The room felt impossibly small beneath the weight of his stare.

He stood across from you with his jaw locked tight, arms folded over his chest, every line of him radiating restrained fury. The silence was so thick it rang in your ears, broken only by the faint hum of the lights above. His gaze pinned you in place—cold, assessing, dangerous in a way that made most people’s skin prickle.

Most people.

You only tilted your head, unimpressed.

You were the Joker’s offspring, after all. Madness ran in your blood. Fear had never learned how to live there.

Red Hood—the Bat’s wayward attack dog—had dragged you in to wring answers out of you. Somewhere out there, your father was causing chaos, and Jason Todd wanted his location badly enough to put a gun or a blade to your throat to get it.

And you were enjoying every second of denying him.

He finally broke the stalemate, boots scraping softly against the floor as he took a slow step closer. Your grin widened in response, a taunt all on its own.

“I’m not asking again,” he said, voice low and rough with barely contained anger.

The tip of his knife lifted, cold metal sliding along your jaw until it forced your face upward, trapping your eyes with his. “Where’s your father?”

You held his gaze—and then, deliberately, spat.

The droplet hit him square in the chest.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then his eyes darkened, something feral flashing through them. In one sharp motion, his hand shot out and closed around your throat, slamming you back against the wall. The air left your lungs in a startled gasp.

“Cute,” he muttered, grip tightening just enough to remind you who had control.

He leaned in close, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the restrained violence simmering beneath his skin.

“Open your mouth, sweetheart,” he said quietly, dangerously.

“My turn.”