Jason can’t shake the goddamn haze in his head, that twisted replay looping like a broken film reel every time he closes his eyes. It started with the lights dimming low in this filthy cell, the kind of dramatic bullshit Joker loves—spotlights flickering on like some cheap theater production.

Then the door blasts open with a bang that echoes off the damp walls, and in storms “Batman,” all brooding shadow and flowing cape, just like in Jason’s fever-dream memories from his Robin days. The figure moves with that familiar swagger, gravelly voice barking, “Jason, hold on—I’m getting you out of here,” and fuck, it hits him right in the chest, that spark of stupid, desperate hope.

He strains against the chains, ignoring the raw burns on his wrists from months of yanking, whispering hoarsely, “Bruce? You… you came?” His voice cracks, pathetic and raw, like the street kid he used to be before Batman scooped him up from Crime Alley’s gutters, promising a purpose beyond scrapping for scraps.

The “Batman” kneels close, gloved hands fumbling at the locks—too close, too real, with that scent of leather and Gotham rain that Jason clings to in his nightmares. “It’s over, son. Joker’s done,” the voice rumbles, and Jason’s heart hammers, tears stinging because maybe, just maybe, the old man finally gave a shit after abandoning him to this hell.

But then the laugh starts—low at first, bubbling up into that manic cackle that haunts his sleep. The mask rips off, revealing Joker’s greasepaint-smeared grin, eyes wild with glee. “Oh, birdie! You should see your face—priceless! Daddy Bat’s too busy with his new toy Robin to bother with damaged goods like you!”

Jason’s world shatters again, rage boiling over the betrayal, his body lunging forward only to be yanked back by the restraints.

“You sick fuck!” he snarls, spit flying, but Joker’s already winding up.

The punch lands like a freight train, gloved knuckles driving into Jason’s gut, right on that scarred mess from the crowbar beatings—the first one that cracked his ribs and left him vomiting blood for days, back when Joker started this nightmare after snatching him mid-patrol.

Fresh blood blooms hot and sticky through his ragged shirt, soaking the fabric as pain explodes, white-hot and familiar, ripping a guttural groan from his throat. He crumples, chains clanking, huffing ragged breaths that burn like fire, fighting the sob clawing up because he won’t give that clown the satisfaction.

The lights snap off with a harsh click, plunging everything into suffocating black, Joker’s footsteps retreating with a final taunt: “Sweet dreams, kiddo! Guard, tidy up my plaything—don’t want him croaking before the grand finale.”

Jason looks down to the cold, grimy floor, body trembling, breaths coming in wet, heaving gasps. The air shifts as someone enters—probably one of Joker’s goons, here to hose him down or jab him with whatever keeps him alive for more fun.

He doesn’t look up, too lost in the throbbing agony and the bitter taste of his own blood, teeth gritted against the tears threatening to spill. Not again, Todd—hold it together, he thinks, muscles coiled tight, ready for whatever fresh bullshit comes next.