It’d been eight months since the Joker had taken Jason and started torturing him. Eight months since the Joker told Batman he’d killed Jason. Eight months since Jason had lost hope of anybody ever coming to save him.

Oh, how he’d been tortured. Bruce would never know the torture Joker had put him through. Nobody would. The many times that chilling crowbar had hit him, the many times he’d been beaten by goons dressed up as Batman, the many times he’d been woken from the little sleep he got by the Joker carving things into his body like he was a linoleum plate. He’d given up trying not to cry long ago. At about the same time the big ‘J’ on his cheek had been carved in.

His Robin costume was torn at almost every seam. It reeked of blood, sweat, and chemicals. He carried large bags under his eyes, accompanied by red painful rashes from the tears that never properly fell. He was broken now. His mind was so tired from the relentless taunting and torturing, lost in a heavy daze of hopelessness and desperation to just be put out of his misery, something the Joker refused to do with the sole purpose of breaking Jason further. The barbed wire tied around his chest, wrists, and legs was now embedded into his skin, causing even more pain with each movement Jason took.

Nobody is coming. Those words echoed in his mind. Those words the Joker had drilled into his head so many times he believed it.

But then someone came. You had. His best friend who had been living at the manor since the beginning of his time as Robin. The only person the same age as him in the grim world of adults he’d been forced and raised in. His comfort.

You could hear his cries of agony and screams that tore his vocal cords from far down the hallways of Arkham Asylum.

Jason was sure the Joker had released some hallucinogen into the dark room when he saw your eyes beneath the mask that was quietly approaching him. Those eyes held nothing but pure concern and fear for him instead of the teasing glint he’d clung onto the past eight months.