Disclaimer: Still own nothing, even after two years of absence.

1.

It's the middle of the night when Jason awakens. He comes to quickly and suddenly, every sense bursting to life. All at once, he becomes aware of the sheets pulled snug around him, the spongy texture of his memory-foam pillow, and the warmth of the mattress as it engulfs him. He notices the fading scent of something sweet lingering in the air, and as he opens his crystalline blue eyes, he's met with the familiar sight of his room in Wayne Manor. Even in the dark, Jason can make out every meticulous detail – from the towering silhouette of the bookshelf down to the creases in the curtains.

Whatever it is that woke him, though, is nowhere to be found.

Not feeling the least bit concerned, Jason doesn't give the occurrence any thought, figuring it to be a fluke. Wrapped in warmth and softness and safety, he knows it'll be easy to fall back asleep. He shifts, finding a more comfortable way to lie before closing his eyes. A happy hum reverberates in his chest; then Jason falls silent and ceases motion, becoming almost unrecognizable amongst the equally as still furniture.

Crrrreeeeaaaakkkkk…

Jason's eyes snap open, just in time to see his bedroom door start to slowly yawn open, its hinges crying louder with every inch the gap grows wider. He pushes himself up. The sheets fall away, pooling around his waist. He watches the door continue to creak open, watches as the hallway beyond it gradually comes into view. There's no emotion on Jason's face, no apprehension or curiosity at the sudden intrusion, only a distant acknowledgment that his door is opening, and he has no idea why. He doesn't even call to ask who's causing the disturbance.

Not that calling would help, Jason soon realizes. As the door comes to a stop, he finds the hallway empty of people.

Jason tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He studies the long, exaggerated shadows stretching across the hall for a moment longer, waiting. For what or for whom, he's not sure, but it or they never appear. He shrugs, unconcerned, and grabs the bunch of fabric at his waist. Before he pulls it over himself, he freezes, his breath catching in his throat and his every muscle seizing.

Under the covers, something presses against his leg; frigidness seeps through his sweatpants, burning his skin with its intensity. It lingers only for a second, and then the sheets shift as it pulls away.

Jason thinks, There's someone in the bed with me.

In the millisecond that it takes for the thought to process, every ounce of light is eaten by shadows, dissolving the room around him until there's nothing but the bed and his open bedroom door left. His welcoming sanctuary has become a suffocating coffin.

I need to run, he thinks. His heart hammers rapidly against his chest in preparation. The vibrations of each strike race down his limbs and rattle his insides until he's practically vibrating. The ice ignites into fire; sweat begins to break out on his face. I need to jump out of bed and run. Go find help. Find anyone to help. Find safety.

But he doesn't. His head slowly starts to turn instead. Whatever is behind him slowly creeps into his line of view. At first, it's nothing more than a bump under the sheets, like the crest of a tiny hill set in a vast expanse of land. But as his head continues to swivel, the protrusion begins to elongate. The little hill rises, not a hill at all but a mountain of muscle – a leg. Two legs, which meld into a torso. A torso with two arms and broad shoulders. A torso that suddenly shrinks into a throat, where the freezing sheets are pulled up tight and snug. A throat with a head attached. A head with a face, pasty and white, with red lips pulled tight and two green eyes alight with mania and sickness and glee.

He knows that face, those lips, those eyes – especially those black, empty eyes. His mouth moves, forming the shape of the name, but not a sound dares to partake in saying his name – the name of a psychopath, a filler of graveyards, a murderer.

His murderer.

The Joker.

Jason's mouth drops open as if to call for help, but even before his voice becomes lodged in his throat, he knows that not even God can help him now.

As if reading his thoughts, the Joker unfurls his devilish, face-splitting grin. His voice low and laughing, he says, "Heya there, Wonder Boy. Have you missed your Uncle J?"

Jason reacts the only way he can think of at the moment: he screams, shrill and blood-curdling.

The Joker laughs, wild and manic.

Jason bolts from his bed, nearly tripping over his feet as he dashes across what was once his room. The shadows grab at his feet as he sprints, trying to suck him down into their depths, but Jason is quick. His feet barely graze the ground before lifting off into the next step. In seconds, he's nearly out the door.

For a moment, a swell of hope surges in his chest. Jason's moving so fast that he might as well be flying. There's a chance that he can get away if only he can keep his pace. The adrenaline in his veins, which burn like fire, tell him that he absolutely can.

Except it doesn't matter. Not his speed, not his endurance, not any of it. Jason takes only a few steps into his journey of a thousand before he slams on the breaks again, his arms pinwheeling to keep him vertical. As he rocks back into a standstill, the boy looks up at the obstruction before him – at his fucking demise - and feels his heart wither into a husk in his chest.

It's just like before, the boy thinks in anguish. Just like in Ethiopia. Just like always.

Blocking his one and only exit is a wall of ticking time bombs. Beep, beep, beep, they ring, quiet and precise in their timing. 0:12, 0:11, 0:10, their red numbers glare, piercing the darkness with ease.

The shadows laugh as Jason realizes he's going to die all over again. He's going to be consumed by flames and heat and the collapsing foundation of his prison all over again, only this time there's no resignation to pacify his jittering nerves. There's only panic, shooting lightning through his limbs and telling him in a deep, graveling, urgent voice to MOVE.

The boy whips around, his eyes darting for any other way out, even though he knows better. He finds only darkness, his bed with its messy sheets, and a clown dressed in purple and green and holding a crowbar, just as expected.

Beep, beep, beep, the explosives call behind him. 0:09, 0:08, 0:07, the boy knows they read.

Jason needs a plan, but with the shadows' laughter ringing in his ears, he can't seem to think of anything - not even a last, nonsensical ditch effort for which he's always been known. Any potential ideas that surface are suffocated by the noise, locking his limbs in place as they wait endlessly for the signal to jump into action.

Except, at this point, one will never come. The boy is trapped - trapped in his room, trapped in his body, trapped in his mind - and all he can do is listen to the laughing and the ticking time bombs behind him as they continue to call.

Beep, beep, beep.

0:06, 0:05, 0:04.

On the other side of the room, the Joker joins in with the shadows. He throws his head back as he guffaws, the veins in his neck popping out with the intensity of his fit. He whips the crowbar in his hand around uncontrollably. If he can feel his end rapidly approaching, he doesn't show any indication that he cares. He just laughs and laughs and laughs, far too tickled by the utterly dead look in the boy's eyes to be concerned about anything else.

Jason only stares, feeling the end as it draws near. Its gentle arms wrap around his shoulders and draw his breath from his chest. In alarm, Jason opens his mouth, tries to scream, but he can't hear anything over the laughter and the ticking of those awful, awful clocks.

Beep, they seem to call louder. 0:03, they count down.

The boy tries to run, but those gentle, squeezing arms grasp him tighter. He tries to scream again, but a soft, feminine voice hushes him in his ear.

"It's going to be fine, Jason," it - she? - whispers to him, just barely loud enough to hear over the static, the laughter, the clocks.

BEEP, they ring. 0:02, they must read.

"It's going to be ok," the voice assures, so quiet and certain

BEEP. 0:01.

"It's all going to be ok," she says. "I promise, Jason."

BEEP. 0:00.

There's a BANG, like a dozen firecrackers blowing up right in his ears, and red - so much red. It gobbles up the shadows, the Joker, and all the laughter. Jason expects to follow them into oblivion. He can sense the red nearing and its eagerness to devour his being, but as it grows closer, the gentle arms wrapped around his frame tighten their grip. Bunches of cold, fleshy fingers claw into his arms. An unspoken this one's mine electrifies the air, halting the red in its advance. There's a moment of stillness, of two forces sizing each other up, and then just like that, it's all over. The red retreats, and as black begins to settle, the boy hears one last whisper.

"It's all going to be ok."

Jason startles awake, a strangled gasp trapped in his throat and a vice constricting around his chest. For a split second, the belief that he is still trapped in darkness, surrounded by the Joker and bombs that are just about to blow sky-high, circles through his mind. It pumps his veins full of liquid fear. Jason bolts up, lashing out with a knife that he doesn't remember having, hoping to catch the Joker, the woman, anyone with the sharp edge. All he meets is dead air.

Whipping his head around, Jason searches the room, wide blue eyes scouring for landmarks and threats. Confusion follows. He doesn't recognize the room he's in – not the cot he's lying on, not the long window on the wall in front of him, not the photos pinned of Robin, who is not himself or Dick, on the other side of the room. He wonders what happened to the Joker, the woman, the bombs. He wonders what happened to him. When did he pass out? What knocked him out? How did he get here, wherever here was?

I need to run. I need to get out of here, he thinks desperately when no answer readily comes to him, but he doesn't move. His eyes can find no reason to; except for the knife in his hand, there's nothing in the room that could possibly hurt him. He's safe.

Jason's mind reels with conflicting commands of go, go, go and stay, stay, stay. His body prepares for the former, overloading his system with adrenaline, yet it's the latter directive that he obeys. His muscles shake and seize as they fight off the itch to move. The knife in his hand rattles with every tremble. His skin, already slick with sweat, begins to boil as his insides freeze solid. His breathing stutters and stumbles and tries in vain to catch up with his rapid heartbeat, but his poor lungs just can't manage to suck in enough oxygen to fuel his starved muscles.

From the other side of the room, one of the photos of the unfamiliar Robin smiles tauntingly.

What? His expression seems to ask. Can't keep in control? Can't remember how you got here? Pathetic.

Jason knows it's just a picture and that he's not quite thinking straight, but a pang of anger writhes through the cloud of panic, allowing for a beam of bright clarity to cut through his muddled brain. Information comes readily to soothe him, reminding him that he's in London – has been in London long enough to rig his place with numerous traps. It reminds that, in this bedroom alone, he's got half a dozen weapons away, and he knows how to use every one to their fullest potential. He's a dangerous human being, Jason remembers, and that makes him safe within this makeshift fortress of his.

The Joker, the bombs, the manor? They had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Jason breathes a shaky sigh of relief, dropping his shaking hand. With the knife still clenched in a white-knuckled grip between his fingers, he slips it back into its place underneath his pillow. Throwing his legs over the side of the cot, Jason rests his hands in his hands. He starts running through every breathing technique he knows, deflating the overwhelming pressure in his chest and slowing his heart. His tense shoulders ache as they start to unwind.

It was just a dream, Jason tells himself as he exhales slowly. Just an awful dream. You've been worked up over nothing.

Yet, he can't fully shake himself of the anxious jitter settled in his limbs. He doesn't understand why. Jason's last few years have been filled with far worse nightmares: crawling out of his own grave into the warehouse in Ethiopia, dancing, laughing crowbars, and probably worst of all, Bruce holding his head under the emerald waters of the Lazarus Pit. So, why should this one bother him so much?

"It's going to be ok. It's all going to be ok. I promise, Jason. It's all going to be ok."

Right. The woman. She was new to his dreams, but in a weird way, Jason knows that she's not new to his life. He remembers her soft voice clearly, the gentle but reserved quality to it. He remembers her touch, lacking in warmth and existing as only a slight pressure against his flesh. He can't remember her, though – what she looks like, where he'd seen her, who she is. Like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, she doesn't belong in any memory Jason tries to put her in – and that terrifies him. The clarity in his recollections implies intimacy, but how could there have been any if can't remember a single thing about her?

"It's all going to be ok."

A cold shiver runs down Jason's spine and out to his veins, cooling his blood. His stomach rolls, uneasy, and his muscles itch to move.

It hadn't just been the voice that Jason had recognized. It was also the words. Why had she been trying so hard to assure him?

The itch turns into quiet begging, which grows a little louder, a little more urgent, with each passing second. He just wants to get up, go, run, run away, run fast-

"Stop!" Jason snaps, bolting to his feet. He paces the length of the room and rakes his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Just stop it. You're overthinking this, he tells himself. Whether it borrows him or not, she was just a meaningless part of his fucked-up nightmare. She isn't some case that he needs to solve. It – she – was just a dream. Move on already.

The command doesn't ease the burning in his muscles. You're wrong, they whisper. You need to get up and go. You need to run; why won't you run?

Jason sighs heavily. His fingers cease raking his scalp, instead twisting themselves around his ebony strands. He glances at the clock set on the floor beside his cot. The red, blocky numbers read 3:42. He really should go back to sleep and finish catching up on the hours he'd missed the previous night, but can he when he feels as tightly wound as a gun that's ready to fire?

He finds the answer is no.

But I'm only going for a jog, Jason tells himself. If I'm running, it's going to be because I have something to run from.

He doesn't keep his promise. Jason can't help it. His muscles are hungry for the adrenaline left in his veins, and though it's ridiculous, remnants of giddy laughter, steady beeping, and whispered assurances rattle in his skull and chase him through the streets. Jason tries his hardest to outrun their pull, but for all his speed, he's never quite fast enough.

Jason races all over London's nearly deserted streets for what feels like hours. He keeps a rigorous pace, pushing himself harder than he knows he should. His muscles burn with the exertion, and despite his efforts to maintain control, his breathing staggers out of control. His joints hurt the worst, though. They're stabbed with pain every time his shoes smack against the pavement. They cry for relief. Jason doesn't give it.

Finally, his body can't keep up any longer. As Jason turns a sharp corner, he lands heavily on his ankle, blowing it out with one fell sweep. Jason crashes into the pavement and cries out, the blunt impact jarring his entire skeleton. His vision blacks. When light floods back to him a moment later, he thinks, Dumbass.

Shaking his head of the fog, Jason peels himself from the pavement. He groans as he eases back to his feet with the help of a nearby bench. His muscles scream, and the joints in his legs and ankles throb as weight pushes down on them again. Jason panics for a moment, wondering if they'll hold him. Yet, as much as they hurt, he doesn't end up back on his ass.

Jason breathes a sigh of relief. Slumping his shoulders, he turns back in the direction he came from and starts trudging, disregarding the call for rest. He justifies his decision by telling himself that he'll be safer once he's locked himself back in his fortress.

The trek back is slow, monotonous, and in some ways, more exhausting than the preceding run. Retracing his steps shows Jason just how insane the distance he ran is; he realizes how much time he wasted indulging in such an empty mission. Every sharp stab to his ankles and muscles is well-deserved, and he berates himself for allowing himself to be so shaken up by a dream, of all things.

I should be better than this, he thinks as he stares blankly at the trail ahead. I thought I was better than this.

He's only a few blocks away from home sweet home when he hears a woman scream. As if they hadn't existed in the first place, his pain and exhaustion are forgotten. Jason bolts in the direction of the cry, his feet thundering against the pavement, and finds the attack near the back door of an apartment complex. Jason wastes no time; he body-slams the older man off the crying woman and stumbles to a stop in front of her.

With the weight of the man gone, the woman quiets and turns her big eyes upward. She blinks at Jason, confused. She doesn't move.

Impatient, Jason shoves her to the back door, snapping, "Go! Run, would ya?"

The woman stumbles, making Jason wince at his insensitivity, but she catches herself before she falls. Then she's off like a rocket, her hair waving goodbye behind her.

Ready for a brawl, Jason turns back to the woman's assailant – only for the smooth edge of a knife to slide between his ribs.

Jason's chest burns as the blade plunges deep inside of him. His breath hitches. His muscles seize. In seconds, Jason is paralyzed. His wide, shocked eyes watch as blood seeps through his sweat-soaked shirt, and then they lift to meet the stare of his aggressor.

The other man is so close. Jason can pick up on every emotion swimming in his eyes: surprise at hitting his mark, fear of what he'd just done, arrogance at the thought that he'll be able to get away.

Jason, on the other hand, is just pissed.

Everything that happens next is a blur of red. Jason's punching, kneeing, throwing, but they're familiar motions he goes throughout without thought. The older man struggles, fighting to escape as much as he can, but the effort is in vain. Jason's grip on him is strong; his anger is stronger – and blinding. He can't see the man's terror through the crimson haze, can't hear his panicked shrieks through his own screaming thoughts.

How dare he attack from behind? They yell. How dare he attack a woman? Coward!

The assault doesn't last long, however. In a last-ditch effort to save himself, the man reaches out and finds the handle of the knife still stuck in Jason's chest. With one frantic pull, the man rips the knife sideways and out, tearing Jason's chest wide open. Jason howls as the stinging electrifies into biting pain and stumbles back into a wall. He grapples to close his arms around his chest, where the trickle of blood erupts into a thick, black waterfall. Jason tries to put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, but the wound is long. His angle is awkward. Blood keeps flowing.

The man takes the opportunity to bolt. Jason grits his teeth in agony and frustration as he watches him go. He thinks, Lucky bastard, because there's no way that he's going to catch the guy. Not tonight. Not in his current state.

So, Jason starts his way home instead, as difficult as it is with his whole body hurting. Every motion he makes has a way of pulling on the wound between his ribs, which screams at the mistreatment. The bruises blossoming across his chest and arms, too, begin to ache, and his overworked muscles cry, Stop! Please! Rest. Jason ignores them, drawing strength from the last few remnants of anger left in his system.

Jason stumbles into the apartment complex some minutes later. By now, black spots flicker in his vision unreliably, and sounds are becoming hard to hear. He passes through the lobby silently, calls the elevator with a swift click of the up-arrow button, and rides it to his floor.

As the doors open, Jason staggers out and to his door down the hall. He leaves blood smeared on the handrail and scarlet footsteps in his wake. They go unnoticed.

Jason nearly falls into his apartment as he opens the door, his knees buckling and vision swimming. He stays upright only by the grace of the doorframe, which Jason latches to with a white-knuckled grip. He takes a moment to catch his breath and then rambles as fast as he can to the bathroom.

There, Jason bends down to the examine the dark depths of his sink cabinets. One arm braces him against the counter while the other leaves his chest to sift through the contents inside. The task is daunting; Jason aches to sit down and rest, but even with his hazy state of mind, he knows better than to allow himself a moment of inactivity. He can't have his body shutting down without his permission, not until he's patched up.

He finds the first-aid kit shoved into the back. He pulls it out and stands – only for his vision to go dark and his other senses to die.

The black-out only lasts for a few minutes (he thinks?), but when he comes to, Jason's slumped in the bathtub, his legs dangling over the lip.

Confused, he doesn't move. His brain takes longer to revive than his body, wasting precious time that Jason doesn't even realize he lacks. When he finally reboots enough to continue, he squanders more seconds (minutes?) by adjusting himself, pulling his legs into the tub to spread out. Only when the pressure on his wound dissipates does he finally pop open the first-aid kit in his lap.

Jason fumbles for the scissors first and messily cuts off his shirt. He preps his wound and a military-dressing, patching it to his ribs when everything's ready. He can tell through his swimming vision that he's done a sloppy job, but he decides it doesn't need to be pretty. He just needs it to borrow him a little time, so he can take a moment to breathe and figure out which mob-doctor in this expansive city is closest.

Jason slumps against the tub as he finishes his rudimentary patch-job, the last of his adrenaline evaporating. He takes deep breaths, ignoring the screaming of his vertebrae as they grind against the fiberglass rim. His muscles unwind; his eyelids fall shut, even as a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce whisper to him, "You can't relax like this, Jason. If you do, you're dead. You don't want to die again, do you?"

Jason doesn't, not for a long time yet, but he's so tired. The imminent darkness promises to soothe all his hurts. He takes its word for it and slips asleep.

When he awakes, there's no telling how much time has passed. Truthfully, Jason doesn't care to find out. His limbs ache something fierce, his side throbs at his past mistreatment, and his insides appear to have been turned to ice. In his condition, he's happy to have woken up at all.

As he pries his eyelids open, he pulls his arms up from his sides to grab the edge of the tub. Jason freezes just before he pushes himself up, his blue eyes training on the unfamiliar figure dressed in black at the other end of the bathtub.

An empty smile curls at the edges of the woman's lips as she catches his gaze. With one leg crossed over the other, she sits leaning back against the wall behind her, appearing eerily professional and clean amidst the blood smeared on the counters, the floor, the walls. Her eyes are sad as she says, "Looks like you've gone and made a mess of things again, haven't you, Jason?"

She knows his name – his real name, which is long dead, just as he should be. How could she possibly know it?

A cold tendril of dread coils in Jason's stomach. He barks, "How did you get in the apartment?" Or, he tries, anyway. He finds he can barely raise his voice above a harsh whisper.

The woman must understand him, though. She quirks an eyebrow as if surprised by the question, but it fades quickly into disappointment. "Hm. Didn't expect you of all people to forget me," she says, her foot beginning to bob to a beat Jason can't hear. "Shame. I was looking forward to catching up."

Catching up? Since when did Jason know this woman? Since when did he have a relationship with her, especially one strong enough that he thought it best to give her his address and all the go-arounds to his security measures? And what could she possibly want from him?

Jason's head swims. His thoughts struggle against the ocean of confusion he's drowning in. While barely realizing it, he pushes himself up from the tub and to his feet, despite the ripping pain in his side. He stumbles over the rim of the tub, his entire being shaking – from blood-loss or fear, he's not sure. He thinks frantically, I need to get out of here before she kills me.

And she will kill him if he doesn't hurry, Jason knows. She has to be an assassin. It's the only explanation that makes sense. The list of people that know who he is and where he lives at any given time is short; the list of those who know how to disarm his trips is even shorter, and this lady sure as hell would never in a thousand years make it on either.

On the other hand, the number of those who want to see his head on a pike are far too many to count.

"Then why aren't you dead?" that Bruce-like voice asks. He makes a great point, but Jason figures he can worry about that when he's not bleeding out or in danger of being easily overpowered.

As he comes to a stand, Jason slumps against the wall. His legs shake under his weight, but once he's as steady as he's going to get, he steps out of the tub – only for his knee to buckle as soon as he places a little weight on it. Jason lurches and crashes into the edge of the sink a few feet away, his side burning as it rips open wider. A hiss slides between his teeth. Jason hunches over the sink and squeezes his eyes shut, fiery phantasms dancing across his eyelids. When the pain dulls to a low roar a few minutes later, Jason releases the breath he'd been holding and glances to the side.

Except for her bobbing foot, the woman hasn't moved. Catching his stare, she says, "You should lie back down, Jason. You're only making yourself hurt worse. It's not worth it."

Jason finds her statement so stupid and so confusing that he wants to scream. He doubts his voice will let him, so he glowers as he stumbles past her instead. Even in his awful state, maybe the fire in his eyes will give her reason to think twice about her plans, whatever they are.

The woman sighs. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head.

It's not the reaction Jason was going for, but it's not an attack, either. Jason takes what he can get.

The woman remains still and calm as Jason passes beside her. The only part of her that moves is her eyes, which follow Jason into the bedroom.

Wrong move, Jason thinks. He moves to his backpack, which sits at the foot of his cot, and pulls his favorite handgun from the front pocket. He glances over his shoulder; the woman now stands with her arms crossed in the door-frame. His finger itches to close around the trigger and open fire on the intruder, but… she hasn't done anything to warrant it. At least, not yet. Jason will just have to wait to see if she gives him a reason to dispatch her.

In the meantime, his side is still bleeding. It's time to go already.

Jason leaves his apartment finally, throwing on a hoodie to hide his injuries on his way out. He rides the elevator, where the blood has already dried and turned brown, to the garage and walks the short distance to his motorcycle.

Jason's careful as he lifts his leg over his bike. His side begins to burn – that telltale sign that he's pulling at his wound again. It abates some as he settles in, but Jason still must catch his breath before he finally sticks his key into the ignition, beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

Having followed him, the woman watches wordlessly as Jason backs his bike out of its spot. Her eyes gleam with lingering sorrow, and disapproval is clear in the downturn of her lips. She shakes her head as she calls, "You're never going to make it. You'll crash long before you ever get there. You know that, right?"

Jason casts her one last glare, gives her the bird, and zooms off, happy to be rid of her.

Contrary to what the woman believes, Jason doesn't die on his way to the good doctor's house. He almost did – twice. The first time is his fault, having nodded off for a second and drifted into oncoming traffic. However, Jason will always blame the second instance, when he'd nearly run straight into a streetlamp, on the woman.

How the bloody hell had she beaten him to the doctor's townhouse?

Jason gapes as he parks and slips off his bike. One glance around the driveway tells him that she has no vehicle – at least nearby. Even if she had one somewhere else, Jason hadn't seen her pass him on the way over, and he'd taken the most direct route while speeding. Short of being a speedster, there was no way that she could have beaten him.

Yet, there she stands at the base of the house's steps, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, impressed.

"You're worse than the damned Winchesters, you know that?" she calls almost affectionally.

Jason doesn't know what that means, nor whether it's good or bad, but the woman doesn't look like she's going to do anything about it – still. If she's an assassin, she's the worst that Jason's ever met. The speediest, but all around awful at her job.

Acting on the faith that the woman would remain docile, Jason wanders cautiously to and up the steps. The woman just watches, her head swiveling to train him. When Jason shoots the lock on the door and disappears inside the house, she doesn't even follow.

Fine by Jason. It makes his job of storming the house easier.

Fortunately, Jason's been here a few times before for minor injuries and, more importantly, for surveillance. Just as he guesses, he finds his saving grace – one Dr. Ivan Petrov – in the luxurious master bedroom with a hooker who screams as he bursts through the door.

"Dmitri!" Petrov yelps, using Jason's current alias. "W-What is this? What are you doing?"

"Get dressed," Jason orders as he picks up the pair's clothing from the floor and tosses it to them. Giving the hooker a sympathetic look, he jerks his head towards the open doorway. She scurries out immediately, leaving Jason and the doctor alone. Jason's expression hardens as he turns back to Petrov. "I need a patch-job."

The doctor knows Jason and his reputation. He doesn't dare try to refuse.

Once the doctor's dressed, the two relocate to the kitchen. The room isn't set-up for an emergency stitching, so the doctor hurries to pull out all the utensils he'll need from the cupboards while Jason unzips his jacket and lays down on the wooden table.

In a few minutes, the doctor's rolling up a wheeled tray to Jason's wounded side. He's shaking and sweating, no doubt because of the handgun that hasn't wavered from his head, and his voice quivers as he says, "You may feel a pinch here in one moment. I am going to administer a dose of painkillers, as I usually do."

"Just get on with it," Jason snaps.

With a jump, the doctor does, the table rattling as his fingers fumble for his tools.

Jason lowers his aching arm to the table as he takes a steadying sigh, his eyelids falling shut. His lack of sight makes him exceptionally aware of his other senses, like the slick of sweat covering every inch of his flesh, the dry scent of blood burning his nostrils, and the taste of salt on his tongue. His side throbs with heat, dulling the feel of the doctor's probing fingers, but the rest of him is cold. Exhaustion weighs on his eyelids, even when closed, and sleep calls to him once more. Jason longs to answer after his long night, but he stands his ground – he has to, really. The doctor and he may have a working relationship, but not too many took kindly to being interrupted in the early morning hours, especially at gunpoint. Who was to say the man wouldn't accidentally slip up and stitch him up wrong? Or you know, just let him bleed to death?

Even with his firm decision, it still doesn't stop sleep from pulling at his consciousness. Jason forces his eyelids open to dissuade temptation and turns his head to the side, searching for something – anything – interesting to catch his interest and keep him awake.

He finds the woman leaning against a counter, her arms crossed tightly her chest once more and her solemn expression beginning to show signs of exasperation.

When did she get in? I would've heard her, Jason thinks in alarm, his eyes widening. He glances back at the doctor, but the frightened man's gaze is locked onto Jason's side as he works. And how hasn't he noticed her, either?

"I'd forgotten how much of a persistent piece of shit you are," the woman comments, her voice dead. "And lucky, too. Can't forget that."

Jason doesn't understand. Why is she telling him this? What's made him persistent in this woman's eyes? His fight to survive the night? That hasn't been persistence; it's self-preservation. And she thinks him lucky, of all things? Is she serious? Jason's lying on a kitchen table, getting stitched up by a doctor who had had his license revoked years ago. The truly lucky one was the cowardly son of a bitch that had brought him this low and had gotten away with it.

Glancing up at the doctor at his side, Jason checks to see if the man's acknowledged the woman yet. He hasn't, as far as Jason can tell. But how? Had he suddenly become blind, deaf, and dumb since starting to work on him?

The woman more than makes up for the doctor's lack of observance. "Leave the man alone, would ya? He's trying to save your life – again."

Jason's heartbeat begins to pick up as he turns his gaze back to the woman, confused and a little fearful. With her growing frustration and her knowledge of his life becoming more apparent, Jason thinks that he should start worrying. His grip grows tighter around his handgun for comfort, but for an explicable reason, there's a tingling in the back of his mind that says, You think a gun's gonna stop her?

The woman suddenly drops her arms and pushes off from the counter. Her flats clap against the tiled floor like thunder. Her eyes train on Jason's, who starts and shakily raises his gun at her, despite it feeling like a wasted effort.

On the other side of him, the doctor asks in alarm, "Dmitri? What is wrong?"

The woman stops just inches from the barrel. She peers down at it, unperturbed, and raises a hand to brush her fingers against Jason's clammy flesh. She pauses before she makes contact, her hand hovering mere centimeters from his.

Jason's jaw clenches as he waits for her to close the distance. His finger twitches on the trigger, waiting for the woman to give him any reason to fire.

She never gives him one. The woman drops her hand, seemingly thinking better of it, and sighs, her frustrating draining into sorrow once more. "Like I said, you're a lucky bastard today. I can't linger any longer, not when you won't give me what I want." She pauses. "But I promise you, this won't be the last time we meet. You better remember me next time I see you."

"But who even are you?" Jason croaks, his voice scratching like sandpaper against his throat, making him wince.

"My name's Tessa," the woman replies, her voice cold and void. "and I'm your reaper."

Jason doesn't get a chance to ask what she means. In a moment, she vanishes right before his eyes with what sounds like the whoosh of wings, leaving her words rattling ominously within Jason's head.

Hooooo brother... Yeah. It's been an obnoxiously long time. I totally do realize that, all you who even bothered to show up to this thing. Please don't hate me too much. Guess what I did during the last two years? Moved some more, changed schools a few times, co-wrote and published two novels (check out my profile for more details! All proceeds go to scholarships~!), amongst other things. I also went through a writing funk where I couldn't write a damn thing without rewriting it a minimum of 3 dozens times. It's been a journey.

But anywho, this chapter is finally out! I hope it's not total garbage. If it is, oh well. Regardless, a second chapter (and a third and a fourth and a fifth) will be out eventually! No idea when. Depends on life, but I will write as swiftly as I can. Thank you to all those who read this this far! You da best.

And a special shoutout goes to my friend, Puff Grayson (who is account-less)! She not only read this piece of crap multiple times and gave me feedback each time, but she also designed my beautiful cover. What a saint she is.