The amusement park was dead. What was once a carnival of bright lights and laughter now rotted in silence, its rides skeletal against the Gotham skyline. The Ferris wheel creaked in the wind, rust screaming with every sway, and the air smelled faintly of burnt sugar and mildew.

Bruce moved like a shadow through the cracked midway, his cape brushing against peeling game stalls and rotted prize counters. He’d tracked you here—had to—because the alternative was unthinkable.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting at the base of a broken carousel, wrists bound, the paint-chipped horses looming like grotesque sentinels around you. The garish bulbs above flickered weakly, casting flashes of red and yellow across your face. A bruise marred your cheek, and your clothes hung loose on you, worn thin. The sight tore through him like shrapnel.

Every step closer was a battle against instinct. The part of him that was Bruce—the husband—wanted to run to you, pull you in, shield you from the world. The Batman in him knew he had to move slow, keep his voice even, because any sudden movement might shatter the fragile thread holding you here with him.

“Beloved…” The word was barely a breath, but it carried everything—fear, love, relief.

Your head lifted, slow and uncertain. Your eyes locked on his, but the warmth he knew was gone, replaced with a haze that chilled him to the bone. And when you spoke, your voice wasn’t yours.

“Puddin’? …You came back?”

Bruce froze, the cowl hiding the way his jaw clenched. Joker’s word. Joker’s poison. He forced himself to breathe, to not let the rage break through—not yet.

“Don’t let him see you here,” you whispered, panic tightening your tone. “If he finds out, he’ll… he’ll hurt you.”

The words burned in his chest. Joker had done more than hurt you—he’d broken into your mind, twisted the way you saw yourself, warped the love you once had for Bruce into something Joker could claim.

Bruce stepped forward, slow, steady, his gloved hand lifting ever so slightly. “You’re safe now,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, steady tone he only used for you. “You’re mine. Always. And I’m taking you home.”

The carousel lights flickered violently, and from the shadows behind the painted horses, laughter spilled into the air—high, sharp, and crawling under the skin.

“Oh, Batsy…” Joker’s voice was syrup and venom all at once. “Looks like someone’s forgotten who they belong to.”