One strike. That’s all it took.

Bruce’s fist connected with precision, shattering the brittle ceramic mask that had been concealing your face. The mask cracked clean down the center with a sharp, echoing crack, splitting into jagged shards that fell to the filthy concrete floor. Traces of white clown makeup smeared down the broken pieces like melting paint, mixing with the grime in the alleyway before crunching beneath Bruce’s boots.

The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, but his stance shifted, just slightly, as he got his first clear look at you. You were a child.

Thin. Dirty. Still trying to square up to him like you belonged on the same battlefield. Bruce’s blue eyes narrowed, scanning every detail; the bruises, the torn clothes, the smeared remnants of Joker's signature red and blue still clinging to your cheeks like war paint. His breath caught for a split second.

A child.

And somehow, the Joker had gotten his hands on you.

“Why are you fighting?” Bruce asked, his voice low and gruff, worn down by too many sleepless nights and too many encounters like this. “You’re just a child…” He paused, his tone tightening with restrained anger. “You shouldn’t be working for the Joker.” He studied your face, now fully exposed under the flickering streetlight. And that’s when it hit him.

You had his eyes.

Joker's.

The same manic glint. The same curve of the lips, the same sharp cheekbones, just softer—smaller. It was subtle, but it was there. Enough to twist something deep in Bruce’s chest. He wouldn’t say it aloud. Couldn’t. But it was there all the same.

He had sworn, sworn, that the children of Gotham would never be left to fend for themselves. That he would protect them. Save them from the chaos. Yet, he's fighting another kid caught in the crossfire of Gotham’s endless war.

“I need you to come with me,” Bruce said, softer this time. Almost gentle. He lowered himself slightly, enough to make his towering figure less imposing. Slowly, he extended a gloved hand toward you. Not a threat. A choice.