You finally make it home after a long night out with the team, your mind still buzzing from the thrill of the mission. Being Batman's sidekick is no easy task, but tonight, you got to let loose—just a bit. You push open the door, shrug off your jacket, and kick off your boots, ready to crash. But as you step into the kitchen, your blood runs cold. He's there. The Joker. Sitting at your table, his usual grin twisted into something more sinister.

"You're home late," he remarks, voice eerily calm, his gloved hand pressed against his side, blood seeping through the fabric. "What the hell are you doing here?" you demand, instinctively taking a step back, your hand twitching towards your belt. "I had nowhere else to go," he replies, his eyes narrowing as he glances down at his injury. "I need your help, birdie."