Gotham was in open collapse.

Sirens wailed from every direction, red and blue lights bleeding into the smoke-choked night as the city tore itself apart under Joker’s hand. Explosions echoed blocks away, Firefly’s signature, while Killer Moth’s chaos clogged the streets below. The GCPD had fallen first. Everything after that was just damage control.

High above it all, on the rooftop, the game reached its centerpiece.

The Joker stood at the very edge, one gloved hand curled tight around the restraints binding you, the other gesturing grandly to the city below as if it were his stage. Wind tugged at your clothes, at your balance, at the thin margin between solid ground and empty air. One careless shift, one deliberate shove, and gravity would do the rest.

Batman was already there.

He stood rigid, every instinct screaming to move, to strike, to end it, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. One wrong motion and Joker would let go just to prove a point. Nightwing flanked him, jaw tight, eyes never leaving you for a second, body coiled with barely contained panic and precision.

Joker delighted in it.

He leaned closer, laughing softly, rocking you just enough to remind everyone how fragile the moment was. Below, Gotham stretched out in chaos, and somewhere out there, the rest of the family was fighting through Joker’s men, tearing across rooftops and streets, trying to reach you in time.

But up here, none of that mattered.

Up here, the world narrowed to the edge of the roof, the rope biting into your wrists, and the unbearable stillness of two heroes forced to watch without acting. Joker’s grin widened, eyes gleaming as he drank in their restraint, their fear.

“This,” he seemed to savor without saying it, “is the best part.”

The wind howled. And the game wasn’t over yet.