Home no longer felt as such, but he didn't know where else to go. That night, Jason had stepped back into the apartment. In a daze-like state, he walked to the kitchen. Broken glass was still strewn across the floor, but Zsasz was no longer there. All that remained was a bit of cut rope. Jason didn't know where he'd gone. He didn't care.

It was strange how this place stayed the same, untouched by what had transpired at the Hargrove Tower. There were still two chairs at the table. Two pillows on the bed. Her toothbrush was still there on the bathroom counter. He had stepped in to see just how bad his reflection was, but that toothbrush had been the first thing he'd seen.

Everything there made it seem as though she was just about to walk in the door. Then he would have to remind himself that it wouldn't happen, and it was like a knife to the heart every time. It wouldn't ever happen.

It was a few nights later. Like always, Jason found sleep hard to come by. He sat on the edge of the bed, eyes staring into the wall opposite him. The window was cracked open—a little bit of outside air was needed, as the air conditioning was down again. He could hear those neighbors, prattling on and on.

"I bet animals at the zoo get treated better than this! How many times has it been—Gotham gets fucking hot at this time of year!"

"How many times have I told you? How many times have I said we should move out of this shithole?"

"I am not moving! Just send another complaint to management in the morning!"

Jason's eye twitched. He stood and walked to the window. Just as he was about to slam it shut, he suddenly heard their conversation change.

"That neighbor girl—you know, with the fucked up arm… haven't seen her lately. Have you?"

"The one living with that roid-head boyfriend? No… now that you've mentioned it."

"Think they broke up?"

"I'd bet money on it. Remember those shouting matches they'd have? I wouldn't be surprised if he was the reason for the fucked arm. About time she dumped his ass."

He'd heard enough. The window closed with a loud thump. Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. Shouting matches… they'd been at each other's throats a lot up to that night—Connor's appearance certainly had turned things for the worse. Now, Jason couldn't help but wonder if he had overreacted. But he wanted to think his envy was justified—Jo had remained the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. Anything that compromised that would send him back in his downward spiral. When Connor had arrived, it'd shown Jason just how close he was to being alone. And now…

Not that any of it mattered anymore. Jason finally opened his eyes. No, tonight was another night that sleeplessness won. He turned and left the bedroom.

His feet brought him to the den. As soon as he flicked on the light, another reminder was waiting there to cruelly taunt him.

He used to hate it when Jo left her yogurt cups on the desk. The trashcan was just a few feet away, he'd tell her, so there was no need to be a slob. Now…

Well, now he wouldn't have minded at all. He would have given anything to still have her there to leave those cups around.

With a huff, Jason sat at the computer. He woke it up and found, to his dissatisfaction, that the loading bar had not made as much progress as he'd hoped. So there was nothing to do but wait. Nothing to accompany him except for these accursed thoughts. Jason leaned his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

He missed her. He desperately wanted her to come up from behind and wrap her arms around him like she would do—kiss him on the temple and murmur softly in his ear that he was going to be okay.

God, he was alone. He missed her. He missed Bruce.

"Get it together."

The voice jarred him. Hesitantly, Jason lifted his head. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder. He spotted a figure sitting behind him, but this stranger didn't notice him. Instead, the man was sitting on the edge of a cot, leaning forward with his head down and his gaze fixated on the upturned hands between his knees. "Get it together. Get it together, Arkham Knight. Get it together."

Oh. It was another one. Another PTSD-induced panic attack. As Jason stared down at those upturned hands between his knees, he saw that they wouldn't stop shaking. So he clenched them. His breaths were forcefully slow. Still, his heart raced—hammering painfully within his chest. "Get it together," he muttered again. And again. And again, and again. He would say it over and over until it passed.

Eventually, his hands stopped shaking. Warily, he unclenched them. And then he found that he was okay. It was gone. They were gone.

Jason rose to his feet. He stepped over to the small window and pulled one of the blackout curtains aside. Beyond, the sun was just beginning to rise. It touched the tallest buildings of the military encampment with gold.

The sunrises in Venezuela were unlike any he'd seen—far more beautiful than the annoying glare they were in Gotham. The way it illuminated the horizon and bathed the nearby clouds with its brilliance made Jason believe that maybe… just maybe… he was okay.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. Jason dropped the curtain. The sunset vanished, and the room fell to darkness again. His eyes were still adjusting for the lack of light, but they instinctively went to where the door was. Before answering it, he stopped at the desk where his helmet—with its two, pointed ears—waited for him. He slipped it over his head and immediately felt the chin of the helmet adjust to fit against his jawline. The blue face illuminated, glowing strongest at the eyes.

The Arkham Knight stepped over to the door and opened it. Behind it, one of his generals immediately saluted. "Sir, the troops have been loaded into transport. We're ready for Gotham—just give the word."

The Arkham Knight dipped his head in a curt nod. "Deploy," he ordered. "This time tomorrow, the Batman will be dead."

"Yessir."

The Arkham Knight dismissed the general and shut the door. For a while, he stood there with his hand still over the handle. Within, he grappled with the silent emotions that stirred at the thought of returning to Gotham for the first time in a long time—that putrid, crime-riddled shithole of a city. Home.

Suddenly, a sound behind him snapped the Arkham Knight out of his thoughts. Heavy, shaking gasps rattled through the air. The Knight turned. Instead of his dim military quarters, he was in a dark apartment bedroom. There was a man lying on the left side of the bed. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling with wide, crazed eyes. The covers over his chest rose and fell rapidly as he continued to hyperventilate. The hands at his sides were clenched to tight fists.

The Arkham Knight silently watched this man. After a few more deep, wrenching gasps, it began to sound as though the man were trying to speak. Say something. Beg. How pathetic.

Then, the covers next to them man stirred. A deep, gutting pain shot through the Arkham Knight when he saw her sit up and look at the man. He couldn't remember why he felt this sorrow at the sight of her. All he remembered was the way she would always seem to know whenever he woke up hyperventilating.

She reached over and cradled the panicked man. One of his hands reached out and gripped her arm. The Arkham Knight saw how his fingers dug deep into her skin, and wondered why he never realized how he must have hurt her doing that. But she gave no sign off pain and she wrapped her other arm firm around the man's shoulders.

"Look at me. Hey… hey…"

He wouldn't at first. The Arkham Knight wanted to shout out. "Look!" he wanted to scream, as though he knew something the man didn't. "Look at her! They all go away when you do!"

It took a bit more coaxing, but finally the man lifted his eyes. She smiled. The Arkham Knight's broken heart fluttered. "See, it's not so bad," she told him. Gently, she rocked the man back and forth. And she talked through it. She spoke about nothing in particular—nonsense, really—but those words meant the entire world to him. And as he listened, his grip on her arm slowly loosened.

And in a blink, they were gone. There was just Jason, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom and staring at the empty bed with tired eyes. Squeezing them shut, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He never should have let himself forget about those moments—when the storm clouds would part, and he still felt her arms around him. Her quiet, soothing words. It was in those moments that he would fall in love with her all over again.

But he would forget. As soon as they would lie back down, as soon as he fell asleep, he forgot.

Jason's eyes opened when he heard the computer beep. He returned to the den. The completed loading bar told him that the upgraded tracker had successfully been downloaded to his Red Hood helmet. Good—Jason couldn't stand another moment in this damned place.

He was going to make good on his promise to Connor. He wasn't going to stop until he was standing over that fucker's corpse.

Jason slipped on the red helmet and activated the new tracker. Immediately, the ping read loud and clear. "See you soon," he growled. He reached back and slipped the red hood over his head. He turned and opened the door. Then, he froze.

What should have been the hallway beyond the den's threshold was instead total darkness. Then, before he could activate his helmet's night vision, a spotlight from above suddenly lit up. The bright circle it illuminated on the floor was so harsh it made Jason flinch.

"What…?"

Above his voice, there came an eerie creaking. It grew and grew it volume until something entered the circle of light—a wheelchair. Its wheels, crooked and rusted, stopped as soon as it reached the spotlight's center. The sight of dried blood caked on the seat and handles made Jason's eyes widen as he realized why the wheelchair looked so familiar.

"Welcome home," a voice croaked from the darkness. Then a laugh, so awful and gleeful and horrible made Jason suddenly snap to his senses and stumble back. He fell into the den chair. When he looked back at the door, he saw only the hallway beyond it.

Jason grinded his teeth together as he rose to his feet. "Get it together," he muttered to himself.

Connor was quick—the Red Hood had to give him that. He found himself having to pursue that fleet-footed son of a bitch to Gotham's edge. Well, if Connor thought that leaving the city would make him any safer, he was dead wrong.

He had managed to also figure out about the Red Hood's new tracker. Some sort of signal scrambler would render the tracker useless—but that told the Red Hood that he was getting closer. And when the ping returned, when Connor had run far enough away, the Red Hood would chase once again.

Outside the city's borders, the Red Hood found himself confronted by a pack of Two Face's men. Did they really think this would be enough to stop him? To slow him down, maybe, otherwise the Red Hood was offended.

He was down to the last man who hadn't been beaten into or shot up to useless pulp. The Red Hood watched as the dimwit tried to take a swing at him with his crowbar, but quickly dodged and landed a square punch to the jaw. He caught the thug by the collar before he could fall over and pulled him close to his red helmet.

"I know your boss sent you to cover for Connor. Tell me where he's headed, and I'll let you be the survivor who lives to tell the tale."

The thug, still slightly cross-eyed and sluggish from the punch, scowled at the Red Hood. "Ha! What do you take me for?"

"Someone who wants to stay alive."

"Look at you! Think you're a tough guy, huh?" The thug suddenly spat on the Red Hood's helmet. "You're nothing but a freak! Not so tough without your ghost freak sidekick, huh? You're gonna end up just like—!"

Before the thug could finish his sentence, the Red Hood suddenly shoved him back and fired a bullet into his skull. The last of Two Face's men was dead before he hit the ground. The Red Hood turned. "Been a while, I'm getting rusty," he mumbled to himself. "Gotta remember that the idiotic ones never give good information, even with their lives on the line." Then, he gave an irritated huff. "It's no use—I've lost the scent. Best to wait til Connor gets far enough for the scrambler to be out of range again."

It wouldn't be for long that Connor would soon realize that leaving Gotham wouldn't save him. And then what? Would he stay on the run, leading the Red Hood to the ends of the world? No, Connor was reasonable. And he was a fighter—he would decide that killing the Red Hood was the only way to get him off of his trail.

The Red Hood was confident in his marksmanship, and he knew better than to underestimate Connor's. He truly wondered who would make it out of a gunfight between the two of them. Well, he was fixated on finding out—even if it was the last thing he did.

A harsh chuckle behind him suddenly made the Red Hood whirl around, gun already in hand. But no one was there—no one near enough to have sounded that close. Then, the Red Hood realized… his eyes moved down to the ground.

Where the last thug had died was instead… no, no, no. The sight of green hair and that damned purple suit immediately made the Red Hood's heart pound. And that wide, stretched, red grin…

"Miss me, old friend?"

A hand flew up to the side of the Red Hood's helmet. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a harsh shake. But when he reopened his eyes, the Joker was still there. "No… why are you here?"

"Why? Well, isn't it quite obvious, Jason?" The Joker rolled onto his side and propped one of his arms playfully underneath this head. "It's because you're having another breakdown, ha! And while I'm not going to cradle you and whisper sweet nothings into your ear, I'll at least keep you company. After all, we got to become such close friends during our time together, didn't we?"

"Stop it," the Red Hood growled between clenched teeth. "Stop it! You're dead! You can't be here!"

The Joker suddenly howled with laughter and sprang to his feet, causing the Red Hood to stumble back in terror. "I know! Isn't that great? Want me to deliver a message to your darling Jocelyn for you? Come on, whisper it in dear old Uncle Joker's ear," he beckoned, leaning forward with a hand propped behind his pale ear.

"Fuck off," the Red Hood hissed, turning away. He took a deep, shaky breath. That's it—just a few more. And then the Joker would disappear. He always would. He had to.

"Can't find the words?" that horrible, croaky voice continued behind him. "How about I fill in the blanks? Let me guess—you want me to tell her that you still love her. That you miss that sweet, delectable bosom of hers—oh no, Jason. That's far too ungentlemanly a message to deliver to the afterlife. Hmm… how about that you're sorry?" At that, the Red Hood's head turned, though he still dared not look back. "After all, you're the reason that she's gone, old boy. You could have saved her instead of turning your back on her. She's dead because of you."

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" the Red Hood snapped, finally turning around. But the red grin was gone. There was only a dead man on the ground with a bullet wound to the head. The Red Hood pulled in another shaky breath.

There came a beep. The ping had returned. And so continued the hunt.