Writing is cool, I dig it. Ao3 is SandscriptTale. Current hyperfixation is dp x dc. Also still riding the Transformers comfort blanket train. He/She/They
Unexpected but necessary pairing! I promise it works if you squint! And we're assuming Harvey used a catalyst that worked for Cu.
Mordred feels it before she sees it—that same wire-snap pulse in her senses, the displacement of presence that signals another Servant in proximity. She spins, Clarent rising instinctively, and finds Lancer perched on the concrete barrier directly above them.
He is barely winded. The gouge on his shoulder where Clarent caught him earlier is still visible, but he holds the spear with the same loose, easy confidence as before, its crimson tip angled lazily downward toward the two of them.
“That’s a fun plan you’ve got there, kid,” Lancer says, red eyes bright with amusement. “Real ambitious. One problem, though.”
He drops from the barrier and lands between them and the direction Harvey retreated, spear planted against the ground in a stance that is casual and immovable in equal measure.
“Can’t let you do that.”
Mordred shifts Clarent’s angle and her weight settles. Beside her, she feels Damian draw two batarangs, his body coiling into readiness despite every bruise and every breath of gas his lungs absorbed.
The air between Mordred and Lancer thickens. The same electric charge as before—two Servants measuring the distance between conversation and violence, calculating how many seconds of the former remain before the latter becomes inevitable.
Lancer’s grin hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper. The earlier playfulness is still there, but beneath it his stance has shifted—weight forward, spear angled to intercept from any direction. He is between his Master and danger, and his body has made that fact non-negotiable.
“Round two already?” Mordred says. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I’m just doing my—”
“Lancer.”
The voice comes from around the corner of the collapsed warehouse. Harvey steps into view, coat dusty, breathing heavier than he’d like. His right hand is at his side. His left holds the coin.
He has already flipped it.
Lancer glances back at his Master. His eyebrow rises in a silent question.
Harvey looks at the coin resting in his palm. Studies it. The unscarred half of his face relaxes. The scarred half tightens, jaw clenching against a verdict it doesn’t agree with.
“We’re done,” Harvey says. “The coin says they walk.”
Lancer shrugs with neither disappointment or frustration, just the easy acceptance of a man who understands that battles come and go and there will always be another one.
“Your call.” He turns back to Mordred and grins. “Hear that? Coin says you get to keep breathing tonight.”
“How generous,” Mordred says flatly.
Harvey straightens his coat, pockets the coin, and fixes his gaze on Damian through the haze. Something flickers across the unscarred half—a grudging acknowledgment between professionals on opposite sides of a line.
“Give the Bat my regards, Robin,” Harvey says.
Damian frowns.
Lancer gives Mordred a lazy wave with two fingers.
“Next time, Saber.”
Mordred scoffs, but doesn’t press otherwise, not with Damian out in the open and vulnerable.
My favorite pairing by far. Can you see the parallels? The mirrors? The violence? The unresolved trauma? The ANGST??
🏆
Something is in the fog with her.
Something that is not Jason Todd.
The second knife comes from below.
Cassandra twists—too slow. The blade catches her across the outside of her thigh, a cut that parts the fabric of her suit and the skin beneath it with surgical precision. Not deep enough to sever the muscle or close enough to the femoral artery to threaten her life, but exactly enough to hurt.
Cassandra drops back, blood warm against her leg, and scans the fog.
A shape moves at the edge of her vision. Low. Fast. Too small.
Too small.
The realization hits her before the shape resolves—whatever is attacking her is not adult-sized. The displacement of air, the angle of the knife strikes, the height at which the blades are traveling—all of it is wrong for a grown attacker.
The fog thins for just a moment, and Cassandra sees her.
A girl.
A child.
She can’t be older than eight or nine, though there is something about her proportions that makes age difficult to pin down. She is small and slight, with silver-white hair that falls in wild, choppy strands around a scarred face that is doll-like in its proportions: wide eyes, pale skin, features that belong on something porcelain rather than something alive.
Her clothing—if it can be called that—is barely there. A black halter cropped top and strips of white bandaging wrap around arms in haphazard patterns, leaving most of her skin exposed. Black thigh-high stockings cling to legs too thin for the speed they produce. A harness of dark leather and metal buckles crosses her chest and hips, holding sheaths for the knives she carries—and there are many of them, blades of varying length tucked into every available space on her small frame, their edges catching the diffused light of the fog with a pink-tinged gleam.
Her eyes are the worst part.
They are golden-green, luminous, and they stare at Cassandra with an expression that she cannot read.
Cannot. Read.
The realization sends ice through Cassandra’s veins.
She has read every person she has ever encountered. Every fighter. Every killer. Every monster wearing human skin that Gotham has produced. She has looked into the eyes of people who murder for pleasure and seen the structure of their violence laid bare—the anger, the compulsion, the broken wiring that makes them what they are. She has always understood. Even when the understanding was horrifying, it was there. A language she could translate.
This girl is blank.
She isn’t someone hiding their emotions with trained composure or disciplined stillness. She is blank like a wall where a window should be. The body language is there—the movements, the posture, the physical tells—but they don’t connect to anything Cassandra’s instincts can interpret. The signals arrive and mean nothing. Like reading a sentence where every word is in the wrong language.
It is the most frightening thing Cassandra has ever experienced.
The girl tilts her head. The motion is birdlike, curious, almost sweet.
“You’re pretty fast,” she says.
The voice is high and clear and bright. A child’s voice. A voice that should be asking for bedtime stories or singing nursery rhymes. It floats through the fog like something that doesn’t belong to the same reality as the knives.
Cassandra shifts into a defensive stance, blade raised. Blood runs down her thigh in a steady trickle.
The girl moves.
Cassandra doesn’t see the beginning of the motion. One moment the child is standing at the edge of visibility. The next she is inside Cassandra’s guard—inside it, beneath it, occupying the space between Cassandra’s arms and her body like she was born there.
A knife bites into Cassandra’s left forearm. Shallow and precise. It screams against the nerve endings without threatening the tendons beneath.
Cassandra swings. Her blade passes through empty air.
The girl is behind her.
Another cut. Right shoulder blade, just below the scapula.
Cassandra spins, lashes out with a kick—and connects with nothing.
A giggle drifts through the fog.
“Not fast enough, though.”
The next cut finds her right hip. Then her left calf. Then the back of her right hand, forcing her fingers to spasm around the grip of her blade.
Every strike avoids anything vital. Every cut is placed with an intimacy that makes Cassandra’s skin crawl—this isn’t the wild slashing of someone trying to kill, but the careful work of someone who knows exactly where pain lives in the human body and is visiting each address one by one.
Cassandra has trained herself to detach from pain. To compartmentalize. To push sensation into a box and lock it away and keep fighting. She has done this since she was old enough to stand. It is as fundamental to her as breathing.
She cannot do it now.
Because the pain is not only hers.
The fog carries something with it—something that presses against her mind like a hand against a window. Dread. Grief. A suffocating, formless anguish that seeps into her chest and wraps around her lungs and squeezes. It doesn’t belong to her. She knows this with certainty because she has spent her entire life learning to identify her own emotional landscape, and this is foreign. Invasive. The accumulated misery of something vast and old and deeply, incomprehensibly sad.
It tastes like the fog itself—cold and clinging and impossible to escape.
Cassandra’s breathing turns ragged. Her vision blurs at the edges. She swings at a shadow and hits nothing and feels another cut open across her ribs, and the pain of it barely registers against the tide of borrowed anguish drowning her from the inside.
The girl appears in front of her.
Close. Impossibly close. Standing just outside arm’s reach with her head tilted and her knives dripping with her blood and that blank, luminous gaze fixed on Cassandra’s face.
“You’re really tough,” the girl says. She sounds impressed. Genuinely impressed, the way a child sounds when a toy lasts longer than expected. “Most people cry by now.”
Cassandra’s hand trembles. She hates that it trembles. She has never trembled.
“Why...” Cassandra’s voice comes out fractured. She does not use words often, and they fail her now more than ever. “Why... are you...”
The girl’s head tilts the other direction. The motion is accompanied by a small, curious smile that doesn’t reach her eyes—or rather, reaches them in a way that Cassandra cannot decode. Happy? Sad? Hungry? The signals blur and contradict and collapse into static.
“Hey,” the girl says softly. “Why were you following Daddy?”
Cassandra’s blood-slicked grip tightens on her blade.
Daddy.
“Were you following Daddy?” the girl repeats, taking a small step closer. The knives in her hands are held loosely, almost carelessly, the way a child holds crayons. “Is that why you’re here? Are you looking for Daddy?”
The fog presses closer. The dread intensifies.
“Because if you’re looking for Daddy...”
The girl’s smile widens. It is sweet and earnest and utterly, incomprehensibly wrong.
“...does that mean you want to be our Mommy?”
Cassandra’s mind—disciplined, honed, and conditioned to function under pressures that would shatter most human beings—stalls.
Selina Kyle and Ozymandias! Another favorite duo of this Holy Grail war. They kind of came out and surprised me, and I hope they do you as well! A King and a thief definitely don't make for an easy partnership, but that's what makes it fun!
“You’re holding my bracelet,” she says.
Something changes in his face.
It’s so subtle she almost misses it… but she’s spent her entire adult life reading rooms and the people in them, and she catches it: the quality of his attention shifting and sharpening, the warmth of his earlier condescension cooling into something with more weight behind it. It’s the difference between a man who is performing authority and a man who has simply run out of patience for the performance.
“No,” he says, quietly and simply. The way someone states a law of physics. “It does not belong to you.”
Selina is ready for a rebuttal, when he speaks again.
“To claim ownership,” he continues, and something in his voice drops, “would imply the act of a tomb robber.” The word leaves his mouth the way other people say murderer. “A desecrator. A thief of the dead.” His eyes find hers and stay there. “I would consider that an affront of the highest order. A sacrilege beyond forgiveness.”
Selina’s rebuttal dies in her throat. Not because she’s afraid, but because she knows venom when she hears it, and this isn’t a threat, not really. This is a man telling her where the line is and what happens on the other side of it, and he is telling her with the calm of someone who has had people killed for less and slept well after.
“It belongs,” he says, and the frost thaws just enough to reveal something worse underneath—tenderness, “to someone very precious to me.”
The candlelight moves again. Neither of them does.
Selina looks at the bracelet in his hands. At the way his thumb has gone still over the cartouche.
She decides, for now, not to push it.
“Alright,” she says, settling back instead. “I have questions.”
“Sooo,” Joker says, rocking on his heels. “About that wish. How does this work? Do I rub something? Because I have to say, big guy, I’m not sure where I’d even start—and I usually have very adventurous hands.” He waggles his fingers. “Say a magic word? Fill out a form hmm?”
He snaps his fingers in front of the being’s face. “Hello? Genie? Big guy?”
Nothing. The massive figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t acknowledge the Joker’s existence in any discernible way. Those burning eyes stare straight ahead like the clown in front of him is a lamppost, or less than a lamppost—at least lampposts serve a function.
Joker’s smile tightens.
“I said,” he repeats, slower and louder, “how about that WISH.”
Nothing.
“The strong silent type, huh? Very mysterious. Very brooding. Very ANNOYING.”
He waves a hand in front of the being’s face. Snaps his fingers again. Claps twice.
“Hey! HEY! Earth to Goliath! Anybody HOME in there?”
The being’s gaze shifts—not to the Joker, but past him, toward where Harley stands at the edge of the scorched circle. The burning eyes settle on her for a moment, then return to staring at nothing.
The Joker does not appreciate being looked through.
“Oh, so you CAN move your eyes,” he snarls. “You just can’t be BOTHERED to use them on ME. Is that it? I summon you—well, she summons you, but on MY behalf—I give you a lovely tent, a warm welcome, a CAPTIVE AUDIENCE—”
He kicks the being’s shin.
The sound is somewhere between a thud and a clang, as though his foot has connected with a bronze statue.
Joker hops backward on one foot, face contorting.
“OW—son of a—”
He kicks again, harder.
This time something in his toe makes a sound that toes should not make.
“AAGH—”
The being doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even shift. It doesn’t register that he has been kicked any more than a mountain registers a thrown pebble.
The Joker’s face cycles through pain, rage, and indignation at a speed that would be impressive if it weren’t terrifying. He hops in a circle, clutching his foot, then rounds on the massive figure with a snarl that bares every tooth.
“WHAT IS THE POINT OF YOU?! You can’t TALK! You can’t GRANT WISHES! You just STAND there like some kind of roided-out LAWN ORNAMENT! I wanted POWER! I wanted a GENIE! Instead I get—I get CHAD! A big stupid CHAD who won’t even give me the COURTESY of a CONVERSATION!”
The being stares.
Joker’s chest heaves. His fists clench at his sides. The manic energy that usually propels him forward has curdled into something uglier, the kind of frustration that needs somewhere to go and doesn’t care where it lands.
His head turns toward Harley and points a finger.
“This is YOUR fault.”
Harley’s grin falters.
“Puddin’—”
“YOU did the ritual. YOU said the words. YOU tossed away the PAPER like some kind of show-off and did your little DANCE and now—” He gestures wildly at the motionless giant. “Now we’ve got NOTHING. A big dumb NOTHING that can’t even BLINK on command.”
Harley’s shoulders curve inward. The brightness in her eyes dims by degrees, replaced by something smaller and more practiced—the look of someone rearranging themselves into a shape that takes up less space.
“I’m sorry, Mistah J,” she says quietly. “Maybe I added too much, or—maybe the circle wasn’t right, I can try again, I can fix it—”
“Oh, you’ll FIX it,” Joker snaps, stalking toward her. “You’ll fix it because YOU broke it, just like you break EVERYTHING, Harley. Every SINGLE time I trust you with something IMPORTANT—”
His hand rises.
Harley flinches.
It’s a small automatic motion, a reflex that only forms through repetition.
The hand swings but never lands.
The impact comes from behind the Joker instead. Massive fingers close around his forearm like a hydraulic press, engulfing the limb from wrist to elbow in a single grip. The Joker’s forward momentum stops dead, his body jerking backward like a marionette whose strings have been yanked.
For a fraction of a second, there is confusion on his face.
Then, down becomes up and he is airborne.
The being hurls the Joker sideways with the casual effort of someone discarding a piece of trash. The clown sails across the circus ring, hits a stack of canned food crates, and crashes through them in an explosion of rolling cans and splintering wood.
The tent falls silent except for the clatter of settling debris.
The being stands between Harley and the wreckage, massive frame blocking her entirely from view. The burning eyes are no longer vacant. They are fixed on the pile of crates with an intensity that carries a very simple message.
Try it again and see what happens.
Harley stares at the broad back in front of her.
Her hand is still half-raised in the flinch. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth works soundlessly for several seconds as her brain attempts to process what has just occurred.
A being that would not speak, would not react, would not so much as acknowledge the Joker’s existence—moved faster than anything she has ever seen the instant a hand was raised against her.
“Oh,” she whispers.
Something cracks in the pile of crates. The Joker’s head emerges from the wreckage, hair askew, Hawaiian shirt torn, a can of pinto beans resting on his shoulder. His expression is one of genuine shock—a rare commodity on that face.
“What,” he says slowly, “the HELL—”
The being takes one step toward the crates.
The Joker goes very still.
“Okay,” Joker says, raising both hands carefully. “Okay. Message received. Big guy’s got... boundaries.”
He extracts himself from the wreckage with as much dignity as a man covered in canned goods can muster, straightening his shirt and smoothing his hair with hands that are—for once—not entirely steady.
His eyes move from the being to Harley and back again.
And for just a moment, something flickers behind the permanent grin. Something cold and calculating and deeply, profoundly unhappy. Because Joker is many things—insane, brilliant, cruel, theatrical—but he is not stupid. He understands, with the immediate clarity of a predator recognizing a larger predator, exactly what has just happened.
The biggest, most dangerous thing in the room does not answer to him.
Oracle and Da Vinci? Now that's some serious synergy right there.
What cool gadgets do we think Da Vinci would cook up to help Barbara kick butt? 🤔 I'm partial to a mecha suit lmaoo.
There, in the middle of the still-glowing sigil, stands a woman where Barbara’s offering had been.
For a moment Barbara simply stares.
The woman looks to be in her mid to late twenties. Long brown hair falls in glossy waves over her shoulders, catching the lingering light of the ritual like polished copper. Her features are delicate in a way that feels almost intentionally designed, as though someone had tried to sculpt the idea of beauty and succeeded a little too well.
Her outfit only adds to the surreal effect.
Barbara’s first thought is that she’s somehow summoned someone in cosplay.
The woman wears a vivid red garment that might be a dress or a skirt depending on how the layers are arranged, its fabric flaring outward with theatrical elegance. Puffy sleeves bunch at the shoulders, with blue opera-length gloves stretching up her arms, matched by tights of the same color that disappear into gold trimmed heeled booties. A flowing cape drapes behind her like a stage performer’s flourish, and in one hand she carries a staff topped with intricate metalwork that hums faintly with residual energy.
The whole ensemble looks like something lifted from a Renaissance painting filtered through a comic convention.
Barbara blinks.
The woman doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the situation.
Her blue-gray eyes sparkle with unrestrained delight as she surveys the glowing circle, the room, and finally Barbara herself.
“Oh my,” she says, her voice bright with curiosity.
She takes in Barbara’s chair, the monitors surrounding them, and the faint glow of code scrolling across nearby screens. A grin spreads across her face with the confidence of someone who has just solved a fascinating puzzle.
“You must be my Master.”
She dips into a small, theatrical bow, one hand resting lightly over her chest.
“Leonardo da Vinci,” she announces cheerfully. “Servant of the Caster class.”
What do you think about the dynamics and potential between the Dark Knight and Saber of Red?
Personally I enjoy dynamics where Masters and Servants clash at least a little bit, and Bruce and Mordred in particular have so many parallels that set them up for a lot of interesting/chaotic situations.
I look forward to exploring those in the Gotham Holy Grail War I'm cooking up 🫡
(Thank you sticker function for helping me put these pics together.)
“Do you understand what a Grail War is?” she says. “This isn't some tournament where you shake hands after the match. Other Servants will be trying to kill me. Other Masters will be trying to kill you. And you want me to, what, hold back?”
Bruce hardens his gaze.
“I want you to not kill the other Masters,” he says. “Defeating Servants is one thing. But the people behind them are still people.”
Mordred’s glare intensifies.
“They're enemies.”
Bruce doesn’t back down.
“They're civilians who were handed a ritual they don't understand in a city that's falling apart.” His voice remains level, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. “Some of them may not have had a choice.”
Mordred's jaw tightens. For a moment something unreadable flickers behind her eyes.
“And if one of those civilians orders their Servant to put a lance through your chest?” she asks, her voice dropping. “What then? I just let it happen because you've got a conscience?”
“You protect me,” Bruce says simply. “And I'll make sure it doesn't come to that.”
Fate/Proxy: A Gotham Holy Grail War [DC x Fate Crossover]
Prologue
The Batcave is quieter than usual.
The distant drip of groundwater echoes against the cavern walls.
At the center of the cave floor, a crimson sigil stains the rock.
Bruce had spent hours recreating it from the broadcast recordings, translating every line and angle with obsessive precision. The design is complicated but deliberate, a ritual circle layered with symbols of untold potential.
Inside the circle rests a sword.
Bruce has trained with plenty of swords in his lifetime, but it has never been his weapon of choice.
And this one… is different.
Bruce forged it himself.
The dark blade catches the pale cave lighting with a cold sheen, its construction flawless, balanced perfectly for combat. It lies across the center of the sigil like an offering placed upon an altar.
Damian stands nearby with his arms crossed, studying the circle with sharp interest.
Alfred remains beside the computer consoles, his posture composed but unmistakably wary.
Bruce steps forward.
“I’ve broken down the incantation,” he says, voice steady. “Cross-referenced the structure with historical ritual formats.”
Damian glances toward the sword.
“It’s a summoning ritual.”
The words hang in the cavern air.
Alfred clears his throat softly.
“Master Bruce… are you certain this is wise?”
Bruce does not look at him, his gaze trailing over each marking to make sure it is as perfect as he intended.
“No.”
The already tense atmosphere grows heavier at the response.
“But we don’t have many options.”
He steps forward until he is just outside the circle’s perimeter.
“If this is the game we’re being forced to play,” he continues, “then we make sure we’re key players.”
Damian watches him closely.
Bruce raises his hand slightly, focusing his attention on the sigil beneath his feet.
Then he begins uttering the words he memorized within an hour of seeing them displayed on the many monitors across Gotham. The words that had instantly buried themselves beneath his skin and caused goosebumps to rise along the back of his neck.
It does not come naturally, but Bruce forces his voice steady and purposeful.
“For the elements silver and iron.”
His voice carries clearly through the cavern.
“For the foundation, stone, and the archduke of contracts.”
The symbols etched across the floor begin to shimmer faintly.
“For the ancestor, my great master Schweinorg.”
Alfred’s brow creases slightly at the unfamiliar name.
“Close the gates of the cardinal directions.”
The air in the cave shifts. Just enough to make the hairs on Damian’s arms lift.
“Come forth from the Crown, and follow the forked road to the Kingdom.”
Bruce’s voice never falters.
“Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill. Fill.”
The sigil pulses softly.
“Repeat five times. But when each is filled—destroy it.”
He draws a blade across his palm without hesitation.
Blood falls into the circle.
“Set.”
The crimson drops strike the stone.
The sigil ignites.
Light surges through the carved lines like fire racing through dry timber. Symbols blaze to life beneath Bruce’s feet, filling the cavern with a harsh glow that forces Damian to shield his eyes.
Bruce continues.
“Heed my words. My will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny.”
The sword at the center of the circle vibrates against the stone.
“If you heed the Grail’s call and obey my will and reason, then answer my summoning.”
The light intensifies.
“I hereby swear that I shall be all the good in the world.”
“That I shall defeat all evil in the world.”
The cavern trembles faintly as something answers.
“Seventh Heaven, clad in the great words of power—”
The circle erupts in blinding brilliance.
“Come forth from the circle of binding.”
The air splits with a thunderous crack.
“Guardian of the Scales!”
The light swallows the Batcave floor.
For several seconds, nothing exists but blinding white.
Then, slowly, the radiance begins to fade.
Smoke curls upward from the glowing sigil.
And standing within the circle—
An armored figure now occupies the space where the sword once lay.
The silhouette is unmistakably human.
A voice echoes through the cave, resonant and confident.
“Now then, I ask of you… are you the one who is my Master?”
Read the complete prologue on Ao3: here
[A/N: Figured reach would be abysmal so figured I'd share on here to see if people are interested in this ⚔️🏆]
Oops. Totally forgot to keep up with updates here. Anyway fic is up to chapter 17 now. I'll just add the latest snippet.
HtG Chapter Seventeen Snippet:
Jason unlocked the apartment door with muscle memory, boots scuffing across the hardwood as the lock clicked shut behind him. The place was dark, still, familiar—but not in the usual isolating way. He’d been coming back here more often than he cared to admit lately. Maybe because he’d cleared his plate, handed off the lingering cases to lieutenants he actually trusted. Maybe because he needed space to think. Or maybe—though he’d never say it out loud—it was because of him.
He toed off his boots and drifted into the kitchen before coming to a stop in front of his fridge, his eyes caught on the splash of color dead center on the door.
A Shadow the Hedgehog magnet. The black and red caricature straddling a motorcycle.
Jason stilled, thumb dragging absently across the ridge of the handle as the memory punched back, vivid.
They’d stood from the table, ready to part ways outside the sandwich shop. The awkwardness of their earlier apologies still lingered, but it was softer now, muted under something new—something neither of them seemed willing to name.
Danny had fumbled in his pocket before Jason could say his goodbyes. “Oh—uh, here.” He pressed something into Jason’s hand, his ears tinged pink in the afternoon light.
Jason glanced down. A cheap, glossy fridge magnet—Shadow the Hedgehog, brows furrowed and menacing on a motorcycle.
“What the hell—” he started, but Danny was already grinning, sheepish and quick.
“Saw it in a store. Thought of you. So, y’know. I got it for you.”
Jason blinked at him, caught off-guard in a way that felt bigger than it should. “...Thanks.”
Danny rocked back on his heels, scratching at his neck. “Don’t mention it. Just… your place? Clean and cozy, sure. But kinda sterile. Could use some personality. Y’know, to match yours. You’ve got a lot of it—in a good way, of course.”
Jason had barked a laugh, more flustered than amused, because what the hell was he supposed to do with that? He shoved the magnet into his pocket before Danny could see the heat climbing his neck.
Now, standing in his kitchen, Jason stared at the damn thing, bold and ridiculous against the otherwise bare fridge door. Danny had been right. It did add personality. And every time Jason looked at it, it reminded him that someone out there actually thought about him in the middle of a mundane errand.
That shouldn’t matter. But it did.
Jason shook his head, opened the door to grab the leftovers container waiting on the second shelf, and let the fridge hum shut. He told himself it was just a magnet. Just plastic and paint. Nothing more.
But his chest didn’t feel any lighter for the lie.
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