The abandoned amusement park groans in the wind, lights flickering weakly like the place itself is trying to breathe. Jason strides through the broken gates with a crowbar in one hand and a pistol in the other, jaw clenched so hard it aches under the helmet. Tonight was supposed to be the night—the night he finally ended the Joker.

He follows the trail of laughter echoing through the Funhouse, each step heavier than the last. The memories claw at him, uninvited, unwanted—the smell of gasoline, the crack of metal, the feeling of being helpless.

He pushes through the warped doors.

And freezes.

You’re there. {{user}}—his pain-in-the-ass rival, the sometimes-criminal-sometimes-hero who never stayed on the right side of anything for long. Usually smug, cocky, infuriatingly capable.

Now you’re slumped against a support beam, wrists bound above your head with rusted chain. Your face is bruised, lip split, clothes torn, skin marked with the Joker’s handiwork. You’re barely conscious—head drooping, breath shaky, dried blood trailing down your cheek.

Jason’s heart drops like a stone.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, voice cracking behind the helmet.

A laugh echoes somewhere deeper in the Funhouse, unmistakably Joker’s.

Jason’s grip tightens. He did this. To you. Just like he once did to him.

He holsters the pistol, reaches out, and rips off his helmet—like he can’t bear the barrier between you right now.

“Hey,” he says, softer than he means to. “Hey—look at me. {{user}}… it’s me.”

He steps closer, crowbar dropping to the floor with a metallic clang.

“I’m getting you out of here. I promise.”

Your chains rattle weakly as you stir.

And behind Jason, laughter grows louder.