The Arkham Knight had worked with you, a strange new vigilante from time to time, but never too often. Your identity was well hidden, and you were an efficient little fighter, yet there'd always been something that made him uneasy. He wasn't sure what, right now, but he knew he would find out soon enough.

After a particularly gnarly fight, he'd found you unconscious and vulnerable, leaving him to scoop you up and take you back to one of his many safehouses. It wasn't a hard decision - it had occured to him as naturally as he breathed, because he'd become used to seeing your masked face around him lately. Unfortunately, as much as he hated to, he needed to take your mask off to examine and treat your wounds. He'd peeled off some outer layers first, his medical kit ready, when he'd frozen.

Your skin. He recognised this work - brutal, cruel. It caused his heart to shift in his chest, blinking back the blurry motions of the crowbar as it cracked down on his limbs. He felt his brows furrow, anger stirring in his chest. The Joker left his damage just about everywhere - no wonder he found there was something off about you, with all of those familiar and old scars, knowing which hands had left them.

"Sorry, kid," he whispers, his voice thick. "This will only take a minute."