Three seconds in, and I hear Jason take off at a run. He's never been as light-footed as Dick was, never had the same type of training as he grew up. too impulsive to always go by the exercises I suggested for him. Once a person passes their formative years, it's difficult for habits to change. Had my parents died but four years later, maybe five, I doubt my steps would have led me to where I am today. I find myself still caught in that glimpse of a past removed before it even had a chance at play, of time spent still saving lives, if in a different context. Time spent only conscious of crime, but never understanding. Time in which a thief was nothing more than humiliation, rather than invitation to play.

I look at the details and they align, enough so that I believe it's Jason tearing down the hall, enough that I tear right after him, seven seconds later. Running through screams that pass through me, chilling in my spine, and as much as I turn and follow, I can't help but wonder. It's the same fear I've meant to inspire in others, but him?

"Jason!" I yell, voice rough. Closer. I can feel that I'm getting closer, but all I have are sounds to follow, caution thrown in the wind, an unfamiliar setting that I barely even note as it flies by in all a blur. "Jason, stop."