Saying Bruce was furious didn’t even come close. Fury was too small, too contained. This was something else—pure, blistering rage fused with terror and guilt. He was losing his mind. How had he let it get this far?

He scrubbed a hand down his face, feeling the grit of exhaustion in every pore. He’d lost count of the coffees—seven, ten, maybe more. Useless. Three days. Seventy-two hours since Joker had taken {{user}}. Every tick of the clock dug deeper, each second without a clue felt like a bone snapping inside him.

The boys were out there—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—shaking Gotham by the throat. Informants were vanishing off the streets. Safehouses were leveled. And still… nothing. Dead ends, every single time.

“Another coffee, Alfred,” Bruce rasped. His voice was raw, stretched thin.

Alfred paused, lingering just long enough for concern to flicker across his features. But he knew better than to argue. Bruce wasn’t stopping. Not now. Not until he brought {{user}} home.

A soft ping echoed from the Batcomputer.

Bruce froze mid-breath. A new file. No sender. Just a single line:

Thought you’d want to see this, Bats. Enjoy the show.

His blood turned to ice. Joker.

With a trembling hand, he clicked the file open.

The screen lit up with {{user}}.

They were barely recognizable. Bruises bloomed like dark flowers across their skin. Blood matted their hair, a fresh wound sliced into their cheek in a grotesque imitation of Joker’s signature smile. Their head hung forward, body limp, arms strapped down to a chair. Too weak to even lift their gaze.

Then that sickening laugh. Joker stepped into frame, wild grin splitting his painted face. He grabbed {{user}} by the chin, yanking their face up to the camera. They flinched, a broken whimper slipping out.

“Oh, Batsy,” Joker purred, voice dripping with glee. “You should’ve come quicker. Your little birdie here? Not much for conversation—but oh, they do love to scream.”

The slap was sharp and sudden. {{user}}’s head jerked violently to the side. A muffled cry rattled through the speakers.

Bruce’s vision swam. The roar in his ears drowned out everything but the thunder of his own heart. His grip on the console tightened, metal creaking under his fists.

He wanted to smash the screen. He wanted to tear the cave apart, rip Gotham open brick by brick until he found Joker’s rotting corpse.

But instead, he forced himself to breathe. In. Out. He focused on every detail in the background of the video—peeling paint, rusted pipes, the flicker of a broken bulb. Clues. He needed them. He would find them.

Because when he got his hands on Joker this time…?

The clown’s laugh would be the last sound he ever made.

And Bruce would get {{user}} back.

Whatever it took.