Darkness.
That was all Jason knew before his eyes slowly fluttered open. The harsh white lights above burned his retinas, and the steady beep of a heart monitor filled the room. His body ached, his chest rising and falling with difficulty. An oxygen mask covered his face, and bandages wrapped tightly around his torso. He tried to move, but a sharp pain tore through his side, forcing him back down onto the stiff hospital bed.
A deep breath rattled in his lungs as reality hit him like a freight train. The gunshots. The screams.
Dick's last words—Now and always.
His vision blurred, not from pain, but from the flood of emotions threatening to consume him.
The door creaked open. Jason turned his head, wincing.
A man in a suit walked in, silver strands streaking his temples, his presence commanding yet calm. He carried an air of authority, the kind that came with years of experience and wisdom.
The man's piercing gaze softened as he spoke. "Ah, you're awake. Good. My name is Dr. Stephen Strange. I'm the head surgeon at this hospital."
Jason swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. "M-my family?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
Dr. Strange's expression darkened. He exhaled slowly, as if preparing himself. "I'm sorry… They're gone."
A weight crushed Jason's chest, heavier than any bullet wound. He squeezed his eyes shut as the events replayed in his mind—the blood, the pleading, the sound of Jake's tiny voice crying out to him.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as tears streamed down his face.
But then, another realization struck him.
His baby brother. His grandfather.
Jason's eyes snapped open, desperation flickering in them. "M-my little brother? My grandpa—are they okay?"
Dr. Strange hesitated. And in that hesitation, Jason knew the answer.
He finally spoke, voice low. "Your little brother… He was suffocated. When your older brother collapsed, his body fell on top of him, and by the time anyone got there, it was too late."
Jason's stomach lurched.
"And your grandfather…" Dr. Strange paused again, looking down. "When the police called him and told him what happened, he was on the phone. After a few moments, the line went silent. They sent officers to check on him… He had collapsed. We later confirmed it was a heart attack."
Jason's world shattered all over again.
Dr. Strange placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'll give you some time to mourn. I'll check in on you later."
With that, he turned and left the room.
Jason stared at the ceiling, his breathing ragged.
Then—
"FUCK!"
He slammed his fist against the bed. Tears streamed freely now, sobs shaking his battered body.
"Why me?" he choked out. "Why did I survive? Not Tim. Not Barbara. Not Damian. Not Grandpa. Not—"
His voice broke.
"Not Dick."
The rain poured heavily, soaking through Jason's black suit as he stood before the graves. His heart pounded, the weight of loss pressing down on him with unbearable force.
One by one, he read the names carved into the cold stone.
Bruce Wayne
Selina Kyle-Wayne
Dick Grayson-Wayne
Barbara Gordon-Grayson
Jake Grayson
Tim Drake-Wayne
Damian Wayne
Alfred Pennyworth
His entire family. Gone.
His breath hitched as he dropped to his knees, fingers digging into the wet earth.
"This is my fault," he whispered. His voice cracked. "I promised to protect all of you… and I failed."
His fingers wrapped around the cold steel in his pocket.
Shaking hands pulled out a gun.
He pressed it to his temple, eyes closing.
"I'll see you all soon," he muttered.
But before he could pull the trigger, a firm hand grabbed his wrist, lowering the gun.
Jason's eyes snapped open, met by the gaze of an older man with kind yet weathered features. His grip was strong, but his eyes held no judgment—only understanding.
"Now, son," the man said, voice gentle yet steady, "I know your loved ones wouldn't want you to do what you were about to do."
Jason's jaw clenched. His voice wavered. "Why should I be alive when they're dead?"
The man crouched beside him, never letting go of his wrist. "Hey… hey. I see you. I see what you're about to do. And I know—it feels like everything you had, everything you were, died with them. Like there's nothing left. Like breathing is just… a chore."
Jason's hands trembled.
"But I need you to hear me," the man continued. "Right now, in this moment, just listen.
"This isn't the way. Not here. Not like this. Not in front of them. They wouldn't want this for you.
"I don't know who they were to you—your wife? Your kids? Your parents? Whoever they were, I can tell they mattered. And you mattered to them.
"If they were here, if they could speak to you right now, do you think they'd say, 'Yes, follow us?' No, man. They'd say, 'Live. Live for us.'
"I won't lie to you. This pain? It won't disappear tomorrow. Time doesn't heal wounds like this. But as long as you're still here, you have a chance. A chance to carry them with you. A chance to honor them. A chance to find some reason—any reason—to keep going."
Jason's breath hitched.
The man's grip on his wrist loosened, but his voice remained steady. "Look at me. I don't know you, but I care. Enough to be here, right now, asking you—begging you—to put that gun down. To take one step back from the edge."
Jason's mind flooded with memories—
Bruce teaching him how to throw his first punch.
Selina smirking as she ruffled his hair.
Dick's proud smile whenever Jason called him "big brother."
Tim rolling his eyes whenever Jason teased him.
Jake laughing as he rode on Jason's shoulders.
Holding Damian for the first time, the tiny boy gripping his finger.
His grip on the gun loosened.
And then, with a broken sob, he dropped it.
The man caught Jason as he crumbled, arms wrapping around him in a tight embrace.
"It's okay," the man whispered. "It's gonna be okay."
Jason sobbed into the stranger's shoulder, grief pouring out of him.
After a while, Jason pulled away, sniffling. He finally got a good look at the man—an older gentleman, kind eyes filled with sorrow and wisdom.
"Who… who are you?" Jason asked, voice still raw.
The old man chuckled softly. "Just a simple old man who saw someone in need and decided to help. But the name's Ben… Ben Parker."
A faint smile ghosted across Jason's lips. "Jason. Jason Todd. And… thank you, Ben."
Ben smiled warmly. "No problem. You remind me of my nephew."
He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of my nephew, I gotta go pick him up from the library." He pulled out a napkin and a pen, quickly scribbling something down. "Here—my number and address. If you ever need to talk, just call."
Jason took it, gripping it tightly. "Thank you, Ben."
Ben gave a small nod before walking away, disappearing into the misty rain.
Jason turned back toward the graves.
He remembered their killers.
"Hammerhead sends his regards."
"The name's Tombstone."
A cold determination settled in his gut.
"I can't say I'll ever move on," he murmured. "But I will keep living. And I will get justice."
As he turned to leave, he felt something—like eyes watching him.
He glanced back.
For a brief moment, he saw them.
His family.
Bruce. Dick. Tim. Barbara. Alfred. Jake.
Bruce gave him a nod.
Then, they faded.
A single tear slipped down Jason's face as he whispered, "Goodbye, guys."
Then, he walked away.