After Red Hood made his getaway with Joker, he hauled him across the city to an abandoned building awaiting renovation—one of Gotham's many half-forgotten skeletons of concrete and rust.
The elevator was long dead, so Jason took the stairs, dragging his captive up flight after flight until they reached a top-floor apartment he had prepared for tonight's event.
Broken windows let in the cold night air, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic and sirens far below. The moonlight spilled through the gaps, painting the room in pale silver and shadow.
He dropped Joker onto the floor like a sack of meat. The impact echoed dully through the empty space. Jason crouched and tore the seal from Joker's mouth in one sharp motion.
"Finally," Joker rasped, rolling his jaw and smacking his lips. "Being prevented from speaking for so long with such a crazy turn of events is probably bad for my health." He grinned, his eyes gleaming as if he were genuinely amused. To him, Red Hood felt like a more entertaining, less restrained version of Batman.
Jason didn't respond. He turned away instead, walking toward the far wall and planting a gloved hand against the cracked concrete. He took a deep breath. Then another.
The psychopath who had murdered him, the clown who had haunted his nightmares even when his memories were gone—was finally here. Right behind him. In his possession.
And yet, there was no rush of satisfaction. No sense of victory.
Jason frowned faintly at that realization, then shoved it aside. So long as the clown still drew breath, closure was impossible.
Everything he had suffered, the fracture in his mind, every sleepless night since his resurrection—could be traced back to the thing sitting behind him on the floor.
He turned.
Joker had pushed himself upright, his back against the wall, knees bent awkwardly, wrists still restrained. He glanced down at the bullet wound in his shoulder, blood soaking into the purple fabric of his coat, then looked back up with a wide grin.
"Gotta say, this is quite the excitement," Joker chirped. "I've never been kidnapped before. Terribly rude, of course, but I am curious where exactly this leads."
"You don't remember," Red Hood said. His modulated voice was low, controlled, carrying a quiet authority.
Joker tapped his chin with the backs of his restrained hands, feigning thoughtfulness. "Not a clue. I've been cooped up in Arkham for the past five years."
"How could you?" Jason muttered.
He raised both hands and reached for his helmet. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled it off and let it drop to the floor. Beneath it was a domino mask—black, familiar, and unmistakable. The same type he had worn years ago.
Joker tilted his head, studying him. "Your face does seem awfully familiar…" he mused. "I just can't seem to place it."
"I see," Jason said.
His hand reached behind his back, his gloved hand closing around cold metal. He drew out a crowbar, the dull dark surface catching the moonlight. A dangerous, almost eager smile tugged at his lips as a suffocating aura of bloodlust rolled off him in waves.
This gave Joker the illusion that the man standing right in front of him had turned into an indescribable monster, salivating over his flesh and even his very soul.
Jason stepped forward, slow and deliberate, one step at a time.
For the first time, the smile on Joker's face faltered. Something flickered in his eyes as he stared at the man before him—something raw and unfamiliar.
Fear.
The grudge Jason carried from beyond the grave was finally about to be repaid in full. "You…" Joker breathed, recognition dawning at last.
He laughed suddenly, sharp and loud.
Jason stopped.
He wasn't in a hurry. He had waited years for this. A few more minutes wouldn't matter.
"One night with Papa Joker," Joker cackled, "and you completely abandoned Batman's teachings!"
"One bad day." He added with emphasis as he laughed.
Jason cocked an eyebrow, letting him talk and not having to explain himself to the likes of a man he considered to be less than vermin. Nothing he could have said would have gotten through the thick skull of the lumatic in front of him.
"I mean, look at you," Joker continued gleefully. "You even use my old moniker. All this violence, all that thirst for blood. Who knew you were a natural born killer? You lack my charm, of course, but you've become the spitting image of me, your pa—" His words caused Jason to twitch.
Thwark!
The crowbar crashed into Joker's face with brutal force. Bone cracked audibly as Joker's jaw shattered under the blow, his head snapping to the side. Jason had held back—barely. With the strength surging through his body now, a full-force swing would have split Joker's skull like a watermelon.
He had other plans for the night. Killing Joker now would be a waste. That honor was reserved for the guest of honor—the man who had failed him.
"Th…that was.."
"Shut up, clown," Jason snarled.
The crowbar came down again. And again.
He didn't narrate his pain. He didn't list his losses or recount his suffering. Every swing spoke for him. Rage poured out with each strike, years of restraint dissolving into raw violence.
Bones cracked. Ribs splintered. Joker's body jerked and twisted like a broken marionette.
Joker still tried to laugh, even through the agony, as if the pain delighted him—but his shattered jaw reduced it to wet, muffled sounds.
Jason thought this would make him feel better.
It didn't.
With every blow, the anger felt misdirected.
Of course it was. If Bruce had ended Joker—if he had taken one life to avenge another—Jason wouldn't be here now, standing over this pathetic excuse for a man.
Pa!
The crowbar smashed into Joker's knee. Something snapped. More ribs broke. The laughter dissolved into incoherent noises as Jason's vision blurred, red bleeding into the edges of his sight.
Something primal stirred inside him—something he had suppressed for far too long. It strained against its chains, roaring to be unleashed.
And now the anger wasn't just for Joker.
It was for Bruce.
He had never hated him. He understood Bruce's code. But in this moment, that understanding meant nothing. Bruce should have paid a price for his refusal—for letting the man who stole his life keep breathing.
Rage erupted like a volcano that had been simmering beneath the surface for years.
Jason roared, putting everything he had into a final swing aimed straight at Joker's head.
Aggghhh!
He stopped mid-motion, arm fully extended with the crowbar frozen in the air.
His chest heaved as he forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the red haze receded. His vision cleared, revealing the carnage at his feet—Joker broken, bloodied, and barely conscious.
If he had gone full strength with his swings, Joker was sure to die in that heated moment.
At this point Joker was sure to have suffered multiple comminuted fractures.
He lowered the crowbar.
He had nearly lost himself.
Yes, Joker deserved to die. But skipping straight to dessert after ignoring the main course was a sign of indiscipline. Jason hadn't waited this long to lose control now.
He tossed the crowbar into a corner and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing until the storm inside him quieted.
The rage lingered—but it no longer demanded blood. Not yet.
He looked down at Joker, who let out a weak, gurgling chuckle.
Jason felt a grim satisfaction.
"Not such a fan of your own medicine?" he asked. "If you'll excuse me, I have an invite to send… and a guest of honor to receive."
He turned and walked to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused and glanced back.
"I'll be right back," he said calmly. "And I promise—just seeing him will make your night." The door shut behind him.
'Not like you could even get up if you wanted to,' he thought as he moved on to the next phase of the night.
- - -
[At Titans Tower]
Dick Grayson had been enjoying his much-needed time off with his girlfriend and his team—especially with his girlfriend.
Time off was a rare luxury for heroes. Emergencies, invasions, and end-of-the-world scenarios had a bad habit of popping up without warning, but as long as there wasn't an immediate crisis demanding their attention, they were allowed to breathe. Tonight was one of those rare nights. The city was relatively calm, Titans Tower was quiet, and Dick had taken full advantage of it.
He had even brought along his antisocial kid brother.
That decision, in hindsight, was… debatable.
Damian had managed to piss someone off in less than an hour after being introduced to the team. Dick didn't even know how the kid did it so efficiently—it was like a talent. Since then, Damian had been keeping mostly to himself, sitting in a corner with his arms crossed and his posture rigid, radiating barely restrained disdain.
He's been minding his business ever since I threatened to snitch on him to Bruce, Dick thought wryly. The kid really hates being grounded.
Damian might have kept his mouth shut, but his eyes did all the talking. The sharp glances, the unimpressed stare, the permanent scowl resting on his face—it was more than enough to make the rest of the team uncomfortable. Even when he wasn't saying a word, he somehow managed to make everyone feel like they were being silently judged and found lacking.
The others could tell he saw them as inferior. What they couldn't understand was why.
As Dick found himself thinking about his brother's near-impossible ability to alienate people, he felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder.
He turned—and immediately felt lips pressing against his in a soft, lingering kiss.
"What's on your mind?" Kori asked, her was voice gentle and curious. Her bright green eyes flicked briefly to the half-empty glass of alcohol sitting beside him on the table.
"Well," Dick said with a grin, leaning in to kiss her again, "right now? You."
She smiled, amused, as he pulled back slightly. "I was just having a drink before bed," he continued, lifting the glass loosely, "but I ended up thinking about just how antisocial Damian really is."
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the common area, where Damian sat rigidly on a couch, pretending not to listen to the rest of the team while absolutely listening to everything.
"At this rate," Dick went on, shaking his head, "he's never going to get a girlfriend. And then I won't be able to give him dating advice. Or share all the hard-earned wisdom and experience I've gained over the years."
He sighed dramatically, then tipped the glass back and finished the last of its contents in one gulp.
Kori blinked, clearly not expecting that to be his concern.
Then she laughed.
It was a bright, genuine sound that filled the room. "Despite his attitude and… overwhelming confidence," she said carefully, "he is quite the looker. Do not worry. I am certain you will get the chance to play the experienced big brother someday." She gave him a playful nudge, chuckling.
Dick snorted. "Let's hope his looks alone are enough," he replied. "Because the other traits you mentioned? That's just sums up his arrogance."
Kori smiled but didn't disagree.
As the two of them continued talking, relaxed and close, the television behind them quietly switched to a breaking news broadcast. The newscaster went on speaking on a muted screen as bold red letters flashed across the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: JOKER ESCAPES ARKHAM ASYLUM
Neither of them noticed right away.
The broadcast showed shaky aerial footage of a bridge locked in disarray—police lights, damaged vehicles, smoke still hanging in the air. The reporters spoke quickly, speculating wildly as images of Gotham's most infamous criminal filled the screen.
Then it showed the appearance of Red Hood who they reported to have shot and taken Joker.
There was uncertainty—no clear confirmation on whether Joker had truly been kidnapped or if the entire incident was some twisted collaboration. The authorities themselves weren't sure yet, and until they were, the story remained incomplete.