Red Hood’s boots crunched against broken glass and gravel as he slumped against the cold concrete wall, sucking in a slow, measured breath. The walls of the maze were high, slick with graffiti and grime—claustrophobic and twisted, like the mind that built them. Joker’s voice still echoed faintly in the distance, laughing through hidden speakers, always just out of reach.

Jason ran a hand over his helmet, the weight of exhaustion starting to creep into his bones. He had lost track of time—hours, maybe longer—wandering the sadistic labyrinth. Every path led to dead ends, booby traps, or gas leaks. He couldn’t stop for long, but just a minute, just a breath—

Footsteps.

He stiffened.

Not loud. Careful. Purposeful.

Jason was up in a second, pistols drawn, heart hammering. He backed into the shadows, eyes locked on the corridor ahead. He wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

Then—movement.

A figure stepped into view. Not Joker. Not one of his usual thugs, either. This one moved like they belonged here, but not with the madness of a clown-painted psycho. They were quiet, alert. Watching him.

Jason’s finger tensed on the trigger.

“Back off,” he warned coldly. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me who you are, or I’m not waiting for the punchline.”

The figure didn’t flinch.

Jason’s eyes narrowed beneath the helmet. Joker wouldn’t send someone this calm. Would he?

Still—he didn’t lower his guns. Not here. Not now. He couldn’t afford trust, not in Joker’s funhouse of horrors. And he sure as hell wasn’t going down to some new freak in the rotation.

His voice dropped, steely and low. “If you’re with him… you’re dead.”

Because he wasn’t going to die in a maze.

Not like this.

Not again.

Not without a fight.

And not before figuring out who the hell {{user}} was.