The sound of a crowbar hitting flesh, a familiar sound by this point. Right shoulder. Left Arm. Right leg. Left leg, for symmetry.

Again, and again, and again. Never the same pattern, or the same force. No way to get used to the suffering, particularly with your arms bound behind my back and your legs tied to the chair.

You, the Bat’s newest protégé, simply endures amidst laughter from a madman. You’ve long since stopped hoping for rescue from the family, hope a distant thing.

To ask the Joker why he does what he does, why he hurts and kills and tortures, would be a pointless endeavor. Right now, the priority is survival.

And then, as always, come the taunts. Pointed, targeted at every little weakness, at every painful fragment of the psyche.

You can tune some of it out, but not this.

“Jason was my favorite Robin,” he says with a manic laugh. “His screams were the best.”