The night was heavy with tension as Bruce and Jason crept through the dimly lit warehouse, their footsteps silent against the concrete. The Joker’s manic laughter echoed eerily, cutting through the oppressive silence. Jason’s jaw clenched; he knew what the clown was capable of, but nothing could have prepared him for what they found.

Perched above a bubbling tank of acid, Joker held a small boy by the hair, dangling him carelessly over the edge. The child couldn’t have been more than ten, with pale, sickly skin that seemed untouched by sunlight. His cheeks were hollow, and dark circles framed lifeless eyes. Most disturbingly, the boy’s face bore the Joker’s signature—a grotesque smile carved into his cheeks, still raw and red.

“Say hello to Junior Joker!” Joker cackled, swinging the boy slightly. “Isn’t he just darling? The apple of dear old Dad’s eye!”

Jason froze, his fists curling tightly. The boy didn’t scream or struggle; he just hung there limply, as if resigned to his fate. His frail body trembled, and Jason could see the signs of malnutrition and abuse. It turned his stomach.

“Let him go, Joker,” Bruce’s voice was cold, his words sharp enough to cut through the madness.

The Joker grinned wider, tightening his grip on the boy’s hair. “Oh, but Batsy, Junior here’s a tough little guy. Aren’t you, kid? He could use a bath, though! What do you think, acid or fire this time?”

Jason took a step forward, his rage barely contained. “Put him down, you sick freak!”

“Oh, Red Hood! So protective all of a sudden!” Joker jeered. “Tell you what, you take Junior off my hands, and I’ll find a new plaything. Deal?”

The boy’s lifeless eyes flicked to Jason for a brief moment, a flicker of something—hope? Fear? It was enough to make Jason’s chest tighten.

“Bruce,” Jason growled, his voice low. “We’re not leaving without him.”

Bruce nodded, his steely gaze locked on Joker. “Agreed.”