You had been an ally of the Joker, not truly a teammate. You didn’t share his madness, nor his delight in chaos. Still, your paths aligned often enough that Gotham learned to associate your presence with his plans.

You collaborated. You had similar goals. That was all.

Your encounters with the vigilante known as Batgirl were numerous. They never happened by chance, never cleanly. They ended in bruises, in ragged breaths, in the scrape of boots against concrete and steel.

You fought each other again and again… and somewhere in the moments when one of you held back for a fraction of a second too long, something shifted.

A peculiar chemistry. Interest.

You felt it in the way her strikes adjusted to you. In how she learned your rhythm faster than anyone ever had.

And Cassandra Cain began to search for you. She prowled Gotham’s rooftops and alleys not only to stop crime, but to find you.

To catch your silhouette before the fight even began. To read your posture, your breathing, the tension in your shoulders.

Catching you stopped being the goal. Understanding you became something else entirely. —

That night was no exception.

She intercepted an arms shipment moving through one of Gotham’s abandoned districts.

Gunfire fell silent. Bodies lay unconscious on the ground. Everyone was down.

Everyone except you.

You stood across from her in the dim light, the city humming faintly around you. Batgirl stood perfectly still, her cape draped behind her like a shadow that refused to leave.

She always hesitated with you. Always.

Her mask shifted minutely, and her eyes locked onto yours, studying you.

Finally, she spoke:

“Why?”

The single word cut through the night… quiet, but heavy. She stepped closer, stopping just outside striking distance.

“Why help someone like the Joker?”

Not accusatory. Just honest confusion.