In the end, it's the smell of cigarettes that makes Bruce, however, reluctantly take Alfred's advice and look to the League for help. The city pulsed beneath him like a living organism, its dark heart beating in time with the flicker of distant lights and the ever-present hum of traffic. From his vantage point high above the streets, Bruce Wayne—Batman—was nothing more than a shadow, a silent sentinel watching over Gotham. The smell of cigarettes still lingered in his nostrils, tugging him back to unwanted memories of Jason.

With a frustrated sigh, Bruce continued his patrol, gliding from one rooftop to the next. Each leap felt mechanical, a distraction from the thoughts gnawing at him. As Batman, he knew what it meant to solve problems with his own hands. To rely on his mind, his body, his will. But Venari had stripped him of those tools. It had turned his skills against him, leaving Jason in a state that was beyond the reach of Bruce's carefully honed methods.

His mind wandered again.

Magic, he thought bitterly, thinking back to the earlier consideration of John Constantine. For all his hatred of the supernatural and the times he had dismissed Constantine's methods as dangerous and reckless, Bruce couldn't ignore that Venari was something beyond ordinary science. The drug didn't just damage—it erased. It turned Jason into someone else entirely.

But magic wasn't an answer he trusted. Constantine was too unpredictable, and the potential for unintended consequences loomed too large. He hated magic for a reason. He hated that it broke the rules, that it disrupted order. That it opened doors that should never be opened. Magic always left a mark, and Bruce wasn't willing to gamble Jason's life on something so chaotic.

As he landed on the next rooftop, his cape billowing out behind him, his thoughts turned to the Justice League.

There are other options, he reminded himself.

Doctor Mid-Nite could certainly help with the medical side, perhaps running experiments or conducting research on the drug itself. But Bruce had already gone down that road, and it had led him to a dead end. Venari didn't behave like any drug he'd ever encountered. The damage wasn't purely physical, and no amount of Mid-Nite's expertise would be able to undo what had been done to Jason's mind.

Diana crossed his mind next. Wonder Woman. She had access to ancient knowledge, things that stretched beyond science into the realm of magic. But it was still magic, and Bruce couldn't shake his reluctance to let that world in. Besides, Diana was a warrior a protector. Venari was a toxin, something far more insidious than even her wisdom could unravel. And Bruce wasn't ready to open that door to the mysticism of Themyscira. Not yet.

His thoughts shifted again, this time to the Green Lantern Corps. Their advanced knowledge of alien technology and biology could be useful, but Venari wasn't alien. It was distinctly human, designed to corrupt and destroy the very essence of what it meant to be a person. There was no Lantern ring capable of fixing that. Besides, Gotham was its own breed of evil, a place that existed in the shadows between justice and crime. This was a battle Bruce had to fight here, on Earth, in his city.

The problem was that Jason wasn't just another Gotham citizen.

Bruce halted at the edge of the next building, his cape flaring as he surveyed the streets below. And there it was—the thought he'd been avoiding, the one name he'd been pushing away because it felt too much like defeat.

J'onn J'onzz. Martian Manhunter.

J'onn's abilities weren't tied to magic, at least not in the same way Constantine's were. His power came from something far more tangible—his mind. As a psychic, J'onn could reach places Bruce couldn't. He could delve into Jason's mind, pull him back from the brink, and connect with the part of him that still remained hidden behind the damage Venari had done. It wouldn't help Gotham. It wasn't a sustainable solution for the rest of the city.

But Bruce hesitated. And What if it only made things worse for Jason?

Jason's mind was already fragile, hanging on by a thread. Venari had stripped away everything that made him who he was, reducing him to base instincts, to the most primal parts of himself. What if J'onn's attempt to reach him only fractured what was left? What if Gotrham, Jason couldn't be saved, and Bruce had to live knowing that his decision had caused further damage?

What if there's nothing left of Jason to find?

The thought weighed heavily on him, a lead weight pressing down on his chest. Bruce wasn't used to asking for help. He wasn't used to needing it. He had trained himself to be self-reliant, to depend on no one but himself. Even when he was part of a team, he worked alone.

But this... this was different.

Jason wasn't a mission. He wasn't a criminal or a puzzle to be solved. He was Bruce's son. And Bruce had failed him once already by letting him fall into Rico's thug's hands. He'd been on a Mission while Jason had needed him.

Letting Jason suffer alone was a failure he couldn't live with. But reaching out to J'onn felt like surrendering control, like admitting there were limits to what Batman could do to what he could do.

Bruce's fingers hovered over his communicator as the wind picked up, the cold air cutting across his face. He hesitated again, staring down at the blinking button on his wrist. His jaw clenched.

Before he could press it, a sound from the alley below caught his attention.

He looked down and saw them.

Three kids, huddled together, their clothes threadbare, faces gaunt with hunger. The oldest couldn't have been more than twelve, and the other two were much younger. They were sitting beside a dumpster, trying to shield themselves from the cold, but it wasn't working. One of them was trembling, the youngest clutching a worn-out blanket that barely covered his thin frame.

Bruce's chest tightened at the sight.

Street kids, he thought, his mind immediately flashing to Jason. Jason had been just like them, living day by day, scraping by, stealing food when he could. Jason had been just as defiant, just as alone.

Bruce landed silently in the alley, his shadow stretching across the kids. The oldest boy jumped to his feet, his eyes wide with fear, but there was a defiance there, too. A spark of fight that reminded Bruce of Jason.

"We don't want trouble," the boy said, his voice shaking but firm. He took a step forward, positioning himself between Batman and the others.

Bruce didn't move, his eyes scanning the trio. They were scared, but they weren't running. They were just like Jason had been—too proud to ask for help, too scared to admit they needed it.

The boy's fists were clenched, but his hands trembled. "We don't need your help."

Bruce stood there, staring at the kid, the words hitting harder than he'd expected. It was the same thing Jason had said when he'd first taken him in, back when Jason had refused to accept Bruce's help, back when he still thought he could make it on his own.

"We don't need your help."

But Jason did need help.

And so did these kids.

Batman reached into his belt and handed the boy a bundle of food and money. The boy stared at him for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, but he didn't refuse. He took the bundle with a trembling hand, his eyes flicking between the other kids and Bruce.

Bruce undid his cape. "Here," he said, "It's cold."

The kid hesitated before finally grabbing the cape and wrapping it around the younger two.

"You'll be safe for tonight," Bruce said, his voice low. "But you can't stay here."

The boy nodded slowly, but his eyes were still full of suspicion. He wasn't used to kindness. None of them were. Bruce knew that look too well. It was the same look Jason gave him when they first met—mistrustful, defensive, unwilling to believe anyone wanted to help without a catch. It had taken a long time after arriving the manner for him to believe that all Bruce and Alfred had wanted to do was help.

Bruce turned to leave, the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest.

But as he leaped back to the rooftops, his mind circled back to Jason.

He needed help now. So much more so then when he was twelve years old with a tire iron in his hands.

No matter how hard Bruce fought it, no matter how much he wanted to handle this alone, the truth was staring him in the face. Jason wasn't going to get better on his own, and Bruce couldn't fix this by himself. He had to ask for help.

His fingers hovered over the communicator again. His jaw clenched.

Finally, with a deep breath, Bruce pressed down.

"J'onn," he said, his voice steady but tinged with a reluctance he couldn't hide. "I need your help. It's about Robin."

There was a long pause on the other end, and then J'onn's calm voice responded. "I will be there, Bruce. Tell me what you need."

Bruce didn't answer right away. He stood on the rooftop's edge, the city stretching out beneath him, its shadows deep and unforgiving. The weight of his decision pressed down on him like a heavy cloak, but there was no turning back now.

"I'll send you the details," Bruce finally said. "I need you to come to Gotham. It's about Robin."

With that, he cut the connection and leaped into the night, the city swallowing him whole.