a step, the sleek helmet's LED visor flickering from a grin—:D—to something closer to annoyance—>:(

"Not bad," the man said, voice distorted through the skeletal jaw grille. "Not good, either."

"You're a chatty one," Roy quipped, nocking another arrow. "Gotham's that way, chrome-dome. Go bother someone who cares."

The man tilted his head. The visor shifted to :/, unimpressed. Then he moved.

Half-Kryptonian meant half the powers, but double the attitude. Roy had learned that the hard way when the man backhanded him through a stack of pallets. He didn't have Superman's hearing—thank God, or he'd have heard Roy's colorful vocabulary from three blocks away—but he had the speed. The strength.

The heavy leather jacket, studded with silver spikes along the collar and shoulders, caught the sodium lights as the vigilante strode forward. Chains jingled. The wrench in his gloved hand spun like a baton.

"You're not half-bad with that bow," he said. The visor flashed :). "Pity."

He lunged.

Roy dropped a smoke arrow at his feet and backflipped onto a cargo container. "Jay, any time now!"

From the shadows above, a familiar growl answered.

"Stop having fun and start shooting."

Red Hood dropped between them like a hammer.

Jason Todd landed hard, coat flaring, twin pistols already drawn. He didn't fire. Instead, he straightened slowly, the red bat emblazoned on his chest catching the light, and sized up the unknown vigilante with the kind of disdain he usually reserved for rich assholes and clown-themed psychopaths.

"Nice helmet," Jason said flatly. Visor flickered to >:(. "Too bad it's ugly."

The man laughed—a grinding sound through the jaw grille. "You must be the leader. The one with the 'no killing' rule he keeps breaking."

"I have a 'no idiots' rule," Jason corrected, cracking his neck. "You're about to make me break it."

Roy dropped down beside him, arrow trained on the stranger's chest. "Half-Kryptonian. No enhanced hearing, but he's got everything else. Strength, speed, durability. And a wrench fixation."

Jason's helmet turned slightly. "A wrench."

"It's a look, Jay."

The man twirled the wrench once. :D. "You two done?"

"Yeah." Jason raised a pistol. "We're done."

He fired. The man caught the bullet.

Not deflected—caught. The round flattened against his reinforced glove, and he dropped it with a metallic ping.

"That all you got, Red?"

Jason holstered the pistol. Roy saw the shift in his shoulders—that particular tension that meant things were about to get ugly. The Red Hood way.

"No," Jason said softly. "That was me being polite."

He stepped forward. The wrench swung.

Jason caught it.

Roy felt his eyebrows climb. Even half-Kryptonian strength, and Jason just... stopped it. The armored gauntlets under his jacket sleeves were smoking slightly from the friction.

"You hit my guy," Jason said, low and cold. "You talked trash. Now you're gonna learn why I don't need powers to clean up this city."

The man tried to pull the wrench back. It didn't move.

Visor flickered nervously. :/. :0.

"Roy," Jason said. "Shoot him."

Roy grinned. "With pleasure."

The taser arrow hit the man square in the chest. Half-Kryptonian or not, fifty thousand volts made him drop.

He hit the ground hard, twitching. The visor cycled through glitchy, broken emotes—XD, :^, :')—before finally going dark.

Jason released the wrench. It clattered to the concrete.

"Not bad," Roy said, nudging the unconscious vigilante with his boot. "For a guy with a punk-rock fashion disaster and a tool fetish."

"He fought dirty," Jason said.

"Naturally."

"Nah." Jason crouched, pulling off the man's helmet with a grunt. Underneath was a sharp, angular face—young, early twenties, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Jason studied him for a long moment. "He fought angry. There's a difference."

Roy's smile faded. "You think he's got a story?"

"Everyone's got a story, Roy." Jason tossed the helmet to him. "Let's get him somewhere quiet. I want to know why a half-Kryptonian is playing street-level kingpin with a wrench and an emoji mask."

Roy caught it. The visor flickered weakly—:)—before dying again.

"Creepy," Roy muttered. "But kinda cute. Like a cyberpunk chihuahua with anger issues."

Jason was already walking. "You're carrying him."

"What? Why me?"

"Because I caught the wrench."

Roy looked down at the unconscious, heavily armored, half-alien body. Then at Jason's retreating back.

"...Fair."

He slung the kid over his shoulder and followed Jason into the dark.

part two: the carving.

Roy had made it three blocks.

Three blocks of lugging a half-Kryptonian punk-rock brick wall over his shoulder, chains jingling with every step, the unconscious weight pressing his spine into an early grave.

"You know," Roy grunted, readjusting his grip, "for a guy with an emoji helmet, he's heavy."

Jason didn't answer. He was walking point, scanning rooftops, shoulders tight. The silence meant he was thinking. Jason thinking was usually worse than Jason shouting.

Three more steps.

Then the vigilante woke up.

Roy felt it first—a twitch, then a full-body flex of muscle that shouldn't have been possible after fifty thousand volts. The half-Kryptonian twisted like a feral cat, boots slamming into Roy's chest plate hard enough to crack composite polymer.

Roy went down. "Son of a—"

The man landed in a crouch, breathing hard. His helmet was off—Jason had tossed it aside—and for the first time, Roy got a clear look at his face.

Jesus.

The kid was young. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, sharp jaw, and a face that looked like it had been through a war. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks and brow—old ones, white and raised. But the worst was on his left cheek.

A carving.

Not a scar from battle. A carving. Letters pressed into his skin like someone had taken a knife and written a question they expected him to answer.

? —Riddler's mark.

Roy's blood went cold. "Jay."

Jason had already seen it. His helmet was locked on the kid's face, body still as stone. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

"Riddler do that to you?"

The kid said nothing. He reached up, tore the chains from his neck, and then ripped his own helmet off the ground—the one Roy had been carrying. For a second, Roy thought he was going to put it back on.

Instead, he threw it.

Over the roof edge. Into the dark. It clattered down four stories and splashed into the bay.

"No," Roy yelped. "I was gonna sell that!"

The kid pulled something from his jacket—a plain black face mask, the kind you could buy at any corner store. He tugged it up over his nose and mouth, hiding the skeletal jaw aesthetic, hiding the Riddler's mark. Only his eyes remained visible.

And those eyes were feral.

"I don't need the helmet to beat your asses," he said, voice muffled through the cloth. He dropped into a fighting stance, wrench in hand. "You want to take me in? Earn it."

Jason removed his gloves. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You know what I see?" Jason said, stepping forward. "I see a kid who got carved up by a narcissist in a green suit and decided the best way to deal with that was to dress like a Hot Topic clearance rack and hit people with a wrench."

The kid lunged.

The fight was nasty.

Jason met him head-on—no guns, no gadgets. Just fists and fury. The kid was faster than a human had any right to be, even half-Kryptonian. He moved like something that had been in a hundred alleyway brawls and learned to like the taste of blood.

But Jason Todd had died in an alleyway. He'd been beaten to a pulp by a clown with a crowbar. He'd clawed his way out of his own grave.

He did not lose fistfights.

Jason caught the wrench swing, twisted, and drove an elbow into the kid's ribs. The half-Kryptonian grunted but didn't go down—he bit Jason's armored shoulder, more animal than man, and kneed him in the gut.

"Feral," Roy muttered, circling with the bow. "Like a goddamn raccoon."

The kid ripped free of Jason's grip, leaving scratches on the helmet. His face mask had slipped—Roy caught another glimpse of that carved cheek, the letters raised and pink. He didn't fix it. He just snarled.

"You don't know me," the kid spat. "You don't know what I've been through."

"Try me," Jason said. His voice hadn't raised. That was the scariest part. "I died before I was old enough to drink. Came back wrong. Killed a lot of people. Still not sleeping great. What's your excuse?"

The kid hesitated.

It was barely a second. But a second was all Roy needed.

He drew the arrow—not his usual taser. The shaft was black, the tip a sickly green that glowed faintly in the dark. Kryptonite.

Roy fired.

The arrow buried itself in the concrete an inch from the kid's boot. Not lethal. A warning.

But the proximity alone was enough.

The kid hissed.

It wasn't a human sound. It was something raw and alien, a vocal fry that made the hair on Roy's arms stand up. He stumbled back, clutching his chest, eyes wide and burning with fear he couldn't hide.

"You wouldn't," he whispered.

"I wouldn't have to," Roy said, keeping the bow trained. "If you'd just talk to us."

The kid's gaze snapped between them—Roy with the glowing arrow, Jason with his cracked knuckles and unreadable red mask. His breath came fast, shallow. He looked like a cornered animal.

Not a vigilante.

A victim who'd learned to bite first.

"My name is Kain," he said finally, through gritted teeth. The mask had slipped completely now. The scars were visible. The Riddler's mark. All of it. "Not that it matters."

Jason took a single step closer. Not aggressive. Careful.

"Kain," Jason said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You literally just tried to break my arm."

"You bit me."

"You deserved it."

A beat of silence.

Then Jason did something Roy had only seen a handful of times. He reached up and pulled off his own helmet.

Jason Todd's face was pale, tired, and scattered with old scars. A white streak in his hair. The kind of eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little. He looked at Kain like he was seeing a mirror.

"Riddler carved you," Jason said. It wasn't a question. "He likes leaving his mark on things he thinks are questions worth answering. You escaped. Now you're out here breaking kneecaps because you don't know what else to do with the anger."

Kain's jaw tightened. His hands shook.

"What's your point?"

Jason holstered his pistol. Took another step.

"My point," he said quietly, "is that I've got room on my team for angry strays with bad attitudes."

Roy lowered the bow. "Wait, seriously?"

"Shut up, Roy."

Kain stared at Jason. The feral edge hadn't left his eyes, but something else flickered there now. Something smaller. More fragile.

"You don't know me," Kain said again, weaker this time.

"No," Jason agreed. "But I know what it's like to wear scars someone else gave you. And I know you don't have to carry that alone."

The night was cold. The bay lapped at the pilings below.

Kain looked at Jason's offered hand.

Then he turned and vaulted over the edge of the roof.

"God damn it," Roy shouted, running to the side.

But Kain hadn't fallen. He'd landed on a lower fire escape, already moving, already gone—a shadow among shadows.

Jason walked to the edge, helmet in hand, and watched him disappear.

"You gonna go after him?" Roy asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

Jason stared into the dark for a long moment. Then he pulled his helmet back on, the red lenses glowing in the night.

"Because he'll be back," Jason said. "They always come back. And next time, I won't give him a choice."

Roy sighed, slinging his bow. "You're a terrible foster parent."

"I'm not a foster parent."

"You literally just tried to adopt a feral raccoon boy."

"He's half-Kryptonian."

"So is Supergirl, and you don't see her biting people."

Jason started walking. "Give it time."

Part Three: The Boiler Room

Kain's secret base wasn't much. An old boiler room in a textile mill that had been condemned since the 80s. Leaking pipes. A single cot in the corner. A workbench covered in half-repaired gadgets and stolen tools.

It was home.

He crashed through the rusted door and slammed it shut behind him, sliding the bolt with shaking hands. His chest burned. The kryptonite arrow hadn't even touched him—just the proximity—and it felt like someone had poured acid into his veins.

His ears rang. A high, constant whine that made his teeth ache.

He stumbled to the center of the room and punched the wall.

Brick crumbled. Dust exploded. His knuckles split—human pain, the kind that felt almost good compared to the kryptonite agony.

He punched again. And again. Four walls. Four corners. Each hit sent fractures spiderwebbing through the masonry.

The fourth punch broke through to the other side. Cold air rushed in. Kain pulled his fist back, knuckles shredded, and leaned his forehead against the cold brick.

He didn't cry.

Kal-El's son didn't cry.

Except he wasn't Kal-El's son anymore, was he?

Six Years Ago. Universe-332.

Kain had been seventeen years old, and the sky had been screaming.

He remembered his father's hand on his shoulder—his real father, the one with the cape and the jawline and the endless, exhausting hope. Superman had looked him in the eye and said the words Kain would replay every night for the rest of his life:

"Get to the breach. I'll hold them off."

Kain had argued. Of course he had. He was seventeen and half-Kryptonian and stupid with the need to prove himself.

"I can fight—"

"You can live."

Superman had smiled. That stupid, perfect, heroic smile. And then he'd turned and flown into the horde of shadow-things that were eating their universe from the inside out.

Kain had run.

He'd run through the breach, dragging a civilian in each arm, and watched over his shoulder as his father's red cape dissolved into static. The breach snapped shut behind him.

Universe-332 was gone. Everyone he'd ever known. His father. His mother. The Titans of that world. The pizza place on 5th and Main.

All of it.

Kain had landed in this universe—Universe-Prime, or whatever they called it—covered in ash and screaming for a father who didn't exist here.

Five Years Ago. Metropolis.

He'd found Superman.

It had taken months. Kain had been hungry, scared, and running on fumes. But he'd tracked the signal, followed the sound of a man who sounded like his dad but wasn't quite right.

When he'd finally caught up—hovering outside the Daily Planet, catching a helicopter one-handed—Kain had landed on that same rooftop and shouted:

"Dad!"

Superman had turned. Blue eyes. Dark hair. The same face.

But the eyes had been wrong. Softer. Less burdened. This Superman had never watched his universe die. He'd never had to choose between saving his son and saving everyone else.

"Who are you?" Superman had asked, genuinely confused.

And Kain had told him. Everything. The breach. Universe-332. The shadow-things. His father's sacrifice.

When he finished, Superman had been quiet for a long time.

Then he'd said: "I'm sorry for your loss. But I'm not your father. I can't... I can't take you in. I have a family. A son."

Jonathan Kent. Kain had looked him up later. A kid with no powers, or almost none. The son this Superman had chosen to have.

Kain had nodded. Swallowed the scream building in his chest. And said, louder than he meant: "Fine. I'll prove myself. I'll be worth your time."

Superman had opened his mouth—to say that's not what I meant, probably—but Kain was already gone.

Four Years Ago. Star City.

Proving himself had meant picking fights he couldn't win.

Kain had heard about Green Arrow. A vigilante with a bow, no powers, who fought alongside the Justice League through sheer stubbornness and trick arrows. If he could be a hero, Kain could do it better.

He'd tracked a weapons deal to the docks. Intervened. Threw a few punches.

And then Green Arrow had shown up.

Kain remembered the argument. Him trying to explain—"I'm Superman's son, I'm here to help"—and Oliver Queen not listening because some other half-Kryptonian villain had just torn up a bank downtown.

The arrow had hit him in the chest.

Kryptonite-tipped. Directly over his heart.

Kain had fallen into the bay, the green poison spreading through his veins like wildfire. He'd heard Green Arrow shout something—surprise, maybe regret—but the water had already closed over his head.

He should have died.

Instead, he'd crawled out three miles downstream, the arrow still lodged in his chest, and pulled it out himself. The wound had taken six weeks to heal. The scar was still there—a cratered, ugly thing over his left pectoral.

That was the first time someone had shot him.

It wasn't the last.

Three years ago: Gotham city.

The Riddler had found him in an alley.

Kain had been eighteen by then. Homeless, exhausted, and running a fever from a wound that wouldn't heal right. He'd been stupid—slept in the open, too tired to find shelter.

Edward Nashton had crouched beside him, green bowler hat casting a long shadow.

"A half-Kryptonian," Riddler had murmured, almost reverent. "A riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a red cape that doesn't fit. What are you hiding, little alien?"

Kain had tried to fight.

He'd lasted thirty seconds before the green gas—Scarecrow's toxin mixed with kryptonite dust—had dropped him.

The experiments had lasted eight months.

Riddler wanted to know how Kryptonians worked. How much pain they could take. What happened when you carved letters into their faces—did they heal faster? Did the scars fade? What is the secret to your strength, little Kryptonian?

The ? on Kain's cheek was the only mark left that hadn't healed.

Riddler had carved it while laughing. "A question mark for a creature who doesn't have any answers. Poetic, don't you think?"

Kain had escaped during a prison transfer. Killed three guards. Ran until his lungs bled.

He never told anyone about the experiments. Never told anyone about Riddler's other questions. The ones that had nothing to do with Kryptonian biology and everything to do with breaking a seventeen-year-old boy who had already lost everything.

Present. The boiler room.

Kain slid down the wall, back scraping against crumbling brick, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

The ringing in his ears hadn't stopped.

The kryptonite burn in his chest hadn't faded.

And he couldn't stop seeing them—Red Hood's helmet coming off. That pale, scarred face. The way Jason Todd had looked at him like he understood.

"I know what it's like to wear scars someone else gave you."

Kain laughed. It was an ugly sound, half-sob, half-snarl.

"You don't know anything," he whispered to the empty room.

But the words felt hollow.

Because Jason Todd had died. Jason Todd had been tortured. Jason Todd had come back wrong and bloody and furious.

And Jason Todd had still offered him a hand.

Kain looked at his own hands. Bruised knuckles. Split skin. Shaking.

He thought about Superman's face—both versions. The one who'd died for him, and the one who'd turned him away.

He thought about Green Arrow's arrow, punching through his chest like he was nothing.

He thought about Riddler's knife, carving questions into his face while he screamed.

And then he thought about Red Hood, standing on that rooftop, helmet off, saying: "You don't have to carry that alone."

Kain pressed his forehead to his knees.

"I don't need anyone," he said.

The boiler room didn't answer.

Outside, Gotham's ever-present rain began to fall.

Part four: the shipyard.

Two days later.

Roy heard the screaming first.

Not the screaming of victims—he was used to that. This was the screaming of attackers. Deep, guttural, afraid. The kind of sounds tough guys made when they realized they'd picked the wrong fight.

He and Jason had been tracking a weapons shipment. Sixty-eight armed men moving product for Black Mask. Standard Tuesday.

Except someone had gotten there first.

Roy crested the shipping container and froze.

"Holy shit."

Below, in the flooded courtyard of the shipyard, bodies littered the ground like fallen dominoes. Men in tactical gear moaned, crawled, or lay completely still. Weapons were scattered everywhere—assault rifles, knives, a rocket launcher that had been bent in half.

And in the center of it all, Kain was not okay.

The half-Kryptonian moved like something possessed. His face mask was gone—Roy could see the scars, the Riddler's mark, the wild eyes. His jacket hung in shreds. Blood ran down his arms, most of it not his own.

He had the crew captain pinned against a shipping container.

And he was kicking him.

Over and over and over.

Not tactical. Not controlled. Just pure, animalistic rage. His boots connected with the man's ribs, his chest, his face. The captain stopped screaming two kicks ago. Now he just made wet, gurgling sounds.

"Kain!" Roy shouted.

No response. Kain kept kicking. His breathing came in ragged, irregular gasps. His eyes had a green tint—not kryptonite green, but the aftermath of it. Like the poison was still in his system, burning through his veins, turning every emotion into violence.

Jason appeared beside Roy, silent as always. Even through his helmet, Roy could feel him watching.

"He's losing it," Roy said.

"No shit."

"Jay—"

"I see it."

Kain drew his leg back for another kick. His boot connected with the captain's hip—a wet crack that made even Roy flinch.

Sixty-eight men. Alone. This kid had taken down sixty-eight armed men alone.

And he wasn't stopping.

Jason moved.

He didn't run—he dropped, landing in the courtyard with a heavy thud that made Kain's head snap up. The half-Kryptonian froze mid-kick, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild and wrong.

"Red Hood," Kain snarled. His voice was wrecked—hoarse from screaming, maybe, or crying, or both. "Back off."

"Not happening." Jason stepped forward, hands visible at his sides. No weapons drawn. "You're done. Walk away."

"I said back off!"

Kain spun and kicked the captain one more time—hard—sending the unconscious body skidding across the wet concrete. Then he turned on Jason, fists clenched, posture coiled like a spring.

Roy dropped down behind him, bow up but not drawn. "Kain. Kid. Look at me."

Kain's head whipped around. The green tint in his eyes caught the light.

"The kryptonite," Roy said slowly. "It's still in your system, isn't it? From earlier. It's making you angry. Making you more angry than you should be."

"I'm fine."

"You just beat up sixty-eight people and tried to kick a man to death."

"He deserved it."

"Maybe." Jason's voice was low, measured. "But that's not why you did it. You did it because the poison's burning through you and you don't know how to make it stop."

Kain's breath hitched.

For a second—just a second—the feral mask slipped. Roy saw the kid underneath. The seventeen-year-old who'd watched his universe die. The boy who'd been shot and carved and abandoned.

Then the mask slammed back into place.

"Stay away from me," Kain whispered.

Jason took another step.

"I said—"

"I heard what you said." Jason kept moving, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to touch. "You want to hit me? Hit me. You want to scream? Scream. But I'm not leaving."

Kain's fists trembled.

"I'm not your father," Jason continued, voice softening just slightly. "I'm not gonna save you. I'm not gonna pretend everything's okay. But I'm not gonna let you tear yourself apart because some green rock made you forget who you are."

"I know who I am." Kain's voice cracked. "I'm nobody's son. Nobody's hero. I'm just—I'm just angry."

"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Me too."

A long, terrible silence.

Kain's hands unclenched. Then clenched again. His breath came in shudders, and his eyes—those wild, feral eyes—finally, finally started to clear.

The green tint faded.

And Kain collapsed.

Jason caught him before he hit the ground—one arm around the kid's shoulders, lowering him carefully to the wet concrete. Kain's body shook uncontrollably, the adrenaline crash hitting like a freight train.

"I've got you," Jason said. Roy hadn't heard that tone in years. Soft. Almost gentle. "I've got you."

Kain's fingers latched onto Jason's jacket. White-knuckled.

"I can't—" Kain's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't do this anymore."

"Then don't." Jason shifted, pulling the kid against his chest. "You're done carrying it alone. You hear me? Done."

Roy lowered his bow, throat tight.

He'd seen Jason do a lot of things. Kill men. Spare men. Yell, fight, bleed. But holding a broken kid in a shipyard while the rain started to fall?

That was new.

"We should get him back to the safehouse," Roy said quietly. "He needs rest. And maybe... maybe someone who's been where he is."

Jason nodded. He stood slowly, lifting Kain like he weighed nothing.

Kain's head lolled against Jason's shoulder. His eyes were closed, but his hands still gripped the jacket.

"Sixty-eight men," Roy muttered, following Jason out of the shipyard. "Kid's a menace."

"He's a survivor," Jason corrected. "There's a difference."

Behind them, the rain washed the blood from the concrete.

And for the first time in six years, Kain slept without dreaming of fire.

---

Part Five: The Safehouse

---

Location: Outlaws Safehouse, Crown Point, Gotham City.

Time: 10:14 AM.

Kain woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon.

His eyes snapped open. Ceiling. Exposed pipes. A window with bars on it. Sunlight—actual sunlight—streaming through grimy glass.

Not the boiler room.

Not the boiler room.

He bolted upright, fists raised, heart hammering—

And immediately regretted it.

His ribs screamed. His knuckles were wrapped in bandages he didn't remember getting. The scar over his heart throbbed with a dull, familiar ache. And his head felt like someone had used it as a battering ram.

"You're awake."

The voice was low, female, and dangerous.

Kain's gaze snapped to the corner of the room.

A woman sat in an armchair, legs crossed, sharpening a sword the size of his torso. She was tall—really tall—with red-gold hair, dark skin, and muscles that looked like they'd been carved from marble. She wore Amazonian armor over a black undersuit, and her eyes were the color of winter storms.

Artemis. He'd done his research.

"Where am I?" His voice came out raw.

"Safehouse." Artemis didn't look up from her sword. "You collapsed. Todd carried you here. You've been unconscious for seven hours."

Kain's stomach dropped. Seven hours. He'd been asleep for seven hours. Unprotected. Surrounded by people who could have—

"We didn't touch your gear," Artemis said, as if reading his mind. "Your wrench is by the door. Your chains are in a pile. Your jacket is beyond repair, so Roy threw it away."

"You threw away my jacket?"

"It had blood on it. And a hole. And possibly some teeth."

Kain swung his legs over the side of the cot—a real cot, with blankets, when did he last have blankets—and immediately regretted that too. His head swam. His vision went spotty.

"You should rest," Artemis said.

"I should leave."

"That's not what Todd said."

Kain froze. "What did he say?"

Artemis finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable, but something flickered in those winter-storm eyes. Something almost like approval.

"He said you'd try to run. He also said I should let you." She set the sword aside. "I disagree."

"Noted."

Kain stood. His legs held. Barely. He grabbed his wrench from beside the door—strangely comforting, the weight of it—and made it three steps toward the exit before the door opened and Roy Harper walked in.

Roy froze. Coffee mug in one hand, bacon sandwich in the other.

"Hey," Roy said. "You're vertical. That's good. You should probably sit down before you fall down."

"I'm fine."

"You're green around the edges, and not in a fun kryptonite way."

"I said I'm fine."

Roy's expression softened. He set down the coffee and sandwich on a nearby table—an offering, Kain realized. Food. Drink. Peace.

"Kid," Roy said quietly, "you took down sixty-eight guys last night. Sixty-eight. I counted. Then you collapsed in Jason's arms and cried for twenty minutes."

Kain's face went hot. "I did not cry."

"You absolutely cried. It was very emotional. I almost cried too, and I'm a rock."

"I'll kill you."

"See, that's the spirit!" Roy grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Look, Kain. I'm not gonna pretend I know what you've been through. I had a rough childhood too—drugs, neglect, the whole 'my dad sold me to the government' thing. But Jason? Jason died. He knows what it's like to have everything taken from you. And he doesn't offer help twice."

Kain's grip tightened on the wrench.

"I didn't ask for help."

"No," Roy agreed. "But you need it. And we're the only assholes in Gotham crazy enough to give it."

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate.

Jason Todd appeared in the doorway, still in his civilian clothes—jeans, a gray henley, his white streak visible in the morning light. No helmet. No guns. Just a tired man with too many scars and eyes that had seen too much.

He looked at Kain. Kain looked at him.

"You tried to leave," Jason said.

"Tried," Kain corrected.

"And yet you're still here."

Kain didn't answer.

Jason walked past him—slow, unconcerned—and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. He leaned against the sink, cradling the mug, watching Kain over the rim.

"I'm not going to lock you in," Jason said. "I'm not your jailer. If you want to walk out that door, you walk. But I want you to think about something first."

"What?"

Jason set the mug down. Crossed his arms.

"You've been running for six years. From universe to universe, from fight to fight, from one bad situation to the next. You told yourself you were proving something. Becoming worthy. But here's the truth, Kain—" Jason's voice dropped. "You were never unworthy. You were just alone."

Kain's throat closed.

"That Superman—your Superman—he didn't send you away because you weren't good enough. He sent you away because he loved you. And he wanted you to live."

"Stop." Kain's voice cracked.

"This Superman—the one here—he didn't reject you because you were broken. He rejected you because he was scared. Scared of what it would mean to have a son who'd already lost everything. That's not on you. That's on him."

"I said stop."

"The Riddler carved you because he wanted to break you. Green Arrow shot you because he made a mistake. None of that—none of it—is your fault."

The wrench hit the floor with a deafening clang.

Kain's hands were shaking. His eyes burned. The scars on his face suddenly felt like they were on fire.

"You don't know me," Kain whispered.

"I know enough," Jason said. "I know you're twenty-two years old and you've been fighting alone since your world ended. I know you're angry and scared and you don't trust anyone because the last time you trusted someone, they died or hurt you or both. I know you're exhausted."

Kain's breath came in ragged gasps.

"And I know," Jason continued, softer now, "that you're not alone anymore. Unless you want to be."

A long, terrible silence.

Artemis hadn't moved from her chair. Roy was watching with wide, worried eyes. And Jason. Jason just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

Kain thought about his father. The real one. The one who'd smiled and said "You can live" before flying into the dark.

He thought about this universe's Superman, turning him away on a rooftop.

He thought about Riddler's knife.

Green Arrow's arrow.

Sixty-eight men, beaten bloody because he couldn't stop feeling.

And then he thought about Jason Todd, carrying him through the rain. Roy, offering him a bacon sandwich. Artemis, letting him keep his wrench.

"I don't know how to do this," Kain said quietly. "I don't know how to... stay."

Jason's expression didn't change. But something in his shoulders relaxed.

"You learn," he said. "One day at a time. One fight at a time. And when you forget—when the anger gets too loud you let us remind you."

Kain looked down at the wrench on the floor.

Then he looked up at Jason.

"Does the safehouse have a shower?"

Roy let out a breath he'd been holding. "Oh, thank God. You smell like the docks."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious, kid. You need soap. And possibly an exorcism."

Kain bent down, picked up the wrench, and for the first time in six years, smiled. It was small. Tired. Barely there.

But it was real.

"I'm not calling you guys my team," Kain said.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jason replied.

"I'm not a sidekick."

"Obviously."

"And I'm still leaving if you try to hug me."

Roy gasped in mock offense. "What about a firm handshake? A celebratory high-five? An interpretive dance?"

Kain walked past him toward the hallway.

"I'm taking a shower. When I get out, that bacon sandwich better still be there."

Part Six: The Scars

The next morning.

The shower had been the best thing Kain had felt in years.

Hot water. Actual soap. No one banging on the door. He'd stood under the spray until his fingers pruned, then stayed longer because he could.

He'd found a towel folded on the sink and a pile of clothes that actually fit. Black sweatpants. A grey hoodie. Socks without holes.

Kain stared at the socks for a full thirty seconds.

Then he pulled everything on and walked out.

The safehouse's main room was quiet. Morning light slanted through the barred windows. A chess board sat half-finished on a crate. Someone had left a mug on the counter with "WORLD'S OKAYEST VIGILANTE" printed on the side.

Roy was asleep on the couch, mouth open, one arm dangling. Artemis sat in the same armchair as before, reading The Odyssey in ancient Greek.

Jason stood at the kitchen counter, making breakfast.

None of them looked up when Kain entered.

That was intentional, he realized. They were giving him space.

"Shower work okay?" Jason asked without turning around.

"It worked," Kain said.

"Good. Sit down. Eat."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Kain sat at the small kitchen table wooden, scarred, covered in coffee rings and watched Jason cook. The man moved like someone who'd learned to find peace in small rituals. Flipping eggs. Toasting bread. Pouring coffee into a chipped mug that he slid across the counter toward Kain.

"Drink," Jason said. "You look like death."

"I feel like death."

"That's the kryptonite hangover. It'll pass."

Kain wrapped his hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into his palms.

Roy snuffled awake, blinked twice, and immediately zeroed in on Kain.

"Morning, sunshine. You look marginally less like you fought a lawnmower."

"I feel marginally less like I fought a lawnmower."

"Progress." Roy sat up, stretching. "Jason made eggs. This is a big deal. He usually only cooks when he's feeling emotionally constipated."

"Shut up, Roy."

"See? Emotionally constipated."

Kain's mouth twitched.

Jason slid a plate in front of himm, eggs, toast, bacon, a small pile of fruit. Kain stared at it.

"You don't have to eat it all," Jason said, quieter now. "But you should eat something. The kryptonite burned through your system. Your body needs fuel."

"I know how my own biology works."

"Then eat."

Kain picked up the fork.

The first bite was strange. Not bad—good, actually, Jason could cook—but strange. Eating somewhere that wasn't a rooftop or an alley. Eating food someone had made for him. Eating while three people watched him like he might shatter.

He hated it.

He also never wanted it to stop.

Halfway through the eggs, Kain's hoodie sleeve rode up.

Roy's gaze flickered to his forearm. Then away. Too fast.

Kain looked down.

Scars. Layers of them. Old white lines and newer pink ones, crisscrossing his skin like a map of every fight he'd ever lost. Some were clean, knife wounds, surgical from Riddler's experiments. Others were ragged, bites, burns, things that hadn't healed right.

He pulled the sleeve down.

No one said anything.

But Artemis closed her book. Roy stopped pretending to stretch. And Jason set down the spatula and turned to face him fully.

"Kain," Jason said. "Look at me."

Kain didn't want to. But he did.

Jason's face was unreadable. But his eyes held nothing but patience.

"I have scars too," Jason said. He pulled up his own sleeve. The skin underneath was a mess—puckered burns, long surgical lines. "From the crowbar. From the autopsy. From every stupid fight I've picked since."

Kain stared.

"Artemis has scars," Jason continued. "Roy has scars. Some of them you can see. Some of them you can't. The point is you're not a freak. You're not broken. You're just another survivor sitting at a kitchen table, trying to figure out how to eat eggs without falling apart."

The room was very quiet.

Kain looked down at his plate. At the fork in his hand. At the scars on his wrist, visible even with the sleeve pulled down.

"I have them everywhere," he said quietly. "Not just my arms. My chest. My back. My legs." He swallowed. "Riddler wanted to see how much I could take. How fast I could heal. He'd cut me, wait, measure, cut me again."

Jason just nodded.

"Can I see?"

Kain's head snapped up. "What?"

"Your scars. Can I see them?" Jason's voice was calm. Clinical. Not curious,respectful. "Not because I want to gawk. Because I want to know what you've survived. And because I want you to know that you don't have to hide them here."

Kain's heart pounded.

No one had ever asked.

He stood up.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled off the hoodie.

His torso was a canvas of violence.

Lean muscle,firm, strong, defined, the body of someone who'd been fighting since childhood. But overlaid on that strength was a lattice of damage. Burn scars across his ribs. A long, jagged line down his sternum. The cratered wound over his heart from Green Arrow's kryptonite arrow,still puckered, still pink, still angry.

And on his left pec, just below the collarbone, a brand. A question mark, burned into his skin. Riddler's final souvenir.

Artemis made a sound low in her throat. Not pity. Rage.

Roy looked like he might be sick.

Jason stepped forward. Slowly. He didn't reach out—didn't touch—but he looked. He looked at every scar like he was memorizing them.

"When I came back," Jason said quietly, "I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. The autopsy scars,they cut me open from neck to groin. Stitched me back up. I wore the helmet for months because I couldn't stand to see my own face."

Kain's breath caught.

"One day, Roy made me look," Jason continued. "Sat me down in front of a mirror and wouldn't let me leave until I'd looked at every single scar. Not to punish myself. To see them. To understand that they weren't weaknesses. They were proof that I'd survived."

Roy rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "It was less 'made' and more 'emotionally manipulated.' I'm very good at that."

Jason met Kain's eyes.

"You survived Riddler. You survived Green Arrow. You survived watching your universe die and your father sacrifice himself. Those scars aren't shameful, Kain. They're armor. You just forgot how to wear them."

Kain looked down at his own chest.

For six years, he'd covered them. Hidden them. Told himself they made him ugly. Unworthy. Broken.

But Jason Todd had the same kind of scars.

And Jason Todd was still standing.

"I don't know how to do this," Kain said again, voice rough.

"You don't have to know," Jason said. "You just have to try."

Kain pulled the hoodie back on. His hands were shaking. But when he sat back down at the table, he didn't pull the sleeves down over his wrists.

Roy noticed. Didn't say anything. Just slid the bacon sandwich closer.

Artemis opened her book again. But she was smiling. Just a little.

Jason turned back to the stove, cracked another egg into the pan, and said nothing at all.

And Kain ate his breakfast.

For the first time in six years, he wasn't hiding.

Part Seven: The Strength

---

Three days later.

Warnings: smut, sex, yaoi, bareback, railing, kinks, alcohol, office Au, bl, bondage kink,

Written with my friend @notoot

THIS IS A BL–YAOI–MLM

Your co-worker nanami kento,

You and nanami were co-workers at a company together, he was a serious man and rarely talked to anyone, kept to himself most of the time, you were worried about him, but you didnt want to show it, afraid you might seem a bit 'too much' including you both are guys

after another successful quarter of sky rocketing business, your boss invited all the co-workers to a drinking party, his treat, where he would pay. you were thrilled, as you havent had a drink in ages, and needed to loosen up after a while, it is a good opportunity,

At evening, your boss invited you guys to the bar, taking a break off from work to celebrate. You got into a taxi with nanami because it was the only taxi available. Your car was in the garage getting washed, so you had no other choice but to get into the taxi with him.

The air in the izakaya was thick with the smell of grilled meat and cheap sake. You’d forgotten how loud salarymen could be after their third refill. Nanami Kento sat beside you, tie loosened, jacket draped over the back of his chair. He wasn’t drunk. not yet. but the sharp angles of his face had softened, just a fraction.

“You’re staring,” he said, not looking up from his beer.

“You’re easy to stare at,” you replied, surprising yourself. The liquid courage was already working.

Across the table, Gojo was attempting to balance a chopstick on his nose while Shoko filmed. Ijichi looked like he was praying for death. The usual chaos. But beside you, Nanami was an island of quiet. He finally turned his head, and his eyes usually so tired, so burdened.caught the low light.

“You should drink some water,” he said. A typical Nanami response. Practical. Safe.

“Probably.” You didn’t reach for the water. Instead, you leaned a little closer, close enough to see the tiny scar near his jawline. “Or you could have fun for once.”

Something flickered across his face. Not annoyance. Not surprise. Something else. He set his beer down with a quiet clink.

“I’m not good at fun,” he admitted.

“I’ve noticed.”

A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth twitched. That was as close to a smile as Nanami Kento ever got in public. Your chest ached.

The party began to dissolve around midnight. Gojo was hauled into a taxi by Shoko, still shouting about karaoke. Ijichi bowed seventeen times before fleeing. You lingered on the street, watching Nanami adjust his watch. The summer air was humid, clinging to your skin.

“Which way?” You asked.

Nanami pointed vaguely east. You nodded. “I’ll walk you to the taxi.”

Neither of you spoke for three blocks. The city noise filled the gaps. a distant train, someone laughing on a balcony, the buzz of a vending machine. Then, at a crosswalk, your fingers brushed his. You didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.

“You’re drunk,” he said quietly.

“Maybe.” You looked up at him. “But I’ve wanted to do that since the Okutama mission. When you pulled me out of that rubble.”

His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. The light changed. Neither of you moved.

Finally, he exhaled—a slow, measured breath, like he was calculating risk. Then his hand turned, and his fingers laced through yours. Firm. Warm.

“I’m not drunk,” he said, not looking at you. But his thumb traced a slow circle on the back of your hand

You smiled. “Didn’t ask.”

“Nanami,” you said.

“Kento,” he corrected, so softly you almost missed it.

Your heart stuttered. “Kento.”

He glanced at you, just once, and this time the smile was real. Small. Exhausted. Perfect.

The crosswalk light blinked red again, but you barely noticed. His hand intertwined with yours, brushing your palm.

Nanami signaled to a taxi driver to pick you guys up. You both got into the taxi, as the driver asked.

"Where to?"

Nanami tilted his head up to the driver

"Cerulean Tower Tokyo hotel."

The driver nodded, as he began to drive off. Nanami put his hand on your thigh, rubbing circles, before it slowly climbed up to your crotch, testing the waters before he groped.

"Do you want me to stop?"

You squirmed under his touch, hips bucking up for some friction, blush creeping up on your cheek.

"D-dont stop..please.."

Nanami smirked, as he heard you beg,he groped you again through your clothes.

His lips grazed his neck, his warm breath tickled your ear.

"Such a good boy for me arent you..."

Nanami teased you, pressing soft kisses to your neck as he slowly worked through your trousers and belt, slipping into your boxers as he slowly stroked, his thumb circling your slit, spreading pre-cum over.

As you moaned and threw your head back on his shoulder, attempting to muffle your moans,

Nanami stroked harder, gripping your length as you moaned even louder,

"Shh...dont be too loud..he might hear us.."

You put your hand over your mouth, muffling your whimpers as nanami went faster at an unbearable pace, you panted as you came closer to your climax. You removed your hand from your mouth pulling back so you can speak.

"N-nanami...im close.."

"Not now, hold it in until we get there, yeah?"

Before you get to finish, Nanami pulls his hand out.

"Look at me,"

You looked at him, still flushed and flustered from the handjob,

Nanami put his fingers up to his own mouth, licking it and sucking on it slowly to tease you and get you worked up further

"Nanami—"

Nanami cut you off,

"Kento, darling,"

"Kento.."

The drive came to a stop, as nanami buckled your belt and fixed your trousers again, gaining composure.

"Cmon now darling, I have to pay for the ride," nanami said, pushing you off of him *gently*

You nodded, as you got off of him, not feeling satisfied, you still felt tipsy from the party, as you got out of the car and stumbled.

You watched nanami pay for the ride, then walk up to you, putting his hand on your lower back as you walk to the entrance of the fancy hotel.

"Lets go now shall we, sweetheart?"

When you got to the room, nanami felt like a different person, he looked at you with hunger in his eyes, you felt like prey to a predator.

He pinned you to the wall, facing him, his hands were roaming all around your body, finding the right spots to make you whimper and squirm to his touch, he whispered filthy things into your ear, making you flustered and try to look away.

He grabbed your chin to force you to look into his eyes.

"Look at me love,"

You locked eyes with him, as his eyes got softer when he looked into your eyes,

Nanami pressed his lips against yours in a hard kiss, catching you by surprise, it wasnt like any of the other kisses you had before with your past partners, this one was slow, hungry, like he wanted something more.

Nanami unbuttoned both your shirts off, dropping them onto the floor, as he slowly unbuckled your belt and undid your trousers while pulling your boxers down, leaving you naked against the wall.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, as he pushed you harder onto the wall.

"Kento.."

You said flustered,

Nanami looked up from unbuckling his belt,

"Do you want to do this?"

You nodded frantically, chasing pleasure and satisfaction.

Nanami whispered into your ear, deep and low

"Use your words my love,"

You whined, unable to talk as you were overstimulated.

Nanami undid his tie as he took your wrists and tied them over your head.

You finally mumbled a little

"Yes...please.." under your breath.

Nanami pulled his own boxers down and aligned his length with your hole, then thrusted in, he groaned as he took in your tightness.

Nanami stroked your dick as he bottomed out in your hole, making your eyes roll back and see stars.