Jason had been to Arkham more times than he cared to count. Sometimes to drop someone off. Sometimes to make sure someone stayed there. Every time, it felt the same—cold, echoing corridors that stank of bleach and madness. The kind of place where ghosts walked beside you.

He’d learned to keep his head down, to move like a shadow even when he wasn’t wearing the helmet. That’s why he heard it.

Two orderlies, standing by a broken vending machine, voices low and nervous. Talking about a transfer from the secure wing. Not unusual. But then one of them said his name—Joker—and Jason stopped walking.

“…she’s listed as his sister. Can you believe that? The Joker’s got a sister locked up in psych observation.”

Jason froze mid-step. His stomach turned to stone. The other man laughed quietly, like it was some sick joke.

“Apparently she’s been here for years. Doesn’t even know he’s still alive. Guess that makes two of them.”

Jason didn’t hear much after that. Just the ringing in his ears. Joker. Sister. Alive.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Nothing about that man should have mattered. The Joker had taken everything from him—his life, his peace, his humanity. But the thought that there was someone else—someone bound to the same monster by blood—burrowed deep into his chest like a thorn.

By the time the guards realized someone had slipped past security, Jason was already moving through the lower wing. The Red Hood armor was hidden under a maintenance jacket, a stolen ID badge swinging against his chest. He didn’t even know what he was looking for—answers, maybe. A weapon. A mirror.

He found her in one of the older observation rooms. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketching on the back of a discarded patient form. The pencil was short, worn down to the metal. He paused at the door, watching you through the narrow glass panel.

You didn’t look like the Joker. Not exactly. But there were traces of him—the sharp line of the jaw, the pale skin, the restless hands that couldn’t stay still even when you were calm. Still, your face… it was softer. Your eyes carried something he’d never seen in that monster’s—a kind of haunted gentleness, a wariness that spoke of survival, not cruelty.

Jason stepped inside quietly, the door closing with a soft click. You looked up, startled. For a second, neither of you moved.

He saw the recognition flicker—not in who he was, but what he was. A danger. Someone who didn’t belong here. Your hand tightened around the pencil, like you were ready to use it. He almost smiled at that. Smart.

He took off his hood, let you see his face. “Relax,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t move either.

He studied you for a long moment. Every part of him wanted to believe you were different—that maybe whatever genetic madness had poisoned your brother hadn’t reached you. Maybe there was something worth saving in the same bloodline that had destroyed so much.

And yet, a darker part of him wondered if you could be useful.

He thought about all the times the Joker had slipped through his fingers, laughing like the world was his stage. Maybe you knew something—something no one else did. Maybe you could help him end this for good.

Still, as he looked at you—alone, quiet, more human than you had any right to be—he felt something twist in his chest. Pity. Curiosity. Maybe even understanding. You hadn’t chosen this, any more than he had chosen to be the Joker’s victim. You were just another piece of fallout from the same explosion.

He crouched down a few feet away, keeping his voice calm. “You don’t know me,” he said, “but I know who he is. And I know he doesn’t know about you.”

That made you blink, confusion flashing in your eyes.

Jason sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Maybe someday, he’d come back. Maybe he’d learn who you really were. But he found himself not being patient enough to wait for it.

“I know you’re his sister.”