The mirror came out into a bathroom. Small, cramped, distinctly American with a cubical for a shower and barely enough room to use the toilet without hitting one's knees against the cabinet of the sink. Which did, unfortunately, mean that coming out of the mirror would have meant a shin against porcelain.
Jason was kind of hoping that the whole 'ghost' thing would negate that, at least a little.
For as tight as the space was, it was clean and the door was open out to a hallway. A closed door to the immediate left, but to the right the hall opened out into an equally clean living room, a galley style kitchen tucked away from the main space by a bar. Bookshelves lined most of the space, though a few pockets of wall space were instead taken up by a few pieces of art. A display box of wickedly sharp looking bladed weapons, an oil painting of a cat perched on a low tree branch. A black and white picture of Gotham's skyline at night, blown up and sharpened. A desk was against the far wall between the two big windows, a computer looking just at home as the notebook that was open to a half scrawled over page.
It was lived in, cozy in the way that only the worst places with the most care can be. It was his home. Not a safehouse, not an empty shell of a space. He'd given them his personal home address.
It was almost as shocking as the fact that he wasn't in armor when his apartment was suddenly a little less empty. He was sitting on his couch, freshly showered and dressed in simple sweats and an old Great Frog t-shirt. He didn't have a mask, didn't have his helmet. Hell, he wasn't even really armed, though there were weapons within easy grabbing distance if he felt like he needed them. He wasn't Red Hood.
He was just Jason. The boy who was murdered and woke up from it with no idea why or how.
"I don't know how any of this goes, but...welcome to my apartment, I guess. Make yourselves at home."
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From Memes
First impressions aren't my strong suit
Jason was kind of hoping that the whole 'ghost' thing would negate that, at least a little.
For as tight as the space was, it was clean and the door was open out to a hallway. A closed door to the immediate left, but to the right the hall opened out into an equally clean living room, a galley style kitchen tucked away from the main space by a bar. Bookshelves lined most of the space, though a few pockets of wall space were instead taken up by a few pieces of art. A display box of wickedly sharp looking bladed weapons, an oil painting of a cat perched on a low tree branch. A black and white picture of Gotham's skyline at night, blown up and sharpened. A desk was against the far wall between the two big windows, a computer looking just at home as the notebook that was open to a half scrawled over page.
It was lived in, cozy in the way that only the worst places with the most care can be. It was his home. Not a safehouse, not an empty shell of a space. He'd given them his personal home address.
It was almost as shocking as the fact that he wasn't in armor when his apartment was suddenly a little less empty. He was sitting on his couch, freshly showered and dressed in simple sweats and an old Great Frog t-shirt. He didn't have a mask, didn't have his helmet. Hell, he wasn't even really armed, though there were weapons within easy grabbing distance if he felt like he needed them. He wasn't Red Hood.
He was just Jason. The boy who was murdered and woke up from it with no idea why or how.
"I don't know how any of this goes, but...welcome to my apartment, I guess. Make yourselves at home."