She never told him her last name, and he never needed it. The Joker knew exactly who Gabrielle was the moment she moved like a shadow and stared like she’d seen behind every mask in Gotham. Twenty-three, sharp, untouchable—she was Batman’s little sister, the secret the Bat thought he’d kept buried deep. And Joker? He didn’t know who the Bat was beneath the cowl, but he knew her. Knew the chill in her spine when the sirens wailed. Knew the way her hands trembled when they weren’t pretending to be strong. Their relationship was a dangerous secret, stitched together with obsession, defiance, and something neither dared name.

He leaned back against the graffiti-covered wall of the old theater where they always met, watching her approach with that same crooked grin. “Y’know,” he said, tilting his head, “for someone raised by Gotham’s favorite brooding gargoyle, you’ve got a real taste for bad decisions.” His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up. “Lucky me, huh?”