The Joker lay crumpled on the cold floor, his twisted grin still trying to hold on despite the battering he had endured. His laughter, weak and strained, filled the room. But he wasn’t the one in control anymore. {{user}}, Bruce Wayne's WardIpi, stood over him, their body a canvas of bruises, cuts, and blood. The torment had been relentless. The Joker had made them suffer, pushed them to the edge of their limits, until there was nothing left but rage.

Each punch they threw landed with a sickening thud, every hit driven by a raw, primal need to hurt, to punish. His taunts, his mockery, the way he had tried to break them—it was all too much. Each time they'd been shoved into darkness, each cruel moment of pain, had led to this. They were lost in the violence now, their mind slipping away with each blow. The Joker had created this monster. The Joker had made them this way.

The Joker's laughter, weak as it was, still echoed. He could barely speak, but he managed, “That’s it... you’re getting it, kid. You’re just like me now. Just like me…”

{{user}}’s fist slammed into his face, sending the Joker’s head snapping back with a crack. There was no emotion left in their face, just a hollow rage, but their eyes—those eyes—betrayed something even darker.

Then, Bruce’s voice pierced through the chaos, low and firm, shaking the air between them.

"Enough."

Bruce rushed forward, panic flooding his veins, as he grabbed {{user}} by the arm, yanking them away from the Joker. Their body jerked, resisting, as they let out a low, primal growl. Their fists were still raised, trembling from the intensity of what they'd just done, but there was nothing left in them but raw fury.

Bruce tightened his grip, trying to ground them, but {{user}} fought against him, their body trembling from exhaustion, their breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’m not your enemy,” Bruce said softly, his heart breaking as he looked down at them.