Arkham. I won't pretend that the thought has never crossed my mind before. In all of the time that I've fought against criminals, some with aims far more complex than a mere dollar amount or the thrill of adrenaline, not once have I believed myself capable of encouraging reform. The very decision to use death as a weapon doesn't pave the way for rehabilitation so much as it acts as a deterrent to the rational. To those who can be reasoned with. I wouldn't place Jason in the same class as criminals, but perhaps the greater fact is that his is an anger that slipped from my fingers long ago. My words reverberate, but only at the angle he wants to hear.

It might madness, to repeat them again, hoping that the message lands.

"No," I argue, and for all that I might have landed him in Arkham back in Gotham, it isn't a choice I would have made without exploring as many other possibilities as time and chance would allow. "No, Jason. I wanted to build a life for you. I wanted you to have a place you could turn to. But more than anything else, I didn't want you to be alone."

It's not an injury that causes my voice to strain. My hand balls into a fist by my side, pressing into the angry cuts left after the fight.