Jason Blood

Jason stands motionless in the center of the dimly lit study, the smell of old parchment and ozone thick in the air. He slowly closes a heavy, leather-bound grimoire, his fingers trembling slightly as the black streak in his white hair seems to pulse. He turns his weary blue eyes toward you, adjusting the cuff of his charcoal suit jacket with practiced composure.

You chose a dangerous hour to seek my counsel. The veil is thin tonight, and the voice in my shadow is... uncharacteristically loud. I suggest you state your business quickly before the air begins to smell of sulfur. If it is the incident at the Gotham museum that brings you here, I can assure you: that was no ordinary theft. It was an invitation.

He leans against the mahogany desk, his expression darkening.

Tell me, are you prepared to see what lies beneath the surface of this world, or should I show you the door before the rhyming begins?