Late that night, long after the city had settled into its usual uneasy silence, Batman and Nightwing made their way to Arkham Asylum—a fortress of concrete, iron, and madness tucked away on the outskirts of Gotham like a scar the city never quite healed from.
The storm that had threatened earlier had passed, but the sky remained thick with clouds, casting everything in a pale, ghostly gray.
A single security escort guided them through the interior, past guarded checkpoints, retinal scans, and bolted steel doors until they reached a sanctioned visitation chamber built for high-risk containment.
Inside the room, the Joker waited.
He sat slouched in a reinforced steel chair bolted to the floor. He was shackled from the neck down, a ridiculous tangle of chains that clinked with every minor movement he made.
Thick iron restraints clamped his wrists and elbows tightly to his sides, a belt looped through a steel brace at his waist, and heavy chains bound his legs all the way down to his ankles.
Even if he wanted to move, he couldn't take more than a half-step at a time. The room reeked faintly of disinfectant, rust, and whatever twisted perfume insanity wore.
He looked up as they entered—Batman in black, looming like a statue carved from shadow, and Nightwing a few steps behind, sharp-eyed and tense.
"Well, would you look at this," Joker purred, lips curling into a grin that didn't quite touch his sunken eyes. "You boys finally decided to come visit. I was beginning to think I was old news."
Batman and Nightwing didn't take a seat. They remained standing, unmoving, their presence imposing and silent. The sheer sight of Joker again was enough to dredge up things Bruce had buried—memories locked in the darkest corners of his mind.
Pain that time hadn't healed, just... dulled. Five years of trying to bury the weight of it. Five years of trying to atone through relentless work, one criminal at a time.
"You look good. Been working out?" Joker broke the silence with a crooked smirk. "You could probably use a little sun. Then again, who am I to talk?" He cackled at his own joke—an irritating, high-pitched laugh that echoed against the walls and made Nightwing's fists clench at his sides.
Batman didn't take the bait. He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small photo, tossing it onto the metal table between them.
"He's calling himself the Red Hood," Bruce said, voice low but sharp with barely controlled restraint. "What do you know?"
Joker leaned forward as far as the chains would let him, his cuffed hands rattling against the table. His expression shifted just slightly—not quite surprise, but recognition danced at the edge of his grin.
He picked up the photo with his chained fingers, turning it slightly. "Mmm. Tragic. So much leather. So little style. When I wore that number, it was classy. Elegant. More maître d', less... biker gang chic." He snorted. "Kids these days. No flair."
Nightwing's glare tightened, his voice coming in sharp. "If you're behind this in any way, we'll find out. And when we do—"
"Oh, bird-boy," Joker cut in, grinning wider. "You are so much less fun now. All grown up, walking tall in your big-boy pants. You used to smile. What happened to the pirouettes? The sass?"
He turned his gaze back to Batman and tilted his head slightly. "Still, better off than your last sidekick, huh?" His grin split wider. "What's tougher than losing the jokes? Being six feet under. Can't exactly laugh with a mouth full of worms."
That was it.
Batman snapped.
He moved in a flash, yanking Joker up off his chair with one arm and hurling him across the room like a ragdoll. The chains rattled furiously as Joker hit the far wall with a dull, solid thud, slamming against the reinforced door with enough force to shake the hinges.
Before he could fully slump, Batman was already on him—one hand wrapped tight around Joker's throat, lifting him off the ground.
Nightwing tensed, ready to intervene, but he held back, watching carefully. He knew Bruce. Knew how close he could get to that line without crossing it. Still, there was always that chance tonight might be… different.
Batman's grip tightened, his knuckles pale under the glove. His jaw was locked, teeth clenched. In that moment, he didn't see chains or padded walls—he saw Jason. Blood. Screams. Silence.
Joker gagged, gasping as his legs dangled a few inches off the floor. Yet somehow, he still smiled.
"Gonna do it this time?" he rasped, voice hoarse. "Or just put me in another body cast for six months?"
His eyes glinted, challenging. Daring him.
Batman growled under his breath, the tension in his arms reaching a breaking point. He saw red. But just before the edge, he pulled back.
With a grunt of frustration, he dropped Joker hard to the floor. The clown crumpled, coughing violently, wheezing through bruised ribs and a bruised ego. Still smiling.
"So disappointing," Joker whispered, voice thin.
Silence fell over the room as Bruce stepped back.
Joker rolled onto his side and let out a low chuckle. "Back to the matter at hand... this new hoodie. Do you really think I'd stir up that much trouble and not take credit for it? And not make sure you knew it was me?" He let out a long, mocking laugh, dragging it out until it became almost unbearable.
Batman said nothing.
He had heard enough.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. Nightwing hesitated for a second, casting one final glance at the madman on the floor before following.
The laughter trailed behind them as the heavy door slid closed, muffling Joker's voice until it was gone, swallowed up by the asylum's thick walls.
The walk back to the Batmobile was quiet.
"Well," Nightwing finally said as they stepped out into the cold night air, "at least we can scratch Joker off the suspect list."
Batman didn't reply. He stood beside the vehicle for a moment, eyes staring straight ahead, fists clenched at his sides.
"Are you okay?" Dick asked, his voice softer now, less joking.
"I'm good," Bruce replied flatly.
He slid into the driver's seat and started the engine with a low rumble. The cockpit lit up in a pale blue glow, the HUD silently waiting for input.
Dick climbed in beside him and fastened his seatbelt. "Alright."
The doors shut, and the Batmobile pulled out of the asylum's lot, slipping into the night. The ride back to Gotham was long and quiet, filled with the kind of silence that carried more weight than words ever could. Both men stared ahead, caught in their own thoughts, while Arkham slowly disappeared behind them like a bad dream.
But the weight in Bruce's chest hadn't disappeared. It was still there.
- - -
[Jason Todd's POV]
Blurred vision and a sluggish, foggy sense of awareness greeted Jason as his eyes cracked open. The slow, rhythmic spin of a ceiling fan above him came into view, circling clockwise in an almost hypnotic motion.
The blades sliced through the quiet air with a soft hum, stirring the room just enough to carry the faint smell of sweat, steel, and old leather.
"Where—?"
His voice rasped out, barely above a whisper. He turned his head and blinked a few times as the room slowly came into sharper focus.
The familiar dull gray walls, the faint flicker of sunlight bleeding through half-closed blinds, and the scratched-up dresser in the corner of the room confirmed what he already suspected.
"Oh... I'm home." He murmured, stretching out an arm and pressing his hand lazily over his mouth as a long yawn crawled out of him.
Then the realization struck like a jolt of electricity.
"Wait—I'm home!?"
He shot upright, almost slipping on the crumpled blanket tangled around his legs. "How the hell did I get home?"
His heart was racing now as flashes of memory surged through the haze in his mind. The docks. The Maroni shipment. The ambush. Robin. Their brief, intense exchange. The fight. The final blow.
He rubbed his temple with a palm, still trying to piece it all together. "Man... that must've been one hell of a knockout. Feels like someone unplugged half my brain and kicked the rest into a wall."
He huffed out a small laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Guess that nap came with a side of partial amnesia."
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, letting the moment breathe while his thoughts untangled themselves. Maybe he was just overthinking. Not the first time. Wouldn't be the last. The best way to shake it off, as always, was to sweat it out.
Jason stood, stretching his arms above his head, his back cracking with a satisfying pop. His room wasn't fancy—it had more of a bunker-meets-gym vibe.
Concrete walls, faint scuff marks on the floor, and one dim ceiling bulb that hummed low like it was on its last breath. In the corner, a modest collection of workout equipment stood ready.
A foldable bench with a barbell, mismatched dumbbells scattered nearby, and a few steel plates stacked neatly under a rugged shelf.
He moved over to the corner, unfolded the bench, and adjusted the weights.
No pre-workout. No fancy warm-ups. Just raw, familiar motion. He slipped under the bar and started pumping out steady reps. Controlled, efficient, with just enough strain to bite into his chest and shoulders.
Jason didn't care much for flashy training regimens anymore. He'd done it all—the League's brutal endurance gauntlets,
Batman's hellish drills, and even those weird Russian parkour phases back when he was with the League. These days, it was about balance—keeping the body sharp and the mind steady.
After the bench press, he grabbed a pair of heavy dumbbells and started curling.
Biceps flaring, veins tracing down his arms like road maps of tension. Sweat gathered quickly on his brow and collarbones, the familiar burn in his muscles slowly pushing out the residual fog in his mind.
Once the pump was solid, he dropped the dumbbells back onto the rack with a satisfying clank and snatched the white towel draped over the bar. He wiped down his face and neck, dragging the sweat off his skin as he caught his breath.
Next were pull-ups. He gripped the overhead bar mounted above his room's door and started repping out smooth, clean sets, the muscles in his back tightening with each lift.
The rhythm was comforting—just his body moving against gravity, no thoughts, no weight on his shoulders except his own.
Finished, he dropped to the floor, chest rising and falling steadily. The towel went around his neck as he trudged toward the mini fridge nestled against the wall beside his dresser. He opened it, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and took several deep gulps.
A grumble in his stomach reminded him of the next order of business.
"Time for some real fuel," he muttered.
He cracked open the fridge again and pulled out a couple of eggs, some half-wrapped bacon, and bread.
Within minutes, the small kitchenette at the corner of his place was alive with the sizzle of bacon and eggs popping on a skillet. The air filled with a rich aroma—salty, greasy, comforting.
He prepped his breakfast in quick, practiced motions. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast, plated with a glass of orange juice to the side.
He dropped into the worn-down chair by the counter, digging in without ceremony. As he chewed, he noticed the juice carton was nearly empty.
"Gotta hit the store soon," he mumbled, glancing toward the mini pantry. The shelves weren't bare, but they were getting close—just a couple canned items.
Once breakfast was done, he rinsed his plate and tossed it into the sink, then made his way to the shower. The warm spray pounded against his skin, rinsing away the sweat and tension like mud from old armor.
He stood there longer than usual, letting the steam fog up the mirror and clear the last remnants of sleep from his mind.
After drying off, he threw on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of dark joggers. Comfortable, clean, no fuss.
His eyes drifted to the wall across from his bed—a personal kind of trophy wall. Not filled with medals or masks, but with dartboards. Two of them. The first had a blown-up photo of Joker's sickeningly wide grin pinned to the center. The second had a printout of Batman's cowl, dead center.
Jason didn't hesitate. He grabbed two daggers from the table beside his bed and flicked them across the room. They landed with precise, angry thunks—one in the Joker's left eye, the other right between the Bat's glaring brows.
He stared at the blades for a beat, chest rising slow with each breath.
"Still got it," he muttered under his breath.
With nothing more to say, he turned and headed for the kitchen.
Still hungry.
He grabbed a cold beer from the fridge door and pulled out a few leftover slices of pizza from last night.
They went into the microwave with a beep and hum. His body relaxed a bit as he leaned back against the counter, sipping the beer and staring off at nothing in particular.
Lazy day, he told himself.
But in the back of his mind, he knew that peace wouldn't last.
Not in this city.
Not in his city.