Jason knew he hadn't sold the car.
Of course he knew.
The first dealership owner had taken one look at the sedan and gone white as a sheet. No haggling. No bullshit about "damage from poor handling" or "can only give you forty bucks, kid." Just pure terror.
"Get that thing out of here. Now."
Jason had tried three more dealerships after that. Same response every time.
"Return it if you don't want to die. That car's cursed."
"I don't care how much you need the money. Take it somewhere else."
"Are you trying to get us all killed?"
The last dealer had actually crossed himself.
Jason drove the car back toward the orphanage with empty pockets and a sick, hollow feeling in his gut. The Orphanage Gang had been hungry for two days. No food. No clean water. No warm clothes. The roof leaked snow through holes they'd tried to patch with newspaper and cardboard. Frostbite blackened the younger kids' fingers and toes.
Every winter, children died.
Not from gang violence. Not from shootouts or stabbings or any of the crimes that made the news. Just cold. Just hunger. Just the slow, quiet death of being forgotten.
Gotham's crime statistics recorded a few hundred murders per year. Nobody tracked how many kids froze to death in abandoned buildings. Nobody counted the ones who lost fingers to frostbite, or went permanently disabled from malnutrition, or joined gangs because it was the only way to survive.
Bruce Wayne tried. God knew the man tried. But even Wayne money had limits.
The relief centers filled up the first day of winter. Every wooden bunk taken. Every blanket claimed. Every meal ticket distributed within hours. The Wayne Foundation expanded every year, built more shelters, bought more supplies.
But Gotham's abandoned children grew faster than the shelters could.
Jason and his friends were the overflow. The extras. The kids who arrived too late, who weren't fast enough or strong enough to claim a bed before someone else did.
They'd tried. Failed. And now they had to survive winter on their own.
So when Jason saw twenty pairs of desperate eyes staring at him, waiting for the money he didn't have, his whole body trembled. The younger kids would break when he admitted the truth. He'd seen it happen before. Seen children just... stop. Give up. Lie down in the snow and not get back up.
He opened his mouth to confess.
"Please help me open the door. I'm the cook he hired."
Jason's brain stuttered.
The voice shocked him back to awareness. Unfroze his numb hands and feet. He knew he had no money to hire anyone. The man outside had probably made a mistake, or was looking for someone else, or—more likely—was the car's owner who'd chased him here.
But Jason didn't want to expose the lie.
Because his friends were smiling. Actually smiling. He hadn't seen them smile like that in months.
And the voice outside didn't sound angry.
Jason walked to the door in a daze. Unhooked the rusty chain. Pulled the door open.
A man stood outside wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a thin jacket, and jeans. Younger than Jason expected. Mid-twenties maybe. Smiling gently despite being completely soaked in sweat and melted snow.
It's really him, Jason thought numbly. I'm dead. What'll happen to everyone when I'm gone? Stupid, Jason. You're so stupid.
"Ah, you've got a fire going. Not bad." The man's smile widened. "Good. I'll just need to bring in the pot and ingredients. One moment."
Jason blinked.
What?
Hadn't he stolen this guy's car? He'd seen the man chasing him in the rearview mirror, sprinting through snow like a maniac. Shouldn't there be yelling? Punching? Police?
Instead the man was talking about... cooking?
"Hey, someone help me out here." The voice came again, breathless. "Can't carry all these bags and water buckets by myself."
The guy didn't look that strong. Skinny, actually. Jason could probably take him in a fight if it came to that. At least he wouldn't be a threat to the younger kids.
Jason shook his head, trying to restart his frozen brain. A tiny spark of hope flickered in his chest.
"You heard him!" Jason called back to the house. "Anyone who can lift stuff, get out here and help bring things inside!"
"Coming!"
The older kids erupted from the orphanage barefoot, faces bright with desperate eagerness.
"Yes, yes, these bags have food in them. We'll need to make several trips. These buckets are water. This bag is charcoal."
Jason moved in a dream state, carrying supplies from the grey car into the ruined building. Bags of rice and vegetables. Buckets of clean water. A huge iron pot. More charcoal than they'd burned in the last three months combined.
The fire roared to life, fed by the new fuel. Flames climbed higher than Jason had ever seen in this place. Heat radiated through the room in waves.
It felt unreal. Vague and impossible. Like the story he'd heard about the little match girl who hallucinated warmth before freezing to death.
Until smoke made him cough.
"Cough, cough, cough—"
The sound echoed through the orphanage, children hacking in unison.
"Sorry!" the man called over the noise. "It's smokeless charcoal, but I used too much. Still produces some smoke." He waved a hand at the door. "Can someone crack that open? Just a little?"
The coughing stopped instantly.
For the first time in months, the fire burned hot enough that every child could feel it. They stretched their hands toward the flames, feet wiggling in the warmth, soaking in every degree of heat like starving plants drinking rain.
Nobody wanted to open the door. Nobody wanted the cold back in.
"Just a crack," the man said gently. "It won't get cold, I promise. This porridge needs to cook awhile, and the smoke has to go somewhere. Once it's ready, we'll close up tight."
Someone opened the door an inch.
Smoke spiraled out into the winter air. The smell of cooking rice filled the room.
It smelled incredible. Ten minutes of cooking and Jason's mouth was already watering. Then again, anything edible would smell incredible right now. They'd been hungry for three days.
"Chef, chef!" One of the smaller kids tugged at the man's sleeve. "What kind of porridge is this?"
The chef's expression went distant. Nostalgic. A little sad.
"It's porridge from my hometown," he said quietly. "Called Nanakusa-gayu or Seven-herb rice porridge."