The night was cold. Winter had begun to show its face in the sting of the wind and the bite in the air. Gotham, never warm to begin with, had sharpened its fangs. It was chewing on the people within its borders again—grinding them down, spitting out the remains.
And still, he fought.
Red Hood moved through the dark like a phantom. Tireless. Angry. Grim. The city bred monsters, and he hunted the ones who tried to take more than they deserved. The broken who rose too far, who clawed their way into power by stepping over bodies. He fought to bring them down.
Or at least—he used to.
Things had changed since they put him on a leash.
The no-kill rule.
Now he worked within the lines. Mostly. Non-lethal rounds. Broken ribs instead of broken necks. He only killed when the target that deserved it—his line, not theirs. Every restriction felt like another chain, every compromise a new link. It was beginning to wear on him, rutting his routine into something stale. And the Pit —it itched.
Then, three weeks ago, everything shifted.
The first time, he thought it was nothing. A flash in the distance. A shadow in his periphery. But then it happened again. And again. A figure, always just out of reach. Fast. Silent. Always watching—but never engaging.
He let it go at first. Gotham was full of ghosts. But curiosity had its claws in him now, and he'd grown tired of waiting.
So he waited differently.
Red Hood crouched atop a crumbling tower, half-eaten by rust and time, binoculars trained on the figure that had haunted his patrol routes for twenty-one nights. He watched as they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, the movements so fluid they almost looked rehearsed. There was something instinctive in it. Something… practiced. Lethal.
Whoever they were, they weren't new.
And still, they didn't engage.
He narrowed his gaze. Maybe they were studying him. Maybe they were testing him.
Or maybe they just didn't care.
Then the figure changed course, heading toward the tallest building in Crime Alley. He followed the movement through the lenses, watched them scale the sheer wall with unnatural ease. They reached the top and stood there for a long, motionless minute—just looking.
Then they sat. Legs dangling over the ledge. No rush. No fear.
That was all the invitation he needed.
He moved fast. Scaling the building in record time, adrenaline surging in his limbs, curiosity biting harder than the wind. When he reached the roof, they were still there.
Slender. Feminine, if the silhouette meant anything. Shoulder-length curls shimmered silver in the low light—like moonlight spun into hair. Her head bobbed gently side to side, like she was listening to music only she could hear. A thermos sat beside her, steam curling lazily into the air.
She didn't turn. Didn't startle.
She didn't move when he approached—just sat there, outlined in silver, bathed in city light and cold. The wind tugged at her curls, but she seemed unfazed. Only when he came to a full stop behind her did he notice the slow, steady bob of her head.
Music.
She was listening to something—probably through earbuds he couldn't see. Her movements had a rhythm to them, subtle and fluid. She reached for the thermos beside her with a grace that didn't belong in this place, in this cold, and brought it to her lips. A soft hum followed, low and pleased, as if the warmth inside had melted some tension he hadn't known was there.
That's when he really looked at her.
No heavy coat. No gloves. No scarf. Her outfit was light, impractical for the bitter edge in the wind—but she didn't seem bothered. Not even shivering. That nagged at him. A flicker of concern tried to rise in his chest before he batted it down with practiced speed.
He cleared his throat, more gravel than sound.
She flinched. A small, surprised jerk of the shoulders as she tore the earbuds out and twisted to look up at him.
Their eyes met.
She blinked—and then softened.
Her gaze didn't narrow. Didn't tense or harden the way most people did when they realized who stood before them. Her expression relaxed, the edge of it gentle, like moonlight breaking over the curve of a dark horizon.
And then—she smiled.
Not wide. Not beaming. Just something quiet. A shift.
She turned back to the skyline, her face tilted toward the glow of Gotham's sickly light, and without a word, reached out past her thermos and patted the empty spot beside her.
An invitation.
She didn't look at him again. Didn't wait for confirmation. She just offered it, casually, like this happened all the time—like Red Hood belonged there beside her, like the rooftop could hold both their ghosts.
And Jason Todd—Red Hood, outlaw, weapon, half-reformed corpse—stood there completely stunned.
The hell just happened?
Relaxed. Around him.
Relaxed.
No one did that. Not even the ones who owed him favors. Not even the ones he'd saved. Most people flinched when he looked at them too long. Others crossed the street. And here was this woman, mystery in motion, offering him a seat like he was some old friend she'd been waiting on.
The gears in his mind jammed. He didn't trust it. He wanted to trust it.
He looked at the spot she'd patted.
Still warm, probably. Still real.
And now he was arguing with himself—internally pacing, weighing options, because sitting down meant something. Sitting down meant staying. Staying meant—
Hell no. Or maybe... hell yes?
He stared at the spot. Then at her.
Then back at the spot.
And he didn't move
5:00 AM
The first thing she hears is the wind, brushing past the windows like a familiar whisper. Then comes the hum of early traffic, and the quiet whoosh of a car passing below. With a light yawn—soft and chiming like distant bells—she sits up slowly, blinking into the still-dark sky beyond the glass.
A content little sigh escapes her lips as she stretches, satin sheets slipping down her frame in a lazy cascade. Her bare feet meet the cool wood floor—old and a bit creaky, but lovingly kept. She moves across the room in slow, easy steps as a warm golden light flickers on overhead, casting a soft glow on everything it touches.
The bedroom is small but brimming with life—walls covered in old clippings and sepia-toned photos, some clustered in playful collage patterns that wander out into the hallway. A tall, overstuffed bookshelf leans a little to one side, crammed with dog-eared classics and paperbacks that have clearly been read more than once. In the corner, a half-finished charcoal sketch lounges on a drawing table, defiantly unfinished—but for now, it's ignored.
Somewhere deeper in the apartment, the needle of a record player drops with a satisfying click. A soft static crackles to life, followed by the gentle swell of instrumental music—something old and lovely, drifting from room to room thanks to the apartment's quirky acoustics and the phonograph tucked near the hallway corner.
Her closet creaks open like it's stretching too, and a few pieces of clothing float gracefully into the air. A dark green high-waisted skirt with neat black buttons, and a cream blouse soft as a sigh. They settle themselves on the bed beside her underthings, waiting patiently as she gets dressed with smooth, practiced motions.
By the time she's buttoning the last button, the record has played through its first side. As she steps out into the hallway, it flips itself with a cheerful click, sending another wave of warm melody dancing through the apartment.
The front room glows to life with the flick of a switch and the gentle buzz of vintage bulbs. A well-loved 1960s Thunderbird couch anchors the space, its cushions worn into perfect comfort. A modest TV—more ornamental than useful—sits near a leafy jungle of houseplants, clustered on windowsills and stacked crates. The whole space feels lived-in, not staged. Every item has a story. Nothing is trying too hard.
The scent of old books and green things drifts into something richer and more nostalgic as she steps into the kitchen.
There, retro charm hums in the red enamel and chrome curves of a 1950s refrigerator. A few other vintage appliances join the morning stretch, clicking and buzzing quietly like they're waking up too. Without a word or a wave, a small flame ignites beneath a shining Belgian Siphon coffee maker. Its glass chambers begin to fill with promise and steam. Two slices of bread float out from the cupboard and pop neatly into a toaster—like a little morning ritual unfolding all on its own.
She doesn't hurry. The apartment has its own rhythm, and she moves right along with it.
The city was still stretching awake by the time Io turned the key in the narrow side door that connected her apartment to the café. A soft mechanical click, then the slow creak of old hinges, and the familiar scent of roasted beans, worn wood, and faint lingering spices greeted her like an old friend. The main bell above the front door hadn't been switched on yet—it wouldn't chime until she decided it was time to let the world in. For now, it was just her, the hum of quiet machinery, and the warm hush that lived between home and hearth.
Inside, the space was quiet, dim. The warmth came not from lighting, but from memory. The wooden floors bore the soft scuff marks of countless shoes, each one a small story left behind. The marble counters gave a dull shine with years of use, corners rounded and polished from wiping and learning and living. Plants spilled gently from ceramic pots on high shelves and windowsills, their leaves catching the early glow of the streetlights outside.
She took a moment just to breathe.
The café had always been hers, shaped by her hands from the very beginning. Still, it carried the charm of another era—the checkered tile behind the bar, the slightly mismatched chairs, the retro chrome espresso machine that still purred like a cat when woken. Io hadn't tried to modernize it out of its soul. Instead, she layered herself into the space—new cushions here, a framed botanical print there, shelves of donated books and little trinkets gifted by regulars. It was a place built with purpose, but filled with love.
With a slow exhale, she reached behind the counter and flicked on the lights. They hummed alive with a warm buzz, casting a golden sheen across the space. Motes of dust danced in the beams like little spirits.
The café stirred with her. Chairs scooted into place by unseen hands. The coffee grinder started on its own, beans whirring into powder with the perfect measure. From the back room, crates of delivered bread and pastries floated gently to their display spots, each one settling into its labeled space as the glass case lit up from within.
By the time the hour hit 6:00 AM, the café was glowing.
The front door unlocked with a quiet click, and a chalkboard sign outside flipped itself from "Closed" to "Open."
Soon enough the first wave of regulars wandered in—a quiet, groggy flock. Most didn't speak much. Just nods, murmured orders, the comfort of being known in a place that didn't ask for more than you were ready to give. Io moved like water, warm and soft-spoken, remembering names, favorite drinks, whose kid was home from college, whose cat had just recovered from surgery, when someone has been in rehab for a certain amount of time.
When a regular—a woman in her forties with the kind of sharp eyes that always noticed things—lingered at the counter, Io offered her the new seasonal blend to sample. She always made time, even when the line was growing.
"You should raise your prices," the woman said between sips, as she always did. "You're too good for two dollars a cup."
Io just smiled and wiped her hands on a linen towel. "Everyone deserves good coffee," she said, as she always did.
At one point, a young man spilled half a cappuccino across the bar and turned ghost-pale, clearly expecting to be snapped at.
Instead, Io just reached out, set a fresh drink in front of him, and smiled. "Try again. It's still early in the day."
8:00AM
By mid-morning, the rush slowed. The chairs filled with people instead of orders. Soft jazz played from a vintage speaker tucked near the window, and sunlight poured in through the front glass in slanted gold bars. Io leaned behind the counter, a rare moment to sip her own drink—a dark roast with a little lavender—and watch.
As the rush tapered off and the steady buzz of morning gave way to a quieter late mid-morning lull, the doorbell above the Deco Café chimed softly. Io glanced up from wiping the wand, her cloth stained with hints of espresso and steamed milk. A familiar presence stepped through the door—tall, imposing, dressed head to toe in black denim, leather, and attitude. Kath, also known as Rod, stood just shy of six feet tall, with punk flair and a sharp edge to her aesthetic. She might have been intimidating to most, but Io knew better. Beneath the bold patches, black eyeliner, and steel-toed boots was someone as sweet as the lemon loaves in the back.
The moment their eyes met, Io's face lit up. "Good morning, Rod. How are you doing?"
Rod stopped beside the counter, her expression unreadable for just a beat before a faint, genuine smile broke through. "Good mornin, Boss. I'm alright. Stayed up late workin' on the car again. I think I've almost got the transmission back together. Had to dig through a junkyard outta town for gears that weren't rusted to hell."
She moved toward the back, into the employee room. The clink of a hanger preceded her return, now sporting her custom leather jacket. The Deco logo—elegant and vintage—was patched proudly on the chest and blown up large across the back, letting her retain her edge while wearing the uniform.
Io beamed as she shifted to wipe down the black marble counter, now scattered with syrup droplets and foam residue from the earlier rush. "I'm so excited for you! Isn't that one of the last pieces before it's road legal again?"
Rod bent slightly to peer into the pastry display, scanning the remaining stock. "Yep. Just gotta fix the headlights and I'm done."
At that, Io's eyes literally glimmered. Her four-pointed star pupils shifted, iris color flickering into hazel and her slightly pointed ears wiggle in excitement. . She bounced from foot to foot like an excited child. "Ooooooh! Please bring it by when it's done. I'd really like to see it!"
Rod grinned as she made her way into the kitchen. "Absolutely, Boss. Hell, I'll even take you for a spin."
Io squealed with glee, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched Rod disappear behind the swinging door. The kitchen light flicked on, and the smell of warming pastries started to trickle back into the front room.
She turned back to the counter, still smiling—until her gaze shifted to a corner booth. A college student sat alone, hunched over a thick, outdated laptop. Their jaw was tight, their fingers combing through their hair in visible frustration. They looked moments away from chucking the device out the front window.
With a breath of warmth in her expression, Io floated a plate of banana bread—already ordered by another customer—to the pickup counter with ease. At the same time, the ingredients for lavender lemonade began assembling mid-air with gentle precision. A slice of lemon bread followed, drifting onto a small plate.
She took them both in hand and walked toward the student. The girl didn't look up until Io set the plate and cup down in front of her with a gentle clink. The soft sound of someone sitting beside her made her jump slightly.
Io smiled. "What are you working on? I might not be an expert, but I'll offer what I can."
The girl stared at the offered snack, then slowly exhaled. "Human biology. I've got a test coming up and I just… I can't get the hand bones. They don't make sense. It's like trying to memorize an entire drawer of silverware."
Io laughed softly. "I can actually help with this one. I'm also a doctor."
The girl blinked in surprise.
"Now," Io said, folding her hands in front of her. "How did that little tune go again…?"
For the next fifteen minutes, while Rod ran the front with practiced ease, Io leaned in close with the student, her voice calm and rhythmic. She sang the old mnemonic she used to hum to herself in med school—an upbeat jingle that mapped the bones of the human hand. The girl wrote down the tune, repeating it slowly under her breath. And slowly, the tension in her shoulders began to unravel.
12:18PM
Later, as the afternoon rush comes and its chaos for Rod, Io, and the apprentices. But this chaos never stays and soon after the café had settled into its usual afternoon lull, that sweet spot between the morning rush and the after-work wave. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass transom, throwing gentle amber and jade hues over the marble countertop where Rina stood with a tablet in one hand and a furrowed brow.
Io glided in from the storeroom, tea in one hand, serene as ever.
Rina didn't look up. "I don't get it. These supplier invoices don't add up. Either someone sent us extra cases of oat milk or our last delivery driver was high."
Io set her tea down with a quiet clink. "Let me see."
Rina turned the tablet toward her. Io didn't take it—just leaned in slightly, scanning the numbers with a hum.
"You're not wrong. But it's not the supplier. You forgot to deduct the in-store use inventory—what we use for staff drinks, testers, and practice pours."
Rina blinked. "We log that separately?"
"We do. You set that log up yourself last month, remember?"
"Right," Rina muttered, ears going pink. "Sorry."
"No need for that. You're learning. And you're doing well."
Io reached forward, tapped a few buttons, and highlighted a note field. "Add a note here. Let the inventory know the discrepancy was accounted for. It shows leadership. Awareness. That's what being a Captain's about—it's not knowing everything, it's knowing how to find the answer."
Rina exhaled and nodded, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "You really don't get mad, do you?"
Io raised an amused brow. "Only at coffee over 150F and people who forget to water the café plants."
She turned to grab her tea again but paused, then added, more gently, "You're close, Rina. A few more weeks of this, and you'll be ready."
"Thanks, Don—I mean, Boss. Er—Io." She winced, embarrassed.
Io just smiled, brushing past her to adjust a crooked salt jar on a nearby table. "Call me whatever you like. Just make sure the café runs smoother than that espresso machine next time you train Avery."
3:32PM
The café had settled into its gentle rhythm, that peaceful hum between breakfast and lunch. Just as she took another sip, the bell above the Deco Café door chimed softly, announcing a new arrival.
At first, the man who entered blended right in—business casual, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, a quick smile for the barista. He placed his order without issue and took a seat near the window. But something shifted. Maybe the drink took too long. Maybe he didn't like the music. Maybe he was just looking for a fight.
"I asked for oat milk, not whatever this is," he snapped, holding the cup out like it was toxic.
Avery offered a gentle, practiced smile. "That is oat milk, sir. We don't use dairy unless someone asks."
"Well, then it's burned. Or watered down. Or you don't know what you're doing." He took another exaggerated sip and grimaced. "Tastes like dishwater."
"I can make you another if you'd like," Avery said, still calm. "Or I can refund you."
"Oh, that's cute," he barked. "You screw something up and I'm supposed to just be grateful for a do-over? What kind of half-baked operation are you running here?"
Heads were turning now. A quiet discomfort crept through the café.
"I'm trying to help you, sir," Avery said, voice dipping, still composed. "There's no need to—"
"I'll decide what there's a need for," he snapped, leaning forward on the counter, voice sharp. "You think just because you wear an apron, you get to act like you're better than everyone? I've worked in real places. Real cities."
Upstairs, a soft click echoed through the café as a door opened, and Io descended with unhurried steps, ledger tucked under one arm. She reached the floor just as the man's voice took on a harder edge.
"You people always act so smug behind a counter. Like you matter."
"That's enough," Io said, her voice even and unwavering as she stepped beside Avery. "You can take your drink and enjoy the rest of your day—or you can leave."
The man turned, sizing her up. "Oh, great. Another one."
"I'm the owner," she said, smiling faintly. "And I don't allow my staff to be spoken to that way."
He laughed, bitter and loud. "You're the owner? Thought you'd be taller."
"I get that a lot."
"Figures. Another delicate little princess playing boss in a fake coffee shop. You think this place makes you important?"
"No," Io said simply. "But it does give me the right to ask you to leave."
His smirk cracked. "Or what?"
"You'll be removed."
"You gonna make me?" He took a step forward. "Lady, I've dealt with worse than you. You don't scare me."
"You really should've stopped three insults ago," Io said, the warmth in her tone cooling.
He lunged.
The swing was fast—driven more by pride than precision—but it stopped cold midair, his fist suspended just inches from her cheek. Confusion flickered across his face as his arm froze, held by an unseen force. His other arm snapped to his side, as if pinned there by iron bands.
Io didn't flinch. "You must not have read the sign outside," she said coolly. "We have a throw-out policy."
With a low hum, the front door creaked open on its own. The man jerked back, feet dragging as if the ground had turned slick. He floated in a straight line through the café, out the open door, and across the street—his arms still bound tight to his sides—until he landed with a firm plop on the far sidewalk.
The door closed behind him with a soft but definitive click.
Outside, he shouted something unintelligible and flailed an arm toward the café before stalking off, muttering curses with an angry scowl.
Inside, someone clapped. Another followed. A few customers raised their cups in unison.
Io gave a small, grateful bow of her head, then turned back toward the counter. "Thank you," she said with a light smile. "And please let me know if he tries again."
She touched Avery's arm gently. "You alright?"
Avery nodded, still catching her breath. "Yeah. Just… a little surprised."
"That makes two of us," Io said softly, then gave her a reassuring wink before heading back upstairs, the café slowly returning to its golden, steady rhythm behind her.
5:52PM
The Deco hummed in its usual lull between the afternoon rush and the evening wave, sunlight filtering through the front windows in long golden stripes. The espresso machine gleamed on the counter, chrome and copper polished to a soft shine, but beneath its sleek exterior, it could be a finicky beast.
Avery stood beside it with a faint crease in their brow, one hand hovering uncertainly over the portafilter, the other gripping a cloth that had long since stopped being useful. "It hates me," they muttered under their breath.
Io glanced over from the pastry case she'd just finished restocking. Her curls were tied up, apron still dusted with flour, but her smile was patient and unbothered. "It doesn't hate you. It's just stubborn. Like most old things."
Avery gave the machine a wary look. "I've pulled this shot three times, and it either floods like a river or chokes like it forgot how to breathe."
Io came to stand beside them, her voice low and even like always. "Okay. Let's take it slow. Step one: Show me your grind size."
Avery turned toward the grinder and pointed. "I think I've got it on—uh, eleven?"
Io leaned in, adjusted it half a click finer. "Too coarse. Let's tighten it just a bit. This machine needs the coffee to be like damp sand—gritty but packable."
Avery adjusted, nodded, and reset the portafilter. "Got it."
"Good," Io said, her tone like warm tea. "Now dose it again. Tap it flat with the side. Don't pack it yet."
They followed her instructions, slower now, movements becoming more deliberate under her steady guidance.
"Now tamp," she said. "Even pressure. Imagine you're pressing it into memory—not too hard, not too soft. Just enough to settle it."
Avery smirked a little. "That poetic espresso technique?"
Io chuckled, eyes warm. "It listens better that way."
Together, they locked the portafilter into place and pulled the shot. The machine hissed and steamed, but the stream that poured out was smooth, golden, and steady.
"Look at that," Io murmured. "That's the color you want. The tiger stripes. Not too fast, not too bitter."
Avery leaned in, watching the espresso bloom into the tiny ceramic cup. "It's actually... kinda pretty."
Io offered a small smile. "Most things are, when you give them enough patience."
The shot finished, and Avery carefully removed the portafilter, still a little stiff in the wrist but clearly relieved.
"Okay," they said, exhaling. "That was less painful than usual."
Io moved to pour the shot into a drink order, then paused just long enough to say, "You're doing well. It's not about getting it perfect the first time. It's about learning to listen. Machines, people—it's all the same."
Avery blinked, then gave a soft, grateful smile.
And just as the clock ticked toward late noon and the buzz of footsteps grew outside the door, the espresso machine hissed again—this time, not in protest, but readiness.
8:07PM
9:00PM closing
The wind had changed by evening, sharper now—cutting in under coats and riding low along the concrete. The city hadn't seen snow yet, but the air promised it wasn't far off. That brittle kind of cold had settled in, the kind that clung to the bones and made hands stiff if you stayed out too long.
Inside the Deco Café, warmth drifted like a balm—golden light pooling onto tabletops, the soft scent of roasted beans still in the air. Most of the crowd had cleared out, just a couple stragglers nursing drinks or finishing pastries while the jazz from the phonograph turned slow and sleepy.
Io had just finished wiping down a counter when the door creaked. Not the bell—a creak. Someone pushing it open slow, like they were testing their welcome.
She glanced up.
It was Gus. She didn't know if that was his real name, but that's what the others called him. Gruff man, heavy coat full of holes and a permanent scowl like the world owed him something and never paid up. He usually came in just long enough to warm his hands and drink a plain coffee in silence. Paid cash. Never said much unless something pissed him off. But he never caused real trouble, and he always left a crumpled tip, even if it was just a quarter.
Tonight, he stood near the doorway with stiff shoulders and cracked lips. He didn't come to the counter.
Io caught the way he rubbed his arms beneath the coat. The chill had already crept under his skin.
She didn't speak. Just disappeared behind the counter and came back with a folded wool blanket—one of the ones she kept stashed near the back hallway. Not the softest one. Not the newest. But thick. Reliable.
"Here," she said, holding it out. "Take it."
Gus looked at her like she'd offered him a favor he wasn't sure he deserved. "You givin' those away now?"
"Only to people who forget how cold it's getting," she said, one brow arched.
He scoffed, but it was half-hearted. "I'm fine."
Io didn't move. Just stood there, calm as ever, blanket still outstretched. "It's not a handout. It's a reminder that someone sees you."
That got him. Just a flicker. His fingers twitched at his sides before he finally stepped forward and took it—rough hands brushing hers as he pulled it close.
"…Thanks," he muttered, barely audible.
"Don't wait until you're freezing next time," Io said, soft but steady.
He nodded once, already turning toward the door. Blanket tucked under his arm like he wasn't ready to admit he needed it.
"Night, Gus."
He paused in the doorway. "Yeah. You too."
Then the door creaked again, and the cold slipped in for half a second before it shut behind him.
Io lingered there for a moment, watching the reflection of the streetlights stretch across the polished floor. She didn't say anything. Just turned and went back to the counter, picked up her rag, and kept wiping down the same corner she'd started on—like the quiet had never been broken at all.
9:25PM
The café had begun to quiet hours before sunset, its usual warmth dimming into a hush as the last customers trickled out. Now, with the chairs upturned and the espresso machine wiped clean, only silence remained. Rod had gone, and the apprentices, with their laughter and clumsy chatter, had long since vanished into the Gotham night.
Io stood alone in the darkened space, her hand resting lightly on the countertop as she let the stillness settle. The air smelled faintly of lavender, vanilla, and burnt sugar. Familiar. Comforting. But beneath her skin, something prickled—an itch she couldn't place. It wasn't restlessness. Not exactly. It was something deeper. A thrumming tension under her ribs, like her body remembered a pressure her mind hadn't caught up to yet.
Maybe a run would help.
She exhaled, slow and deliberate, before pushing away from the counter. In a few practiced strides, she moved into the back and up into her living quarters—quiet, curated, full of small comforts and collected echoes. But even here, the feeling persisted. A hum that wouldn't settle.
Without another thought, she stepped into her bedroom and tugged on her workout clothes: a fitted tank top, leggings, and her old wraparound belt. She found her weathered iPod in the drawer beside her bed—one of the ancient models with a cracked screen and a playlist that hadn't been touched in years but still held a rhythm she trusted. Slipping the headphones on, she scrolled until a familiar beat pulsed into her ears.
She moved back into the kitchen to prepare her tea—an earthy, spiced blend that kept her steady. The thermos clicked into place in the sling on her back with a satisfying weight. She adjusted the strap, secured her scarf loosely around her neck, then moved toward the fire escape.
The metal groaned beneath her boots, but she moved like a shadow, pulling herself onto the rooftop with practiced ease. She didn't bother with a jacket. The winter wind howled across the city, but Io's skin didn't flinch. She stretched at the edge of the roof—slow, graceful movements to wake her limbs—then stepped back for momentum.
Her body arched forward and launched.
She leapt.
The air peeled past her, slicing against her arms as she flew from rooftop to rooftop, using short bursts of levitation to glide across the wide gaps. Her core burned with coiled energy, her cells refracting light through her veins like a living prism. Her strange blood pumped hot and fast through the alien pathways of her body, her heart syncing with the music pounding through her headphones.
Up here, Gotham became something else. Not a wound. Not a battlefield. Just a sea of glittering lights spread out beneath her.
After several minutes of movement and a slowly growing burn what she had for muscles, she scaled the highest building she could find, vaulting effortlessly onto the rooftop ledge. She landed with a soft thud and a little bounce, then flopped down with all the grace of someone who trusted the sky not to drop her.
She swung her legs over the edge.
The city stretched below her, cold and alive, flickering with a kind of exhausted resilience. Io popped open her thermos, sipped her tea, and let her head bop gently to the rhythm in her ears. No one could see her up here. And for now, that was enough.
Then they sat. Legs dangling over the ledge. No rush. No fear.
That was all the invitation he needed.
He moved fast. Scaling the building in record time, adrenaline surging in his limbs, curiosity biting harder than the wind. When he reached the roof, they were still there.
Slender. Feminine, if the silhouette meant anything. Shoulder-length curls shimmered silver in the low light—like moonlight spun into hair. A thermos sat beside her, steam curling lazily into the air.
She didn't turn. Didn't startle.
She didn't move when he approached—just sat there, outlined in silver, bathed in city light and cold. The wind tugged at her curls, but she seemed unfazed. Only when he came to a full stop behind her did he notice the slow, steady bob of her head.
Music.
She was listening to something—probably through earbuds he couldn't see. Her movements had a rhythm to them, subtle and fluid. She reached for the thermos beside her with a grace that didn't belong in this place, in this cold, and brought it to her lips. A soft hum followed, low and pleased, as if the warmth inside had melted some tension he hadn't known was there.
That's when he really looked at her.
No heavy coat. No gloves. No scarf. Her outfit was light, impractical for the bitter edge in the wind—but she didn't seem bothered. Not even shivering. That nagged at him. A flicker of concern tried to rise in his chest before he batted it down with practiced speed.
He cleared his throat, more gravel than sound.
She flinched. A small, surprised jerk of the shoulders as she tore the earbuds out and twisted to look up at him.
Their eyes met.
She blinked—and then softened.
Her gaze didn't narrow. Didn't tense or harden the way most people did when they realized who stood before them. Her expression relaxed, the edge of it gentle, like moonlight breaking over the curve of a dark horizon.
And then—she smiled.
Not wide. Not beaming. Just something quiet. A shift.
She turned back to the skyline, her face tilted toward the glow of Gotham's sickly light, and without a word, reached out past her thermos and patted the empty spot beside her.
An invitation.
She didn't look at him again. Didn't wait for confirmation. She just offered it, casually, like this happened all the time—like Red Hood belonged there beside her, like the rooftop could hold both their ghosts.
And Jason Todd—Red Hood, outlaw, weapon, half-reformed corpse—stood there completely stunned.
The hell just happened?
Relaxed. Around him.
Relaxed.
No one did that. Not even the ones who owed him favors. Not even the ones he'd saved. Most people flinched when he looked at them too long. Others crossed the street. And here was this woman, mystery in motion, offering him a seat like he was some old friend she'd been waiting on.
The gears in his mind jammed. He didn't trust it. He wanted to trust it.
He looked at the spot she'd patted.
And now he was arguing with himself—internally pacing, weighing options, because sitting down meant something. Sitting down meant staying. Staying meant—
Hell no. Or maybe… hell yes?
He stared at the spot. Then at her.
Then back at the spot.
He stood there longer than he wanted to, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind the red gleam of his helmet. The wind bit harder up here, but he barely felt it.
Eventually, he gave in—partially.
No way was he sitting down like this was some rooftop therapy session. But he didn't leave either. Instead, he crouched, boots planted steady, one arm resting loosely on his knee. A middle ground. Close enough to talk. Far enough to bolt.
"You've been tailing me for weeks," he said, voice low and flat. "Why?"
Her legs swung casually over the ledge like they hadn't just been caught doing something suspicious. Like this was normal. Like he was the one intruding.
"I was getting antsy," she said, unbothered. "Figured I'd start running again. Our paths just… overlapped."
Jason snorted. Right.
"Uh-huh. So you're telling me you just happened to take your midnight cardio across Gotham's rooftops? Multiple nights in a row?" He tilted his head. "Coincidence?"
There was a soft laugh from her, more amused than guilty. She reached for her thermos, slow and calm, taking a sip like they were just two strangers sharing the skyline.
"When you say it like that, it does sound a little ridiculous," she admitted, glancing sideways at him. "But yeah. Pretty much."
Jason narrowed his eyes behind the mask. She wasn't tense. Wasn't lying—not in the obvious ways. But something about her didn't add up.
Didn't add up at all.
She exhaled, steam curling from the edge of her cup. "I'm not exactly human, you know. I need something a little more intense than jogging around the block."
Jason blinked.
"…Right." He leaned back on his heel a little, not breaking eye contact. "So let me get this straight. You're not human, you've been tailing me all over the city, and now you're just… sipping tea and vibing like this is totally normal?"
She smiled again—small, calm, like he wasn't holding half a dozen exit strategies in his head just in case she turned into a problem.
"Pretty much."
Jason's jaw tensed. He didn't like how easy she made it sound. He didn't like how unbothered she seemed.
But most of all?
He didn't like that part of him believed her.
She wasn't posturing. Wasn't trying to be cute. She was just stating facts—deadpan and straightforward, like this wasn't the weirdest conversation he'd had this week.
He stayed quiet, scanning her for weapons, threats, the telltale signs of a trap. Nothing jumped out at him.
No twitchy tells. No false moves.
Just a girl on a ledge. Swinging her legs. Drinking tea like it was any other night.
There were a few minutes of silence between them—quiet, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that filled space without crowding it. Jason stayed crouched, eyes on the skyline, brain ticking through scenarios and motives, trying to square her presence with something that made sense.
Nothing did.
Finally, he spoke again. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it. There always was.
"You sure you're not human?" He glanced at her, visor glinting in the low light. "You look pretty human to me."
She let out a quiet huff of amusement, the sound warm and unbothered. Without looking at him, she reached up and tucked her curls behind her ear.
The movement was smooth. Intentional.
Jason's gaze sharpened.
Her ear—definitely not standard issue. Pointed, just enough to catch the light. Slightly longer than anything a plastic surgeon could get away with, even on the wildest TikTok trend. It wasn't a costume piece either. It was real.
Jason leaned back slightly, eyebrows raising beneath the helmet.
"Well, I'll be damned."
His voice wasn't mocking. Not shocked either. Just… a little impressed. A little thrown.
She still didn't look at him. Just kept sipping her tea like they weren't sitting on a rooftop in Gotham, talking about alien biology and mutual surveillance like it was coffee shop small talk.
Jason let out a slow breath and sat back on his heels.
Okay. So maybe she wasn't lying.
Now he just had to figure out what the hell she was.
Jason's stance didn't change, but there was a subtle shift in the air around him—like tension curling at the edges of something calm. His arms rested loosely over his knees in that crouched position, the kind that said I'm not here to fight you… unless you give me a reason.
His voice had come out sharper than he meant, edged with suspicion and curiosity all tangled up in one. "So… not intended offense," he said, narrowing his eyes beneath the mask, "but what are you?"
The question hung there, heavy in the cold rooftop air. It wasn't just casual curiosity—it was the kind of question someone asked when their gut was telling them the puzzle pieces didn't quite add up. And his gut was rarely wrong.
The woman beside him didn't look away this time. She met his gaze directly, her silver-flecked eyes catching the faint light of the skyline. There was no panic in them. No evasion.
"Do you mean species?" she asked calmly, "Or what I do for work?"
The words were soft, almost too soft to challenge. But the look in her eyes said otherwise. It was steady. Intentional. Like she was holding up a mirror to him, offering the same scrutiny he'd just given her—and daring him to clarify.
Jason's brow furrowed beneath the mask.
It wasn't the answer he expected and Jason didn't answer right away.
Instead, he watched her, the way her eyes met his without flinching, steady and calm with just a hint of bite. The glint there wasn't defensive—it was a challenge. She was daring him to ask the right question. Or maybe the wrong one. It was hard to tell with people like her. People who didn't back down. People who didn't fold under the weight of being watched.
The way she said it—like it mattered. Like the two weren't the same.
Jason's breath hitched.
There was something about the way she looked at him. Not scared. Not submissive. Just… steady. Like she'd had centuries to practice holding a gaze and wasn't about to be the first to look away. It unsettled him in a way he hadn't expected. Made something in his ribs twist.
He let the silence hang between them. A test. A weigh-in. Then—
"Let's start with species," he said, voice low and rough, not backing down an inch. "We'll get to the job description after."
And still, he didn't blink. Didn't move.
Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure if he was the one doing the interrogating…
or the one being slowly pulled under.
Jason blinked slowly behind the mask, processing the words like puzzle pieces he wasn't sure fit on the board yet.
"Species?" she said, and her tone shifted—gentle, but not apologetic. "I am a Photora. My species are quick-evolving, but slow-aging. Due to the amount of energy we can collect, each generation becomes something a little different."
He didn't move, but something in his shoulders relaxed, almost like instinct gave way to interest.
"We become explorers," she continued. "Our own vehicles. We spread out… and slowly lost each other. I am the only one of my kind in this sector."
She said it like a fact. Not sad. Not self-pitying. Just the truth, held steady in her voice. Her eyes didn't leave his—silver glinting like distant stars.
"There's more," she added. "But that's the basic rundown. Did this answer your question?"
Jason studied her in silence for a beat too long. The kind of silence that meant yes, but didn't say it yet.
Finally, his voice came low, thoughtful beneath the mask. "Yeah. That's… a hell of a thing."
He didn't sound afraid.
He sounded intrigued.
"As for work," she added, the tone shifting ever so slightly—lighter, more grounded in the present—"I own a café here in Crime Alley. And I'm a doctor… I run two hospitals."
Jason blinked behind the mask, head tilting just a fraction. That, he hadn't expected.
She didn't offer names. Didn't give locations. Just enough to answer the question without really answering it. Like tossing a breadcrumb without revealing the whole trail. But her posture didn't shift, and her voice didn't waver. She wasn't hiding, not really. Just careful.
Cautious.
Smart.
And maybe, just maybe, testing him too.
She cradled the thermos between her hands, warmth radiating through the metal as she watched the city flicker beneath them. Gotham's glow was muted here, choked beneath layers of smog and shadow, but somehow it still pulsed—alive in its broken way. Her voice broke the quiet again, soft but sure.
"Now, Mister Red," she began, her gaze still cast outward, "I recognize you. And I recognize what you've done—what you can do—for the community."
Jason's brow knit slightly under the helmet. People didn't usually start off with that kind of tone unless it was leading somewhere. A trap. A lecture. Something rehearsed. But hers wasn't polished; it felt… genuine.
"I've been around a long time," she continued. "Long enough to watch the underbelly of Gotham twist and contort into something unrecognizable, and then back again. I've seen the worst of it, and still…" She turned to look at him now, steady and unwavering. "I truly appreciate your presence."
That stopped him cold.
She wasn't being sarcastic. Wasn't hedging or smiling to soften the words. Just giving them, plain and clean, like they mattered.
"I reopened my store because you started working in Crime Alley," she said simply, like it was fact.
Jason stared at her, unreadable behind the visor, but something shifted in his chest. Not the sharp, reactive anger he usually felt when people mentioned his turf. Not the bitter defensiveness, the need to prove he deserved to be there.
This was different.
He didn't move for a moment. Didn't speak. Just let it sink in.
Someone had stayed. Someone had returned—because of him. Because he'd carved out something stable in a place known for swallowing stability whole.
He'd always figured his presence was tolerated at best. Feared, maybe. But respected? Trusted?
That was new. That was—
"…Huh," he muttered, voice quieter than he meant. Not dismissive. Just… soaking it in.
And for once, he didn't try to argue.
Silence stretched out between them like a taut wire, humming low and uneasy in the night air. Neither moved, though the wind picked up around them, scraping past Gotham's rooftops in cold bursts. The city below still buzzed, but up here—where steam rose from vents and moonlight glazed the concrete—it was just the two of them.
Jason felt the silence press against his ribs.
She didn't fill it. She seemed perfectly at home in it, legs still swinging lightly, thermos nestled between her palms like it was a delicate piece of ritual. She was comfortable up here—too comfortable for someone who claimed she'd only recently started running again. That thought alone kept Jason's posture tight, weight in his heels, ready to react. The more she revealed, the more the tension in his gut coiled.
Finally, he spoke—low, pointed, and with the bite of someone used to peeling back masks.
"So, how long have you really been in Gotham?" His voice cut through the cold like gravel on steel. "You said you've seen the underbelly twist into something and back."
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she hummed—like she was mulling over options. Not lying. Not evading. Weighing. As if the truth wasn't hard, just… dense.
Then she turned to him with that same unhurried calm. Her smile was small, and knowing, with the slightest curl of mischief behind it. "I've been on Earth since the 1860s," she said simply. "I was a child still. I came to Gotham in the early 1920s. I've been here ever since."
She punctuated the sentence with another sip from her thermos, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if the warmth from the tea held more memory than taste.
Jason blinked behind the mask. He didn't move—but his thoughts did, scrambling over each word like a sniper re-calibrating aim.
Eighteen-sixty.
Not nineteen. Eighteen.
He'd heard strange things. He'd seen strange things. Aliens, monsters, Lazarus Pits, alternate timelines—all real. All terrifying in their own right. But hearing it said so plainly, so easily, on a rooftop in his city?
It grounded him in a different way. Not fear. Not suspicion. Just the deep, slow churn of realization. The kind you feel in your bones when history looks back at you and smiles.
She'd been here for Prohibition. For the mob wars. She'd watched the city before masks, before Batmen. Before him.
And she'd stayed.
He didn't say anything at first. Didn't trust himself to. But somewhere, deep in that quiet space between disbelief and awe, something like respect began to stir. Uncomfortable and stubborn—but real.
"…Shit," he muttered, mostly to himself. "You've been here for a long time."
"Mmmhmm," she hummed, the sound light and casual as her legs swung over the ledge. "Yep. I've seen many things, healed lots of people… and crushed many reputations."
Jason's head jerked slightly in her direction, his suspicion spiking instantly. "Reputations?" he repeated, voice flat, incredulous—like he was daring her to say more.
She didn't backpedal. Hell, she didn't even blink. Just reached for her thermos again with that same easy composure. Sipped. Let the steam coil lazily into the air between them before answering.
"Yes," she said simply. "With the system I've built in the underbelly. I run the neutral party among the gangs. My group acts as the buffer. A mediator. And when someone breaks the rules, their street cred is destroyed. Word spreads—quickly. No one wants to deal with a traitor. No one trusts them."
Jason stiffened. He didn't move, didn't say a word, but inside? His instincts were already flaring like warning lights. Neutral party? System? That wasn't street talk. That was infrastructure. Organization. The kind of structure built by someone who'd been in the game a long damn time—and had the spine to enforce it.
He didn't like that.
Didn't like how calmly she talked about it. Didn't like how neatly it explained the low-level shifts he'd noticed in the alley over the past year—tensions easing, boundaries holding. He'd chalked it up to his own efforts, to reputation and fear and a few calculated beatdowns. But maybe…
She turned her head slightly, catching his silence. "You know the BreakNeck gang from the east side that disappeared last month?"
Jason's eyes narrowed behind the mask. "Yeah," he said slowly. "They were all over the docks. Then they just… vanished."
"They broke a contract," she said simply. "One my group brokered between them and the Bricks. The party that violated it got erased."
The thermos clicked softly as she set it back down.
Jason didn't respond right away. He was busy watching her again—closer this time. Picking apart every word. Every gesture. She didn't carry herself like a gang leader. Didn't talk like a crime boss. But the way she spoke about balance, about control… it was practiced. Intentional. Measured.
She wasn't some casual player in the back alleys.
She was a piece of the board he hadn't seen until now. But he backs off so that he might get more information.
His jaw tensed, voice low. "You always this open to strangers with helmets?"
She turns and looks at him with a quite reverence, "I'm only ever open to the person who was never a villain… but the only person who was willing to be hated".
Then came the silence that came after a blow he hadn't expected. The kind that made your chest feel too tight, like the world had shifted half a degree beneath your boots and no one had warned you.
"You what?"
His voice, when it came, was low. Rough. Not incredulous, not quite. Just… hoarse with something too sharp to name.
Her gaze never faultered. "People started feeling safer. Word spread. You were unpredictable, sure—but you were cleaning house. No bribes. No quotas. Just fire and blood and warning shots." A pause, and then, quieter: "You were loud enough that even ghosts like me started paying attention."
Jason's breath caught, but he covered it with a scoff. "I'm not exactly what most people would call an endorsement."
Her expression didn't change. "Most people don't know the difference between fear and protection."
And there it was.
That thing. That razor-thin thread running through the rooftop air—like she'd reached into his chest and plucked the question he never let himself ask. Was it worth it? Did it matter?
He hated how it stuck to his ribs.
She sipped her tea again. Quiet. Patient. Like she hadn't just tilted his whole damn night on its head.
And Jason—Red Hood, the one people flinched from, the one who made criminals sweat and Bat-family members argue behind closed doors—sat there on the ledge of a city that hated nuance, staring at a woman who saw straight through him and still poured him a cup of respect.
He didn't answer right away.
He didn't know how.
So instead, he sat. Not crouched. Not half-ready to bolt. He sat, slowly, beside her on the ledge. Boots brushing stone. Fingers loose at his sides. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let the silence hold him too.
She didn't speak again. Didn't push.
Just offered him the skyline.
And it was enough.
They stayed like that for a while.
Boots on cold stone. Steam curling from her teacup.
The wind wasn't loud tonight—just steady. Just enough to remind them they were high above the city, in a place too liminal for safety, too still for masks.
And then, without looking at her, he said it.
Low. Almost lost to the wind.
"Why me?"
Not bitter. Not sharp. Just worn thin.
Like a thread pulled too many times.
Io didn't move at first. Didn't blink.
She just sipped her tea, eyes on the skyline like it was a memory instead of a view.
Then, softly—almost so gently it didn't seem like it should land as hard as it did—she answered.
"Because fire recognizes its own."
Jason didn't breathe for a second.
Something old and half-dead stirred in his chest.
Not warmth, exactly. But something like it.
He turned just enough to see her in profile—lit by neon glow and starlight smog. Not soft. Not hard. Just… resolute. Like someone who'd seen too many winters to lie about the weather anymore.
She didn't explain. Didn't need to.
Because he knew what she meant.
Not the fury. Not the rage.
But the burn of it. The thing that eats and leaves you standing anyway. Charred but upright.
He exhaled slow. Almost a laugh. Almost not.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Well. Some days it feels like all I've got left is smoke."
Her gaze flicked to him. Calm. Unyielding.
"Smoke still means you're burning."
The silence had stretched just long enough to feel like a truce. Like something soft had been built between them without anyone agreeing to it.
She tilted her head, studying him with a glint of mischief tucked beneath the softness in her voice.
"Would you like to be rooftop companions?"
The question was so unexpected—so delightfully Io—that it knocked something loose in his brain.
Jason blinked.
"…What?"
She smiled, not mocking, just… pleased. As if she already knew it was a good idea.
"I'll sweeten the offer," she added, folding her hands around her cup.
"One ridiculous story from way-back-when, completely free of charge. Even if you decline."
He gave her a wary look. Not hostile. Just trying to figure out what game she was playing.
She didn't make him wait.
Her tone shifted—still light, but with that unmistakable undercurrent of reverence she saved for strange, sacred things.
"It's a simple kind of arrangement. We meet here. Speak freely. You can complain, or reminisce, or ask questions I probably shouldn't answer."
A faint smile.
"Tell me what you can't tell anyone else, or nothing at all. I don't mind the quiet."
She glanced at the skyline. Her voice dipped, thoughtful.
"And I've been around for a long time. Surely I've collected a few decent bits of wisdom in the cracks between decades."
She turned back to him, calm and curious.
"What do you think?"
He didn't answer.
Not right away.
Instead, he stared at her—at the strange, steady calm in her posture, at the way her eyes glimmered in the city light like they saw more than they should. Like she already knew how this would go, but had the grace not to push.
Rooftop companions.
It sounded…ridiculous. Something out of a bad noir script or a kid's cartoon. But she said it like it was a sacred ritual. Like there was weight behind it. Intention.
And that was the part that threw him off.
Because people didn't offer him things without strings. Not without an angle. Not without waiting to yank it all back and call it his fault.
But she had.
He looked away. Let his eyes skim the city—the jagged skyline, the ghost of smoke in the alleys, the hum of a place that chewed people up and buried their names in concrete.
He should say no. He wanted to say no.
Keep it simple. Keep it clean.
But the words didn't come. Not with her sitting there, still and sure and unafraid.
There was no pity in her voice. No hesitation. Just that quiet, uncanny warmth she carried like an old lantern in a dark place.
Speak freely, she'd said.
Tell me what you can't tell anyone else, or don't. I don't mind the quiet company.
And damn it if part of him didn't want to.
Not because he trusted her. Not yet.
But because something about her felt…true. Older than the masks. Older than the guns. Something outside the lines he'd drawn around his own damn self.
He exhaled. Quiet. Slow.
Still didn't answer.
But he didn't leave, either.
And maybe that was something.
Jason scoffs, lips twitching at the corner. "Rooftop pals? Is there a handshake? Do I get a badge?"
He says it with mockery, sure—but not the biting kind. It's the kind he uses when something's caught him off guard and he doesn't know what to do with it. Humor as smoke screen. Habitual deflection. But there's no real heat behind it.
And Io—Io just hums, amused but unshaken.
"No badge," she says mildly. "But I could press a sigil into one of your gauntlets. Quiet kind. Only visible to those who know how to look."
She says it like she means it. Like she would. And somehow, that's worse.
Then, after a beat, her smile curves with a little more playfulness. Just a sliver. "As for the handshake—I prefer tea. Or the occasional story swap. You strike me as someone with good stories, even if you tell them like they're confessions."
Jason snorts, caught, but doesn't argue.
"And besides," she adds, tilting her head, her voice softening into something realer beneath the tease, "it doesn't have to be serious. Just honest."
She looks at him then—not with expectation, but with the same quiet steadiness that's threaded through every part of this strange little ritual of theirs.
"Tea. Stories. Silence, if that's what the day needs. We don't even have to call it anything. But you'd know where to find me. That's the offer."
Then, more gently, almost like she's tucking the words into his coat pocket without asking:
"You don't have to take it tonight. But I'll be here."
And somehow, that's the part that stays with him most.
"Well then," she said, rising with that same unhurried grace, "I'll let you sit with the idea."
Her scarf fluttered faintly in the rooftop breeze, and the glow of the city danced across the curve of her cheek as she turned to look at him one last time before leaving.
"But next time I see you," she continued, a glint of mischief just barely audible beneath her calm, "I'll bring a proper drink. These nights are getting colder. And you strike me as a coffee individual."
She let that settle for a beat, then added lightly, "How do you take yours? Sugar? Milk? I'm legally allowed to administer up to ten shots of espresso, though I do reserve the right to cut you off at nine if you start vibrating."
And then, with a quiet smile that landed somewhere between affection and a challenge:
"If you prefer it black—I know how to make one that might even impress you."
She stepped toward the edge, ready to vanish into shadow again—but paused just long enough to throw one more line over her shoulder.
"You're welcome to bring any poison-testing gear you like. I promise not to be offended."
And just like that, she was gone. A whisper of movement. A shimmer of light.A shutter of cloth.
Leaving him with the skyline, the echo of warmth, and a question still quietly unfolding in his chest.
Jason stayed where she left him.
Boots scuffed against the ledge, weight braced against the rough stone like he wasn't sure if he wanted to stand or sink into it. The air had cooled a little more—Gotham's kind of cold, wet at the edges, all grime and wind—but he barely noticed.
His helmet sat beside him, empty-eyed and quiet.
"Rooftop pals," he muttered under his breath. The words sounded ridiculous, out of place in his mouth. Too gentle. Too normal. Like something a different version of him might've known how to say yes to.
And yet, here he was. Still sitting.
He wasn't sure what threw him more—that she'd offered it so easily, or that part of him hadn't wanted to laugh it off. Not really. He'd made worse alliances. Built stranger trust. But this felt… different. Not a strategy. Not a test. Just something offered without a string.
He looked out over the city—his city. Bruised and flickering, half-asleep beneath a thousand broken promises—and he felt that twist in his chest again. That damn thread she kept tugging.
You were the only one who didn't ask permission.
You reminded the worst of them what consequences felt like.
Fire recognizes its own.
Jason leaned forward, elbows on knees, jaw clenched. She saw too much. Said it all too plainly. And it didn't feel like a trap. That was the part he couldn't shake.
She didn't ask for anything.
She just… left a door open.
And offered coffee. With optional poison-checking protocol, of course.
He huffed a breath—something between a scoff and the beginning of a laugh—and let his eyes drift to the skyline again. Maybe he'd never say yes out loud. Maybe he'd just… show up. Sit again. Listen to one of her weird old stories and say nothing at all.
Maybe that would be enough.
But for now, he stayed still. Let the wind pass through him. Let the silence stretch wide like the sickly yet beautiful Gotham Skyline.
