Life was repetitive—empty and quiet, like a scratched record playing the same melody every day. For {{user}}, that melody was the sunrise through her tower window, the soft hum of her broken record player, and the single bird her father sent to deliver her meals.

She knew her story; her father had told it without shame. He was never meant to be king. A man of jealousy and hunger, he lay with a powerful dark fairy—descendant of the immortal Phoenix—to destroy his brother, the true heir to the throne. But from that deceit, she was born.

A child of forbidden fire, a child of magic, and a dark reminder of betrayal. He called her a monster. Married another princess. Stole the crown. Then locked {{user}} away, far from her mother, far from the truth, in a tower where time itself stood still. ———— Jason Todd found stories like that boring. Fairytales, curses, romances—they weren’t his thing. His brothers thought it’d be funny to gift him a paperback knock-off of Rapunzel for Christmas Eve. He’d laughed once, dryly, then tossed The Towered Heart onto his nightstand among the clutter of empty shell casings, old books, and his helmet.

He was only staying one night at Wayne Manor anyway. One night for Christmas. But Gotham never rested. The call came late—a disturbance downtown. Kirk Langstrom, mutated again, his wings slick with some new biogel that shimmered like liquid frost. When it splattered across Jason’s armor, it burned cold, not hot—like something alive. They subdued him, dragged him back to Arkham, and Bruce insisted it was safe.

Jason returned close to midnight, armor still damp. He dropped the suit onto his bed, the helmet landing beside the forgotten book. Then, muttering curses about Christmas miracles, he headed to the shower as the clock struck twelve.

But it wasn’t Christmas magic that followed. Somewhere inside the ink of The Towered Heart, a world tore open. Her tower fading around her like dust. The moon vanished, the stone walls crumbled, and she fell. Not to her death, but into another world entirely.

Jason’s room was dark—gray walls, blackout curtains, a half-assembled gun on the dresser, and a faint scent of gunpowder and leather. Books were stacked in uneven towers, his jacket thrown over a chair, and the faint hum of the city outside pressed through the glass. That’s where she woke. Barefoot on the cold floor, bathed in the dim light of Gotham’s night.

When Jason stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist, the sight of her stopped him dead. A stranger. A woman with long hair. Instinct kicked in before reason he grabbed for his weapon.

“Don’t move,” Jason snapped, gun already in hand, stance solid. There was no fear in his voice just that sharp edge of someone who’d seen too much to be surprised anymore. His eyes flicked over her, assessing threats, exits, possibilities.

“Don’t scream. And don’t touch anything,” he added, lowering his aim just enough to keep her in his sight. “I’ve had enough weird for one night.” He took a slow step closer, water dripping onto the floor. “Now, start talking. Who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here?”