Ten years ago, the sky behind Wayne Mansion was cloudy and cold.
A teenager hovered near the long black gates, hands shaking. Dirty sneakers dragged on the pavement.
He screamed, voice wild, "I'm your son! You have to talk to me—Dad!"
Thomas Wayne stared through the iron bars, eyebrows tight.
"No," Thomas said. His tone was certain. "That's not true."
Tense silence hung in the air.
Behind Thomas, Martha watched, worry on her face.
Inside the house, Bruce and Ojaga—just kids—were in the study, reading old detective comics. They couldn't hear the commotion.
The teenager turned and ran, shoulders trembling.
His name wasn't revealed yet—but he was already broken.
Later that night, at a busy party in the main hall, the boy sneaked in.
He tracked Thomas to a marble bathroom.
Suddenly, he lunged, desperate—fighting not for pain, but proof.
He managed a quick, clumsy scuffle and snatched a strand of Thomas's hair.
No alarms sounded. The guests kept laughing.
Bruce and Ojaga heard nothing.
Days passed.
The DNA results returned: no match.
He was not Thomas Wayne's son.
His mother, Penny, had lied for years.
On the phone, the teenager sobbed quietly.
He stopped talking. Stopped trusting.
After graduating, he took a low job in the city—chemical factory, graveyard shifts.
One stormy evening, a fight broke out over missing pay.
Yelling. Shoves. Chaos.
The young man was pushed into an open tank of chemical waste.
Searing pain filled his head and body.
When the workers pulled him out, he didn't smile.
He started laughing.
He couldn't stop.
Weeks later, the doctors labelled him a danger to himself and others—a mental patient.
He was sent to Arkham Asylum.
Few remembered his true name.
But everyone learned his mask—the Joker.
Now, age 32, the Joker returned to Gotham's streets.
No one recognized him at first; students at colleges only saw a stylish new dealer.
He built a drug empire in months.
Bodies fell, rumors spread, and then the Joker masks appeared everywhere.
Everyone in the city was scared.
One night, Wayne Mansion's alarms sounded.
Dozens of masked men crashed through front gates.
Joker masks, machetes, and homemade guns.
Thomas and Martha watched from their window, silent but terrified.
"Are the boys home?" Martha whispered, voice tight.
Thomas shook his head, checking his phone. "Not yet."
They locked themselves in the safe room.
Across the city, Clark was guiding a family to dry shelter.
His super-hearing caught Pennyworth's call.
"Mansion under attack," the butler said firmly.
Clark's eyes narrowed.
He shot into the sky instantly, scanning the city for the mansion.
Ojaga, training miles away, got a call too.
Pennyworth's message was quick and scared.
"Come home—Joker masks—emergency!"
Ojaga stopped training at once.
Diana saw him turn pale.
"What's wrong?"
He didn't answer—just vanished, moving faster than sound toward Wayne Mansion.
Bruce was halfway through a city meeting.
His phone vibrated. He read, froze, and sprinted for his bike.
No hesitation.
No words.
Clark landed on the mansion's roof seconds before Bruce.
Ojaga blasted down, tail flashing, boots sparking on the gravel.
All three entered instantly.
Pennyworth met them at the hall.
"They're in the safe room. These men wanted blood. The Joker's back."
Clark's eyes flashed red, scanning for heat signatures.
Ojaga checked the main lock.
Bruce took command.
"Clark, guard the east. Ojaga, west wing. I'll clear the foyer. Pennyworth—stay with my parents."
Outside, gunfire echoed.
Inside, the family held hands, silent but strong.