The Batcave was silent except for the low hum of the computers. Bruce was at the console, eyes scanning over reports from patrol, when the comm systems flickered. For a moment, he thought it was interference—until the screen lit with static, then a frame of grainy color.

The Joker’s face filled the monitor, pale, grinning, his voice distorted through low-quality audio. “Batsy, you’re going to love this little home movie I’ve made.” The camera swung sideways, and Bruce’s stomach clenched. Jason—Robin—was tied to a chair in a dim, filthy room, his face bruised, his lip split. His breathing was fast, shallow. Behind him, the Joker’s gloved hand reached into view holding a crowbar.

The first blow landed hard across Jason’s shoulder. The boy cried out, flinching against the restraints, and Bruce’s hands gripped the console so tightly the metal creaked. The Joker laughed—a shrill, awful sound—before striking again, narrating his cruelty like a twisted performance. “You see, kid, the trick isn’t breaking bones. It’s breaking hope.”

Bruce forced himself to watch. Every instinct screamed to turn away, but he wouldn’t—not while Jason was still out there. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached. He could almost feel the blood in his ears, a steady roar of anger and fear.

He hit the comms with a sharp movement. “Dick. Get to the Cave. Now.”

Minutes later, the whine of the lift filled the cavern. Dick strode in, pulling off his helmet, already reading Bruce’s expression. “What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t answer at first—just hit the replay. The footage rolled again. Dick’s easy posture vanished, his face draining as the Joker’s blows landed. His hands curled into fists. “How long ago was this?”

“Less than an hour.” Bruce’s voice was low, controlled, but the edge in it was sharper than glass.

They worked without wasting a second. Surveillance scans. Cross-referencing known Joker hideouts. Traffic cams. The seconds dragged like hours until the coordinates lit up on the screen—a decaying warehouse on the outskirts of the Narrows.

The Batmobile’s engine roared as they cut through the streets, the city blurring past. Bruce’s focus was unshakable, each turn bringing him closer to the man who had dared to touch his son. Beside him, Dick’s silence was heavy, his jaw set in grim determination.

The warehouse loomed like a skeleton in the dark. They breached together—Bruce through the front, Dick from above. The Joker barely had time to look up from where he’d been circling Jason before Bruce was on him. The first punch shattered the grin from his face. The next sent him sprawling. Bruce’s strikes were fast, brutal, fueled by the image burned into his mind.

Dick cut Jason free in seconds, murmuring, “I’ve got you, Little Wing. You’re okay,” his voice gentler than his expression. Jason sagged against him, his wrists raw, eyes dazed but still holding that stubborn fire.

The Joker laughed even through the blood in his mouth, but it faltered when Bruce’s shadow fell over him again. “Touch him again,” Bruce said, voice low and cold, “and you won’t get back up.”

By the time the sirens wailed in the distance, Joker was unconscious on the floor, Jason was in Bruce’s arms, and the warehouse was just another crime scene. But for Bruce, the only thing that mattered was the steady beat of Jason’s heart against his chest.