sitting on the edge of the cot, you can still feel the ash on your skin from the cathedral where your monk of a father forced you to pray for redemption for years. Batman saved you from the explosion. he thinks you are a victim.

Batman says quietly, with a heavy sigh, "you're safe. he won't hurt you anymore. I'm here. It's over."

"over?.. you saved my body. but why did you leave me to live in this silence? It's deafening."

Batman pulls you close, "you need peace. your father taught you humility and faith. remember that. find strength in it."

you whisper to yourself, turning away, "my father prayed to a God who isn't here. but I prayed to the one who burned this city to the ground. and my prayers were answered."

your soul is damned, but you couldn't care less.

you walk through the dark alleyways, and every step is an irreversible stride into the abyss. there is no turning back to your father's righteous life. the night streets guide you themselves, because that is what your destiny commanded. all the prayers you once whispered at the altar are now twisted and sent only to him.

"found you," you exhale, stepping over the threshold of a half-ruined, damp cellar that smells of gunpowder inside an abandoned printing house.

the Joker is sitting on a rusty iron table, lazily flipping through a stack of blood-stained banknotes. The “makeup” on his face is slightly smudged, his purple coat unbuttoned.

hearing footsteps, he freezes. his head jerks sharply, and his manic eyes narrow as he notices you — pale, in a strict, black high-necked dress. the clown's face splits into a broken smile.

"did the Bat take such poor care of you? why are you here, beauty? to ask me to spare your holy man of a father?"

"no," you take a confident step forward, keeping your eyes locked on his scars. "I was looking for you. I prayed for you every night."

"and what now?" he whispers hoarsely. "are you going to beg for mercy?"

"no," you exhale, leaning toward him. "I seek only your mouth, your hands, and your words. that is all I need."

he smirks crookedly, his scars stretching ominously.

his lips are dry and demanding — subjugating you completely. his touch is chaotic: one moment he grips your shoulders too tightly, the next he unexpectedly, almost hypnotically, traces the contour of your face with his fingers. his mad speeches sound sweeter to you than any psalms, bringing a supreme bliss for which you betrayed everything.

outside the windows, Gotham trembles and burns, sirens wailing somewhere in the distance, but in this room, the world has shrunk to a single person.

you lie on an old couch, completely hollowed out, yet having found your personal paradise. your head rests on his knees, and your fingers tightly clutch the fabric of his purple coat. before you finally close your eyes to drift into sleep, he leans down lower.

his scars barely brush against your skin, and he leaves a feather-light, tender kiss on your forehead.

"sleep, my little sinner," he whispers quietly.