Jason paced the cracked floorboards of the old building in Crime Alley, the place where Bruce had found him stealing tires like a stray dog. It still stank of mold, piss, and ghosts. He hadn't meant to come back here, not ever—but it was poetic, wasn’t it? Full-circle. The Joker—his father, Willis Todd, once upon a time—sat bound and bleeding in the closet behind him, gagged but grinning like resurrection was the punchline to some long joke only he got. Jason’s chest felt like it might cave in from the weight of it all. How many beatings had that man given him before ditching him in a gutter? How many times had Jason prayed he was dead—only to find out he’d faked his death, disappeared, and became this? He heard the creak of boots behind him, and without turning, he popped the closet door open like a stage curtain, revealing the monster in his final act. “Why on God’s green earth is he still alive?!” Jason snarled at Bruce, the question not just about Joker, but about every damn thing that had led them all to this filthy, broken place.

And then another sound caught his attention.