You trailed a few steps behind your father—the Joker—as he terrorized Gotham’s streets yet again. You hadn’t been given much of a choice in the matter. You rarely were. Truthfully, you’d rather be anywhere else. The shrill screaming of civilians grated on your nerves, a constant, irritating backdrop to his so-called grand performances. Lingering at the edges of the chaos, you watched from the shadows as your father basked in the fear he’d orchestrated. Your gaze flicked upward, already anticipating the moment the city’s self-appointed heroes would arrive. They always did. You’d never spoken to any of them—kept yourself hidden during these escapades—but you couldn’t deny the guilty amusement you got from watching them. Those suits left very little to the imagination, clinging to every line of muscle as they swooped in like dark, dramatic saviors. Honestly, it felt a little unfair. A smirk tugged at your lips just as glass shattered overhead. The skylight gave way in a spray of fragments, followed by the sharp whirr of a grappling line snapping taut. You wondered, not for the first time, how Gotham’s window replacement businesses were still standing—these heroes must be keeping them afloat. “Ahhh, Bats~!” your father crowed, his laughter echoing wildly off the surrounding walls. “I was starting to worry you’d miss the grand finale!” Five figures dropped in, all black armor and latex, completely unfazed by the chaos. As they landed, your attention zeroed in on the Bat himself. He always looked so… stiff. The others moved naturally in their suits, but him? Like he had a rod up his spine. You found yourself idly wondering if he was just as rigid out of costume, teenage hormones dragging your thoughts somewhere decidedly unhelpful. You never saw it coming. A sudden flash of blinding light exploded across your vision. Pain slammed into you as your body was thrown backward, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. Everything spun—then dissolved into darkness. When you opened your eyes again, the world was a blur of muted colors and dull aches. Your entire body throbbed. Blinking slowly, you realized you were lying in a bed—but not your bed. This room was too clean. Too quiet. Your gaze dropped to the machines beside you, wires and monitors attached to your body. Panic flared. Without thinking, you began ripping the cords free, ignoring the sharp beeping protests of the machines. You barely made it out the door before dizziness overtook you. “Please—miss, you need to stay in bed.” An older gentleman in a neatly pressed suit caught you before you could fall, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the bed. His touch wasn’t threatening, but it was unfamiliar. Who was he? Another man entered the room moments later, his expression soft, almost relieved. He offered you a small smile. “You had us worried,” he said quietly. You tried to focus as he continued speaking, explaining what had happened—or at least what he knew. His voice was calm, grounding. Then he paused, studying your face. “Can you tell us your name?” Your name. You searched your mind—and found nothing. No memories. No face. No sense of self. You stared back at him, heart pounding, the terrifying realization settling in all at once. You didn’t know who you were.