The morning sun crept through the blinds of Jason's room, casting golden streaks across the ceiling. His eyes fluttered open as warmth touched his face, dragging him from the depths of sleep.
With a quiet sigh, he swung his legs over the bed and sat up, rubbing the lingering grogginess from his face. The silence of the room was almost comforting, but it didn't last.
As soon as he closed his eyes, the memories came.
Faces. The men he had killed. The brothers-in-arms he had lost. The blood on his hands.
His breath hitched, and his grip tightened against the edge of the bed.
No.
Jason forced his eyes open and pushed himself off the mattress. He walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water over his face. As the droplets dripped from his skin, he gripped the sides of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.
The same reflection. The same scars. But a different man now.
He exhaled sharply and muttered, "No. I'm home. I don't have to be that killer anymore."
His hands trembled slightly, but he clenched them into fists and turned away from the mirror.
Jason made his way to the kitchen, where the familiar scent of breakfast filled the air. The sight before him was comforting—Dick, Barbara, Tim, and Jake all sitting around the table, chatting as they ate.
"Good morning," they all greeted in unison.
Jason smirked. "Morning."
As he sat down, he noticed little Damian staring at him with curious green eyes. Jason grinned and began making funny faces, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes.
The toddler let out a giggle, clapping his small hands.
Dick chuckled. "Well, looks like he likes you."
Jason shrugged. "Who wouldn't?"
Barbara rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Dick leaned back in his chair. "I have to head to the station soon, but we'll all meet at the park at three for the picnic, alright?"
Jason nodded. "Sounds good. I was planning to check out the bar today, see what kind of shape it's in."
Tim piped up. "Grandpa Alfred's been looking after it while you were gone."
Jason smirked. "Of course he has."
After finishing his breakfast, Jason pushed back from the table and got up. He grabbed his jacket and followed Dick out the door.
As they walked toward the garage, Jason glanced at Dick. "So, how's life as a detective treating you?"
Dick grinned. "Pretty good. There's this case I've been working on for two years now. The guy's slippery—keeps dodging arrest. But I'm this close to nailing him."
Jason nodded. "Hope you do. Sounds frustrating."
"Tell me about it."
As they reached the garage, Dick stopped and smirked. "Oh, before I forget—I got something for you."
He pressed a button, and the garage door lifted to reveal a sleek, red motorcycle.
Jason's eyes widened. "No way."
Dick chuckled. "Way."
Jason ran a hand over the bike's polished surface, taking in the details. "You didn't have to do this, man."
Dick shook his head. "You're my little brother. Of course, I did. And besides—" he pointed at a blue motorcycle parked beside it, "—now we're matching."
Jason chuckled and pulled Dick into a tight hug.
"Thanks, man."
Dick clapped him on the back. "I'm your brother now and always, Jay."
Jason rode through the streets of New York, the wind rushing past him as he weaved between cars. The city was alive—bustling crowds, honking horns, flashing billboards. Even after all these years, it still felt familiar.
Eventually, he pulled up outside a bar, parking his bike before stepping inside.
The place was quiet, only a few patrons scattered at the tables. Behind the counter, a familiar figure was wiping down a glass.
"Gramps," Jason called.
The old man turned, his weathered face breaking into a smile. "Jason!"
Alfred Pennyworth set down the glass and walked around the counter, pulling Jason into a firm hug.
"It's good to see you, my boy," Alfred said, patting his back.
Jason grinned. "Good to see you too, Gramps."
They talked for a bit, catching up on the small things. Alfred told him how the bar had been running, how things had changed in the neighborhood, and Jason listened, grateful for the familiar presence of the man who had practically raised him.
Then, the front door swung open, and a new presence entered the bar.
A short, rugged man with thick sideburns and a cowboy hat made his way to the counter. His gait was slow, deliberate, as if he carried a weight heavier than most men.
He took a seat and muttered, "Whiskey."
Alfred nodded and poured the drink. Jason, however, noticed something else—the glint of metal hanging from the man's neck.
Dog tags.
"You military?" Jason asked.
The man glanced at him, then slowly nodded. "Yeah. You?"
Jason pulled his own dog tags from under his shirt and let them dangle between his fingers. "Special Forces."
The man smirked and did the same. Jason's eyes flicked to the name engraved on the tag.
Logan.
The Wolverine.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "The Wolverine, huh?"
Logan chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "The Hood, huh?"
Jason smirked. "Word travels fast."
Logan downed the rest of his whiskey in one go, then stood. He adjusted his hat and tipped it slightly toward Jason.
"Nice meetin' ya, Hood. Maybe I'll see ya around."
Jason gave him a nod. "Maybe you will, Wolverine."
Logan smirked before walking out the door, leaving Jason with a feeling that the man was more than just another veteran.
The afternoon sun cast warm golden hues over the park as Jason pulled up on his bike. In the distance, he could see his family—Dick and Barbara setting up food, Tim helping Jake chase down a soccer ball, and Damian babbling happily in his high chair.
Jason smiled. This was what he had missed.
As he approached, Dick waved him over.
"Took you long enough!"
"Yeah, yeah," Jason said, smirking.
He dropped down onto the picnic blanket, letting the peaceful atmosphere soak in.
But peace never lasted.
Unnoticed by Jason, a truck had pulled up nearby. The doors opened, and a group of men stepped out, each one armed.
They moved with purpose, heading straight toward them.
The perfect day was about to turn into something much worse.