The city was quieter than usual—too quiet for Gotham. Even the sirens sounded distant, as if the night itself was holding its breath. From the roof of a derelict apartment building, the wind tugged at Batman’s cape as he scanned the street below. His comms were silent; Oracle had nothing, the Batcomputer had nothing—but the underworld was whispering. The Joker had vanished. Kidnapped, apparently.

Bruce didn’t believe in coincidences. Not in this city.

The trail led him through the Narrows, down to a warehouse long forgotten by everyone but rats and criminals. The door was slightly ajar, and light spilled out in thin, trembling lines. Inside, the air stank of gasoline, blood, and gunpowder. And then he heard it—Joker’s voice, broken by panic.

“C’mon, we can talk about this—no need to make things messy—”

Then another voice, deep and sharp, layered with rage that had been simmering for years. “You should’ve thought about messy before you put a crowbar in a kid’s hands.”

Bruce froze. There was a man standing over the Joker, dressed in body armor and a blood-red helmet that caught the flickering light. The Red Hood. He held a pistol steady, aimed right between the Joker’s eyes.

Bruce stepped forward from the shadows. “Put the gun down,” he said, voice low but commanding.

The helmet turned toward him. For a moment, the silence was heavy—tense enough to choke on. The man’s stance faltered almost imperceptibly, as if Bruce’s voice had hit something familiar, something buried.

“I’ve got this, Batman,” the Red Hood said coldly. “You can turn around and go back to your cave.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide who lives or dies in my city.”