The room is dim bare bulbs flickering from broken sockets, casting shadows like ghosts across the cracked concrete floor.

The Joker kneels, his violet suit sharp against the grime, his painted face calm serene, even as if he’s won a long, cruel game. But it’s him The Dark Knight who’s folded into the Joker’s chest. Gotham’s silent guardian, the man forged in vengeance and night, clutching at purple lapels like a drowning man.

“I need you,” he says, voice ragged and low, the words cracked open like an exposed nerve.

And the Joker? He doesn’t mock. Doesn’t laugh. Instead, his fingers curl lightly around the back of the cowl, possessive but gentle. His grin is quieter this time less mania, more meaning. A secret smile for a truth he’s always known: they are two sides of the same broken mirror.

He should be afraid.

But He’s not.

Because in this warped, impossible moment, the monster is the one being held… and the madness is soft. The Dark Knight sees it clearly he treats him differently. Not like Harley, not like a pawn in a joke only he understands. When his eyes flick toward him, there’s something almost… reverent.

The Dark Knight is not part of the game.

He’s the exception.

And in this ruined city built on pain, that makes him the only real thing left between themselves.