"𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦."

I hit the ground hard. Bones rattle, skull sings. The floor is damp—blood, maybe. Maybe mine. Maybe his. The world tilts, and the laughter drills into my ears like nails into a coffin lid.

Damian is gone. I made sure of that.

Joker looms, grinning, eyes wide with the kind of joy that splits things open. He stands over me, head tilted, taking in the sight of me—bruised, breathless, broken. And something inside him thrums.

"You always come back to me," he croons. His voice slithers into my ribs, coils around my lungs. "No matter how hard you try."

I shake my head, but my body betrays me. Hands trembling, breath short, too small in my own skin. I know what’s happening. I know who’s clawing his way back up, grinning just like the man above me.

Joker Jr.

I taste metal. I taste childhood fears and the kind of horror you never really grow out of.

"I’m not him," I rasp. But my voice is different. Higher. Frayed. Wrong.

Joker crouches, palm patting my cheek like I’m something soft, something his. "Oh, but you are. You always were."

I could’ve run. I could’ve let Damian take the hit, let him see how it feels to have Joker’s eyes carve him into something unrecognizable. But I didn’t. I shoved him out, locked the door behind him, and took his place. Because i dont want him to suffer more.

Joker’s hand grips my chin, his smile growing wider. I don’t fight it. I don’t move. I don’t breathe.