Chapter Text
The cold drizzle of rain had started just as Jason Todd left school, the heavy clouds overhead casting a grayish pall over the Gotham skyline. He pulled the hood of his faded red sweatshirt up over his head, but it did little to keep the damp out. The fabric, worn thin from too many uses and too few washes, absorbed the rain like a sponge. Water seeped through, cold and biting, chilling him to the bone as it soaked into his skin. His sneakers squelched with each step on the cracked pavement, a steady rhythm that matched the tap-tap-tap of raindrops hitting the ground around him.
The streets were busy but muted, a steady flow of people moving about their business despite the weather. The usual cacophony of honking horns, yelling vendors, and the dull hum of the city seemed subdued by the rain, as if Gotham itself was tired today. Cars sped by, splashing through shallow puddles, and Jason had to jump back to avoid a particularly large spray from an oncoming taxi, cursing under his breath. The driver didn’t even notice.
He tugged his hoodie tighter around himself, shoulders hunched against the cold. The dampness was creeping into him, but he didn’t have anything better to wear. Home wasn’t far now, just a few more blocks through the narrow streets, but he wasn’t in any hurry to get there. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast—if a bruised apple could even count as breakfast. Not that there’d be much at home either.
As he rounded a corner, Jason's sharp eyes caught a commotion up ahead. In the dim light of the cloudy afternoon, three men stood hunched over a figure lying on the sidewalk. The faint sound of flesh hitting flesh reached his ears—thud, thud—followed by a low grunt of pain. Jason slowed his pace, his heart picking up in his chest, the familiar prickle of tension crawling up his spine.
One of the thugs landed a brutal kick to the man on the ground, sending him sprawling across the wet pavement. He groaned, trying to push himself up, only to collapse back down. His face was bloodied, his shirt torn, and he looked like he’d given up fighting back a while ago. Jason stopped a few feet away, watching with narrowed blue eyes. His hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his hoodie.
The men were big—too big for a twelve-year-old like him to take on. Even though the urge to do something, anything, tugged at him, Jason stayed rooted to the spot. He knew better than to get involved. This was Gotham. Things like this happened every day.
One of the thugs, a tall guy with a shaved head and a jacket that was too clean for the streets, noticed Jason standing there. He turned slowly, locking eyes with the boy, and for a moment, the rain seemed to fall a little harder. The man’s eyes were cold, devoid of anything human, and Jason felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather.
“You got a problem, kid?” the thug growled, his voice like gravel, thick with menace.
Jason clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react, not to show any of the fear bubbling up inside him. He shook his head slightly but didn’t back down. He knew what these guys were, and showing fear only made things worse. You had to act like you didn’t care. Like it didn’t bother you. Like you were just as dangerous as they were.
The man spat on the ground, his lip curling. "Better keep moving, or you’ll be next."
Jason didn’t say a word. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the weight of the thug’s gaze pressing down on him. Just when he thought the guy might come at him anyway, one of the others spoke up from behind, his voice lazy and amused.
"Hey, leave him. That’s Willis’ kid, ain’t it?" The thug laughed, his tone mocking. "Tell your old man he owes us. You hear me, boy? Money don’t wait."
Jason's stomach twisted at the mention of his father’s name, but he kept his face blank, his blue eyes cold as ice. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show a flicker of emotion. His gaze flicked over to the man who had spoken—shorter, stockier, with a scar running down the side of his face. He had the same dead look in his eyes as the others.
For a moment, Jason didn’t move, just stood there in the rain, glaring. His fists tightened in his pockets, his fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. The bloodied man on the ground let out a wet cough, blood splattering the sidewalk, and Jason’s eyes flicked to him.
This city was eating itself alive. People like the guy on the ground, people like Jason—they were just waiting for their turn to be next. His lip curled slightly in disgust, but he swallowed it down. He knew he couldn’t do anything. Not here. Not now.
With a stiff nod, Jason tore his gaze away from the beaten man and gave a final glance at the thugs. The message was clear. He’d tell Willis. Not that it would matter. Willis Todd didn’t care about debts, didn’t care about much except booze and rage. But Jason nodded all the same, knowing it was what they wanted to see.
The thug with the scar gave him a slow, humorless grin, then turned his back on him, dismissing Jason as if he were nothing. Just another street rat in a city full of them. Jason took a step back, his muscles tense, and then turned, walking away. His shoulders felt tight, and the rain soaked deeper into his hoodie, but the cold didn’t matter anymore.
The weight of the encounter hung over him like a shadow as he walked, but he didn’t look back again. That was Gotham for you—brutal, unforgiving, and always ready to crush you if you weren’t careful. Jason shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept his head down, his mind already running through what he’d tell his father when he got home.
Probably nothing. Willis wouldn’t care. But maybe Jason did. Even if he couldn’t afford to let it show.
Jason’s steps grew heavier as he approached the rundown apartment complex he called home. The building loomed ahead, its faded brickwork crumbling and blackened from years of neglect. The rain had started to let up, but everything still had that damp, heavy feel—like the whole world was holding its breath.
The stairwell smelled of mildew and old cigarettes, the paint peeling from the walls in long strips. His footsteps echoed faintly as he climbed, and he could hear a baby crying somewhere in the distance, muffled behind a door a few floors down. The usual sounds of the building—the rattle of pipes, the low hum of the broken elevator, the occasional shout from a neighbor—were all there, but Jason barely registered them. He was thinking about the guy on the street, the bloodied man left to the mercy of Gotham’s wolves, the way the thug had smiled at him, like he was just waiting for the day Jason ended up the same way.
When he reached his floor, Jason’s gaze dropped to the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. He had learned early that keeping to yourself was the best way to stay out of trouble. But luck wasn’t on his side today.
“Jason?” The voice was soft, familiar, and filled with concern. Mrs. Alvarez, his next-door neighbor, was standing in her doorway with a laundry basket balanced on one hip. Her dark eyes were warm but tired, framed by crow’s feet that deepened when she smiled at him.
Jason stopped and looked up, his guard already slipping into place. He forced a small nod, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his soaked hoodie.
“Your mom just left for... work.” Mrs. Alvarez hesitated on the last word, her tone gentle but loaded with meaning. They both knew Catherine wasn’t out looking for a job. She had probably gone to score another hit, chasing the numbness that was becoming more important to her than anything else.
Jason mumbled a quick, “Thanks,” his voice low and rough. He kept his gaze on the floor, trying to avoid the pity in Mrs. Alvarez’s eyes. He didn’t want her sympathy. It didn’t change anything.
Before he could walk past her, Mrs. Alvarez reached out and ruffled his hair, her fingers briefly brushing through the messy strands. The gesture was so simple, but it caught Jason off guard, and for a split second, something in his chest tightened. “You’re a good kid, Jason,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth that made his throat tighten.
Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice to come out steady, so he just nodded again, eyes fixed on the worn floor. She meant well, but ‘good’ didn’t mean anything in Gotham. Being good didn’t keep you from getting hurt, or left behind, or thrown into the gutter. Being good didn’t stop his mom from disappearing into her addiction, or stop his dad from smashing bottles against the walls when things got bad.
He stepped away from her, heading for his apartment door. The sound of Mrs. Alvarez shuffling back into her place was the only goodbye he got.
Jason stopped in front of the door, his hand hovering over the rusted doorknob for a moment. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and then pushed the door open as quietly as he could. The hinges creaked, protesting loudly, but it wasn’t enough to stir Willis from his place on the couch.
The small apartment was dimly lit by the flickering glow of the old TV in the corner, which was playing some mindless sitcom on repeat. The fake audience laughter echoed through the room, jarringly loud in the otherwise quiet space. Jason glanced over at the couch, where his father was sprawled out, fast asleep. Willis was snoring lightly, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, uneven rhythm. One arm dangled off the side, and an empty beer bottle had tipped over on the floor beneath him, spilling its contents across the stained carpet. The stale scent of alcohol and sweat hung thick in the air, mixing with the musty smell of the apartment itself.
Jason stood still for a moment, watching his father, his expression unreadable. There was an ache somewhere deep inside him, but he buried it down, like he always did. Willis wouldn’t wake up anytime soon—he’d probably been drinking since midday—and the last thing Jason needed was to accidentally rouse him. That would just lead to another round of yelling, or worse.
Carefully, Jason stepped over the spilled beer, his sneakers barely making a sound on the floor as he made his way past the couch and into the small hallway leading to his room. His fingers brushed the wall out of habit, guiding him in the dim light. The door to his room was slightly ajar, just the way he’d left it that morning, and Jason slipped inside, shutting it behind him with a soft click.
The room was small and sparsely furnished. A single creaky bed took up most of the space, the springs groaning every time Jason threw himself on it, but for now, it was just another familiar part of his world. A tiny window on the far side of the room let in the faint, grayish light from outside, and Jason could hear the patter of rain against the glass, soft but steady. His bag landed with a heavy thud on the bed, the old mattress sagging under its weight.
Jason yanked off his soaked hoodie and tossed it onto the small, rickety table by the window. His thin t-shirt wasn’t much better, clinging to his skin in patches where the rain had soaked through, but at least it wasn’t cold in his room. He pulled out his math homework from the bag, the edges of the paper slightly crumpled from where he had stuffed it inside. It wasn’t much, just a couple of problems he was supposed to solve, but it was better than sitting in the dark with nothing to do.
He dug through his bag for a pencil, finally fishing out the one he’d lifted from Charlie during art class earlier that day. Charlie wouldn’t miss it. He probably hadn’t even noticed. Jason smirked faintly at the thought before settling down on the edge of his bed, the old wooden frame creaking beneath him.
For a moment, he just sat there, pencil in hand, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The voices from the sitcom in the living room filtered through the thin walls, another burst of canned laughter echoing from the TV. It felt fake, hollow, like a life that wasn’t meant for people like him. He hated the sound of it, but there wasn’t much he could do.
Jason bent over the paper, the tip of the pencil scratching against it as he began to work through the math problems. His hand moved automatically, his mind elsewhere. The streets of Gotham, the thugs, the man left bleeding in the rain—it all played on a loop in his head.
Time passed slowly as Jason worked through his math problems, the fading daylight gradually dimming his room. The rain had stopped outside, leaving the air thick and heavy, and the soft patter against the window had given way to an eerie silence. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the cracked walls, the light bleeding orange and pink through the grimy windowpanes.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was getting late, and his stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. His mom still wasn’t home—not that he’d expected her to be. Catherine had been out for hours, most likely chasing another high, and Jason knew better than to wait for her. She’d probably stagger in later, her eyes glazed over and her mind somewhere far away, but for now, it was just him and Willis.
Jason’s thoughts shifted to the pack of instant noodles he had stashed away. He’d managed to scrape together enough cash for them after helping his dad jack some tires the other day, a quick gig that had earned him a few crumpled bills. He didn’t feel good about it—not exactly—but it wasn’t like anyone was going to offer him a job. In Gotham, you took what you could get.
He stood up, his legs stiff from sitting for so long, and tossed his math homework onto the bed. The house was dim, the only light coming from the flickering TV in the living room, where the same sitcom was still playing. The laughter track was quieter now, but it still grated on his nerves, a constant reminder of the emptiness that filled the space. Jason sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he moved toward the door.
He pushed it open, the familiar creak of the hinges filling the silence, and stepped out into the hall. His dad was awake now, sitting up on the couch with a half-lidded gaze, his posture slumped and lazy. Willis was drunk—there was no mistaking it. The faint scent of alcohol was stronger now, a bitter mix of beer and sweat, and Jason’s eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle on the floor, still lying where it had spilled earlier. His father’s eyes were glassy, his face drawn, and the stubble on his jaw was more pronounced than usual, like he hadn’t bothered to shave in days.
Jason didn’t say anything at first, just walked past him and into the kitchen. The awkward tension in the air was palpable, thick and suffocating, hanging between them like a cloud of smoke. He opened the cabinet and pulled out two packs of noodles, the crinkling of the plastic loud in the otherwise quiet apartment.
"You want some noodles?" Jason asked, his voice flat, without much inflection. It was more of a formality than anything—he already knew the answer. His dad never said no to food when he was drunk.
Willis grunted, not even bothering to look at him. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice hoarse. It was a simple response, but it carried the weight of a hundred things left unsaid, the resentment simmering just beneath the surface.
Jason grabbed a pot from the stove, filled it with water, and set it to boil. He stood there, watching as the water began to heat up, small bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot before rising to the surface. The kitchen was small, barely big enough to fit a table, and everything felt cramped and worn down, like it had been through too much use and not enough care.
The awkward silence persisted, broken only by the faint hiss of the water boiling. Jason stared into the pot, his hands resting on the edge of the counter, his mind drifting. He could feel the weight of his father’s presence behind him, could almost hear the thoughts running through Willis’ head even though the man didn’t speak them aloud.
Suddenly, Willis’ voice cut through the silence, sharp and rough. “Get me another beer,” he called from the couch, his words slurred, thick with the haze of alcohol.
Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He walked back into the living room, stepping over the empty bottle on the floor. Willis barely moved, his eyes half-closed as he leaned back into the worn cushions. Jason bent down and picked up the bottle, the glass cold and slick with condensation, and turned toward the kitchen again.
As he moved, he caught the faint sound of his father’s voice, a muttered insult just loud enough to reach his ears. “Good for nothin’…”
Jason’s shoulders stiffened, his grip tightening on the bottle. He didn’t turn around, didn’t let Willis see the flicker of anger that flashed through him. It wasn’t the first time his father had called him that—it wouldn’t be the last—but it still stung. He swallowed hard, pushing the feeling down like he always did, and continued on to the fridge.
The door creaked as he opened it, the light inside flickering weakly. A few cans of beer rattled around on the shelves, and there was barely anything else. Jason grabbed one and let the door slam shut behind him, the noise echoing through the kitchen. His pulse was steady, but his hands felt cold, the bitterness in the air seeping into his skin.
He walked back to his father and handed him the beer, keeping his face blank as Willis snatched it from him without a word of thanks. The old man popped the tab, taking a long, deep swig before settling back into the couch, his attention already drifting back to the TV.
Jason returned to the kitchen, trying to ignore the sharp twist of frustration in his gut. The water was boiling now, steam rising in soft curls, and he dropped the noodles in, watching as they swirled around in the bubbling water. The sound of the boiling was loud, almost comforting in a strange way, filling the silence that felt too heavy otherwise.
He stood there for a long moment, staring into the pot as the noodles softened, his thoughts wandering far from the cramped kitchen and the drunken man in the next room. This was his life—his everyday. But as much as he tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, that it was just the way things were, there was still a part of him that wished for something more. Something better.
The noodles finished cooking, and Jason filled two chipped bowls, steam rising in soft tendrils. He set one for himself, then picked up the other and walked over to his dad, who was still slumped on the couch. Willis didn’t bother to look at him, his gaze fixed on the flickering screen, but he reached out a lazy hand to take the bowl. The TV had switched to some cheesy sitcom, the fake laugh track louder than it needed to be, and Jason felt that familiar pit of discomfort settle in his stomach.
The room was dim, shadows pooling in the corners as the last bits of daylight faded outside. Jason hesitated for a second, then silently sank down onto the couch beside his father, the springs sagging beneath him. The silence between them felt heavy, but not unfamiliar. This was how they always were. They never really talked—not in any way that mattered, at least.
Jason picked at his noodles, twirling them around his fork without much interest, while his dad shoveled his own down without a second thought. They sat like that for a while, side by side, the only sound the clink of their forks and the endless chatter of the TV.
Onscreen, a man with too much hair gel was talking in a loud, exaggerated voice, his hands gesturing wildly as he made some lame joke about his boss. Willis nudged Jason with his elbow, nodding toward the TV with a half-drunken grin. “You see that? This guy’s a fuckin’ idiot,” he muttered, a rough chuckle escaping him. Jason forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The joke hadn’t even been funny.
Willis, oblivious as always, didn’t notice. He slurped up another mouthful of noodles and settled deeper into the couch, letting out a contented sigh. Jason continued eating in silence, his eyes fixed on his bowl, his mind still lingering on the events of earlier. The image of the bloodied man in the alley flashed through his thoughts, along with the sneering faces of the thugs who’d called out to him. The memory made his stomach twist, and the food in front of him suddenly felt unappetizing.
His quietness must have caught Willis’ attention because his dad glanced over at him, frowning slightly. “What’s with you, kid?” Willis grunted, his voice thick with irritation. “You’re sittin’ there all quiet like you’ve seen a damn ghost.”
Jason hesitated, his grip tightening around the fork. He debated whether or not to tell his dad. There wasn’t much point—Willis didn’t care about much, especially when he was drunk—but the words slipped out before Jason could stop them.
“I ran into some guys,” Jason muttered, not looking up from his bowl. His voice was low, barely audible over the TV. “They said you owe them money.”
The air between them shifted, the tension painful. For a moment, Jason thought his dad might actually care, that maybe—just maybe—this would make him sit up and pay attention. But instead, Willis let out a loud scoff, his lip curling in disdain.
“They can get fucked,” Willis spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t owe those assholes shit.” He waved his hand dismissively, as if the whole thing was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, not worth another thought.
Jason didn’t say anything, just kept eating. His dad’s reaction was exactly what he had expected, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The thugs on the street hadn’t seemed like the kind of guys who would just let something like that go. If Willis thought he could brush them off, he was wrong. Jason had seen what they were capable of, and it wasn’t something you could just ignore.
For a few moments, they sat in silence again, the only sound the clatter of forks against ceramic bowls and the endless drone of the TV. But then, Willis turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Jason with a strange sort of intensity. His voice was gruff but quieter than before. “If they bother you again,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, “you let me know, kid. You hear me?”
Jason’s eyes flicked up to meet his dad’s for the briefest second. Willis’ expression was hard to read—somewhere between indifference and vague concern, like he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to feel about any of this. Jason nodded, not trusting himself to say anything out loud. He didn’t really believe that his dad would do anything if it came down to it. The man was barely sober enough to get off the couch most days, let alone take on a group of thugs. But it was easier to just nod and pretend like it mattered.
Willis seemed satisfied with that and turned back to the TV, cracking open another beer with a sharp hiss. Jason let out a quiet breath, the knot of tension in his chest loosening just a little. He focused on finishing his food, letting the warmth of the noodles settle in his stomach as the sitcom droned on in the background.
But the unease lingered, like a shadow he couldn’t shake. He kept replaying the moment in the alley over and over in his head—the way the thug had looked at him, the way he’d mentioned Willis’ name. Jason couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen next, about what those men would do if they came looking for his dad again. And deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before they did.
Finishing his bowl, Jason set it down on the coffee table, pushing it to the side next to Willis’ empty one. His dad barely acknowledged him, his eyes glued to the screen as the laugh track blared again. Jason glanced at him, his expression unreadable, then quietly stood and made his way back to his room.
He closed the door behind him, the sound of the TV muffled now. The small room felt like a haven, in a way—a place where he could retreat from the chaos of everything outside. But even here, the tension followed him, creeping in like a cold draft through the cracks in the walls. Jason sat on the edge of his bed, staring out the window as the last sliver of sunlight disappeared beneath the horizon.
The city was dark now, the streets below filled with shadows and danger. And somewhere out there, those men were waiting. Waiting for Willis. Waiting for a debt that Jason knew his dad would never pay.
Jason sighed, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. Tomorrow would bring more problems, more threats, more reasons to be afraid. But tonight, all he could do was wait. Wait for the next fight. Wait for the next day.
---
The hours passed slowly, the room gradually growing darker as night fell. Jason sat on his bed, legs folded under him, staring out at the city. The flickering neon signs from the streets below cast strange, warped shadows on his walls, the hum of Gotham’s nightlife a constant reminder of the dangers lurking outside. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light. The dim glow from outside was enough, and besides, he didn’t want to see too clearly. The mess, the peeling paint, the cracks in the walls—he didn’t need to be reminded of how run-down everything was.
From the other room, he could still hear the TV droning on, the audience track as obnoxious as ever, but Jason had long since tuned it out. Willis was still on the couch, drinking his way through another beer, oblivious to everything except whatever sitcom had captured his half-drunken attention. The apartment felt like a bubble, filled with tension but also with a heavy, stifling numbness. Nothing ever changed, nothing ever got better—it just dragged on.
Jason didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard the sound of the door rattling open. His head snapped up, his body immediately tensing, a familiar wave of dread washing over him. It was Catherine. He could hear her stumbling through the door, her steps uneven and slow. She was back. And from the sound of it, she was high—again.
Jason jumped up, heart pounding as he rushed out of his room and into the narrow hallway. He found her just inside the front door, her body slumped against the wall, her eyes glassy and unfocused. Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair a tangled mess, and her skin looked pale, almost sickly under the dim light from the overhead bulb.
“Mom…” Jason whispered, more to himself than to her. She was barely standing, one hand gripping the edge of the wall for balance, the other hanging limply at her side. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, and her eyes—those dull, empty eyes—looked through him as though he wasn’t even there.
He didn’t wait. He moved to her side quickly, slipping his arm under hers, trying to support her weight. “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if she could even hear him. Catherine mumbled something, her words slurred and incoherent, and Jason felt a knot tighten in his chest. He hated seeing her like this. But this was his life, wasn’t it?
Behind him, Willis let out a gruff laugh, his eyes still fixed on the TV. “She’s a fuckin’ mess,” he muttered, his voice thick with drunken amusement. “Look at her—can’t even stand straight.” He shook his head, snickering as if it were all some kind of sick joke.
Jason clenched his teeth, trying to ignore him. He couldn’t focus on Willis right now. His mom was barely able to walk, and she was getting heavier in his grip. “Come on, Mom,” he said again, his voice soft but urgent. He carefully steered her toward her bedroom, each step slow and measured as she stumbled beside him, leaning heavily on his shoulder.
Catherine’s head lolled to the side, her hair brushing against Jason’s cheek, and she giggled softly, the sound light and airy—completely detached from reality. Jason swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep moving. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear to see the emptiness in her eyes or the way her body sagged as if there was nothing left inside her.
As they reached her bedroom, she finally spoke—or tried to. Her mouth opened, but the words that came out were a garbled mess, slurred beyond recognition. “J-Jason… you… good… boy…” she mumbled, her voice breaking as she struggled to form the words. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and Jason froze, his chest tightening painfully.
He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t.
Catherine stumbled into her room, collapsing onto the bed with a graceless thud. She laughed again, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound that echoed through the small space. Jason stood frozen for a moment, watching as she lay there, her body sprawled across the mattress, one arm dangling off the side. She was still laughing, but there was nothing joyful about it. It was the laugh of someone who had long since lost control, someone who was so far gone that they couldn’t even see the wreckage around them.
Jason didn’t laugh. He couldn’t even force a smile.
Instead, he stood there in the doorway, staring down at his mother. She was lost in her own world now, her eyes half-closed, her laughter slowly fading into soft, incoherent mumbling. Jason’s hands hung limply at his sides, his fingers twitching slightly as he fought the urge to do something—anything—but what was there to do? He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t fix her.
His eyes flicked to the floor, unable to look at her anymore. The sight of her like this—it hurt too much. He was used to it, sure, but that didn’t make it any easier. Every time he saw her like this, every time he had to help her to bed, it felt like a small piece of him broke. And there wasn’t much left to break.
Catherine let out a soft sigh, her body sinking deeper into the bed as her breathing began to even out. She was slipping into unconsciousness now, the drugs pulling her under like a riptide. Jason watched her for a moment longer, his stomach churning with a sick mix of anger and helplessness. He didn’t know what to feel anymore. Sadness? Rage? Pity? It was all jumbled together in a knot that he couldn’t untangle.
Willis’ voice cut through the quiet again, loud and slurred from the living room. “You got her down, kid? Good. Maybe she’ll stay outta my hair for the rest of the night.”
Jason’s jaw tightened, and he turned away from the doorway, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He didn’t say anything. What could he say? Arguing with Willis would only make things worse. Instead, he silently walked back down the hallway, back toward his room, each step feeling heavier than the last.
The apartment was dark now, save for the pale blue light from the TV, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Willis was still sprawled on the couch, his beer in hand, eyes glazed over as he watched the mindless comedy show play out on screen. He didn’t even glance at Jason as he passed by.
Jason didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He made his way back into his small room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he could. The moment the door clicked shut, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He stood there for a long time, leaning against the door, staring blankly at the floor. His chest ached, the weight of everything pressing down on him, suffocating. His mom was a mess, his dad was an asshole, and here he was—twelve years old, and already so tired. So tired of everything.
The city outside kept moving, kept buzzing with life. Gotham never slept. But in this tiny, run-down apartment, Jason felt like time had stopped, like everything had come to a standstill, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and numbness.
He pushed himself off the door and crossed the room, collapsing onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could still hear his mom’s faint, slurred laughter echoing in his ears, even though it had stopped. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, trying to push away the gnawing sense of helplessness that was eating away at him from the inside.
But no matter how hard he tried, the feeling wouldn’t go away. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to drag him down.
Jason sat up on his bed, the dim light from the city creeping through the cracked window. His head was buzzing, too many thoughts swirling around, too many things he didn’t want to feel. Sleep felt impossible, and the air inside his small room was too thick, too heavy to breathe. He needed to get out, if only for a little while.
He crossed the room quietly, his feet barely making a sound as he reached the window. He pushed it open with a soft creak, the hinges rusted from years of neglect. The cold night air hit him like a splash of water, sharp and bracing, but somehow it was a relief. The sounds of the city rushed in—honking cars, distant sirens, the low murmur of voices from the street below. Gotham never slept, not even at this hour.
With practiced ease, Jason climbed out onto the fire escape, the metal groaning under his weight. He crouched low for a moment, listening, watching the shadows of the alleyway below. The fire escape felt like his own little escape route—one that led him away from the stifling walls of the apartment, from the mess of his life, if only for a few minutes.
As he started to move up the ladder, he passed by his parents’ bedroom window. He tried not to look inside, but his eyes darted over against his will, catching sight of Willis just as the man stumbled into the room. His mom was sprawled on the bed, barely conscious, her arm draped lazily over the side. Jason’s stomach churned. Willis, beer bottle still in hand, grunted as he shoved Catherine to the side, making space for himself on the bed. She didn’t even stir, too far gone in her drugged haze.
Willis, bleary-eyed and half-drunk, caught sight of Jason through the window. He squinted, his lips curling into a sneer. Jason tensed, ready for some kind of insult or remark, but Willis just waved him away, an annoyed flick of his wrist. Jason felt a strange mixture of relief and disgust wash over him. He didn’t want to deal with his dad’s drunken mood swings, but seeing Willis shove his mom like that, seeing her so far gone, it made something burn in Jason’s chest.
He clenched his jaw, gesturing upward toward the roof, signaling where he was going. Willis grunted and shooed him away, clearly uninterested in whatever Jason was up to. Jason didn’t wait around for anything more, turning away from the window and climbing the fire escape ladder until he reached the roof.
The rooftop was his favorite place in the entire building. It wasn’t much—just a flat expanse of concrete, littered with the occasional piece of trash or an old lawn chair someone had abandoned—but up here, he felt a little freer. The wind was stronger, and the noise from the streets below felt distant, like it couldn’t touch him. The cold air bit at his skin, making him shiver slightly, but he didn’t care. It was better than the suffocating heat inside.
Jason walked to the edge of the roof, his eyes scanning the horizon. The city stretched out before him, Gotham’s skyscrapers rising into the night like jagged teeth. The sky above was clouded, but he could make out a few faint stars through the haze, twinkling weakly against the dark canvas. The fog that clung to the streets below gave the city an eerie glow, making everything look muted and ghostly.
He closed his eyes and let the cold wind wash over him, filling his lungs with the sharp, crisp air. Up here, he could almost forget everything—his mom’s glassy eyes, his dad’s slurred insults, the tension that never seemed to leave his chest. Up here, he could just breathe.
The sounds of the city below were a constant reminder of the chaos that always lurked in Gotham’s streets. Distant shouts, the screech of tires, the occasional gunshot—all of it blended together into a background hum of violence and desperation. But Jason was used to it. The city had always been like this, and he had learned to navigate its dangers just like he’d learned to navigate his own home. You stayed alert, you kept your head down, and you didn’t show fear. It was survival, plain and simple.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette. He wasn’t much of a smoker—only when the stress got to be too much—but tonight felt like one of those nights. He placed the cigarette between his lips, but as he dug around in his pockets, he realized he’d forgotten his lighter.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pulling the unlit cigarette from his mouth and glaring at it in frustration. He gritted his teeth, running a hand through his messy hair. Of course, tonight of all nights, he’d forget something as simple as a lighter.
He sighed and let his arm fall to his side, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. The weight of the day, of everything, pressed down on him again, and he closed his eyes, tipping his head back as if he could lose himself in the cold, starless sky.
Maybe tomorrow would be better. He wasn’t sure if he actually believed that, but it was a small, fleeting hope he clung to. Maybe tomorrow his mom wouldn’t come home high, maybe Willis would be sober enough to actually care about something other than himself. Maybe Jason wouldn’t feel so tired, so angry, all the time.
He took a deep breath, the cold air biting at his lungs, and exhaled slowly, watching the faint puff of his breath disappear into the night.
But deep down, Jason knew that tomorrow wouldn’t be any different. The city wouldn’t change. His home wouldn’t change. His dad wouldn’t change. And his mom… his mom was slipping further and further away with each passing day.
Tomorrow would be just like today. And the day after that. And the day after that.
But for now, for this moment, Jason stood on the roof, alone with the wind, the stars, and the distant hum of the city. And for just a little while, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.