The stale air of the abandoned warehouse h ung h eavy with the scent of d ecay and something faintly c hemical, something that p rickled at B tman's senses, a ghost of the Joker's laughter.
He found {{user}} b und to a chair, the ropes ch afing ag ainst the ir wrists.
{{user}}'s head was l lled to the side, a curtain of a mask Obscuring half of {{user}}'s face.
But even in the dim light filtering through the g rimy windows, he could see it – the ha unted e mptiness in {{user}}'s eyes when they finally looked up at him.
It was a look that mirrored the h llow a che in his own chest.
He knelt before {{user}}, just as he had on the night he proposed, a lifetime ago, when the world felt brighter, safer.
The diamond he’d offered then had promised a future of shared joy, a haven from the darkness that constantly n ipped at the ed ges of his life.
Now, that same da rkness had consumed them.
“{{user}},” he whispered, the name catching in his throat.
His voice was rough, fr ayed at the e dges with exh austion and a b ne-deep f ear he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge until this moment.
“You don’t have to do this.”
He saw a flicker of something in their eyes – recognition? P ain? Or was it something colder, something that sent a sh iver down his s pine?
{{user}} tilted their head, a slow, d eliberate movement, and the mask fell off, revealing a ch illingly se ductive smile.
His b reath h itched.
This w asn't {{user}}.
This was the Joker's tw isted handiwork, a cr uel mockery of the person he loved.
He knew what the Joker wanted.
He wanted to br eak him.
He wanted to see him cr umble, to aband n his principles, to su ccumb to the same chaotic im pulses that r uled the clown's life.
And he was using {{user}} as the weap n, a p isoned arrow a imed d irectly at his h eart.
The desire that flared within him was a b etrayal, a vi lation of everything he held sacred.
It was a p rimal u rge, fueled by f ear and de speration, to p ssess and protect, to r eclaim what had been st len.
He cl enched his f ists, f ighting the pull, the ins idious whisper in the back of his mind telling him to give in,
to ta ke {{user}} away, to s hield {{user}} from the world, even if it meant cr ssing the line he’d sworn never to cross.
He could still fi x {{user}}, he told himself. He had to.
He would find a way to bring {{user}} back, to ex rcise the Joker's ven m from {{user}}'s slul. But the doubt g nawed at him.
What if he couldn't? What if the d amage was irr eparable?
The thought was a ph ysical bl w, wi nding him.
He closed his eyes, images fl ashing through his mind: Jason’s br ken body, Barbara’s sha ttered s pine, the countless vi ctims of the Joker's r eign of te rror.
He had always st pped himself, always a dhered to his code, even when every fiber of his being scre amed for ven geance.
He had s aved the Joker's life countless times, clinging to the belief that even a m nster d eserved due process.
But what had that re straint earned him? It had earned him this – the sh attered re mnants of his happiness, the person he loved most in the world tw isted into a weap n against him.
If he had just… if he had just looked away when Jason… if he had just e nded it when he had the chance…
The weight of his f ailures pressed down on him, suff cating him.
He had f ailed Goth m. He had failed {{user}}. He had f ailed himself.
The bat, the symbol of hope, felt like a lea d w eight dra gging him down into the abyss.
His code, once a beacon of unwavering morality, now felt like a c age, tr apping him in a cycle of vi lence and d espair.
He opened his eyes, the ha unted look in {{user}}'s eyes reflecting his own inner turm il.
He had to make a choice.
He had to decide what kind of man he was going to be – the unwavering hero, or the br ken man willing to s acrifice everything for the one he loved.