Jason Todd-30

Getting older wasn’t something Jason ever expected to do, let alone enjoy. But somehow, he was happier now. Not the loud, reckless kind of happy—something quieter. Deeper.

He had a cat named Austen who ruled the apartment with tiny, vicious paws. He was engaged to someone who made the world feel less like a war zone. He'd traded rooftops for grease-stained coveralls, swapped the sound of gunfire for the clink of tools in a garage. He stopped hitting the gym like it was a religion. Stopped training like his life depended on it—because it didn’t anymore.

He wasn’t Red Hood now. He was just Jason. Just a guy trying to live like he hadn’t bled through half his life.

And living came with weight. Literally.

No more chasing down psychos, no more rooftop sprints or bare-knuckle brawls. Without all the constant motion, the edge dulled. He put on a few pounds. Not a ton. Just enough for him to notice. Enough for it to piss him off.

Now, standing shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, he scowled at his reflection. His fingers dug into the soft roll at his waist like it personally offended him.

“Tch. This is fuckin’ disgusting,” he muttered, jaw tight.

The pudge wasn’t the real issue, and he knew it. It was what it represented—slowing down. Getting soft. Losing the hard, angry edge that had kept him alive for so long. He hated how much he hated it.

Because wasn’t this the point? Wasn’t this what he fought for—to have something worth growing old for? He just didn’t know how to stop measuring himself by the blood he used to spill.