The Bat Family entered through the upper balcony, cloaked in shadows—each of them dressed not in their signature armor, but in muted, anonymous clothing designed for infiltration. Bruce moved first, silent and fluid, with the others fanning out behind him. Alfred had stayed behind as backup communications; this was strictly a field op.

Below them stretched the opera hall—transformed. The crimson seats were filled with a collection of Gotham’s most dangerous and secretive souls. Members of the Bertinelli crime syndicate sat near arms dealers from Blüdhaven. Vigilantes with covered faces leaned near black market intel brokers. A few Gotham PD officers were sprinkled throughout, their disguises a touch too clean to pass unnoticed by the Bat Family’s trained eyes.

Tim adjusted his small listening device, catching overlapping whispers.

“Is it true? Actual Joker files?” “Maybe even his real name.” “They say it’s from someone close... someone who knew him before the madness.”

Jason snorted quietly. “Yeah? And maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and he’ll apologize for killing me.”

Damian’s eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk’s. “Tt. This many people for information on one clown? Pathetic.”

“No,” Bruce said, voice barely audible. “They’re not here for the Joker. They’re here for leverage.”

Then, the lights shifted. A spotlight, tinged in violet, bloomed on the once-grand stage.

Out stepped the host.

She was draped in a cloak of midnight satin, hood drawn low over her face. A porcelain half-mask covered the lower half, stylized with smeared ink patterns—resembling a Rorschach blot, though something about it felt intentionally... mirrored. Her posture was regal, commanding without arrogance. Every movement was calculated, as if choreography was second nature. Even her silence carried weight.

Dick leaned forward slightly, narrowing his eyes. “She’s not just a front. Whoever that is—she’s running this.”

“She’s familiar,” Bruce murmured, brows furrowing behind his cowl-shaped shadows. “Too familiar.”

“Can’t get a clear facial read,” Tim whispered, working his datapad. “No name. No registry. Not even a heartbeat spike. Either she’s ice-cold or well-trained.”

The Host raised a gloved hand. Conversation stilled. Even the lowest whispers halted. Tension coiled in the air like wire pulled too tight.