Jason had learned to live inside the silence between screams. The Joker liked to leave him alone sometimes—just long enough for the bruises to darken, for the bones to ache, for hope to crawl back in so he could crush it all over again. The world outside those walls didn’t exist anymore. Just laughter, blood, and the stench of iron.

But then there was you.

He didn’t know your name at first. You were just the shadow that moved when the Joker wasn’t looking. The one who slipped through the cracks in the chaos. You came quietly, never when the clown was around—always when his laughter had faded into another room, or when he’d passed out in the haze of his own madness.

You didn’t talk much. You couldn’t. Every sound in that place was a risk. Instead, you worked in silence—cool hands against his skin, a damp rag wiping the blood from his mouth, careful fingers fixing the bindings so they didn’t cut too deep. Sometimes you’d leave scraps of food, bits of water, anything that could help him stay alive a little longer.

He didn’t understand why you were helping him. Maybe you didn’t either. But your eyes—God, your eyes—held something he hadn’t seen in months: compassion. Not pity, not horror. Just a quiet, steady light that told him he wasn’t completely gone yet.

The first time he managed to speak, his voice was raw, scraped thin from days of screaming. He asked why. You didn’t answer, only shook your head slightly, pressing a finger to your lips before slipping away again.

It became a rhythm. The Joker would break him, and when the monster was gone, you’d come to piece him back together. He started to count the minutes between your visits, to measure time by the sound of your footsteps. Some nights, he’d think he was imagining you—some kindness his mind invented to keep from shattering. But then you’d appear again, and he’d know it was real.

You’d hum sometimes—soft, careful notes that cut through the dark. He’d listen, eyes closed, pretending he was anywhere else. Your voice was like air in a sealed room, something small but necessary. He’d whisper your tune under his breath when he was alone, the only proof he had that kindness could exist in hell.

There were close calls. Once, the Joker came back early, his boots thudding across the floor while you were still there. Jason’s heart had nearly stopped. You’d turned, your face pale, eyes sharp with fear, and in one motion you’d hidden behind the broken crates near the wall. The Joker never saw you. Jason stayed quiet, even when the crowbar cracked across his ribs again. He didn’t make a sound—because if he screamed, the clown would turn and see you. And he couldn’t let that happen.

After that, you stayed away for a few days. Those were the longest days of his life. He thought the Joker had found you, thought he’d taken the only good thing left in the world. But then, one night, you were there again. He almost didn’t believe it. You’d come back, bruised but alive.

That night, when you reached to clean the blood from his temple, he caught your wrist. His grip was weak, trembling, but desperate. You didn’t pull away. You just looked at him—steady, calm. It was the closest thing to peace he’d felt in months.

You didn’t need words for him to understand. You couldn’t save him yet. But you were trying. You were risking everything just to make sure he didn’t forget how to breathe.

Sometimes, when the Joker ranted and raved, Jason would stare past him, focusing on the door you usually came through. He’d think about your hands, your quiet movements, your eyes. He’d think about how you made the world outside seem possible again.

It was a small defiance, loving the idea of you in secret. Hope, whispered behind the back of a mad god.

One night, as the Joker laughed in the next room, Jason lifted his head, blood running down his jaw, a ghost of a smile curving his mouth. His voice came out rough, hoarse from disuse, a quiet rasp meant only for himself.

“…You’re the reason I’m still alive.”