Bruce could hardly believe his eyes. The face he'd known so well, loved so deeply, was right before his eyes, marred with the ghosts of his scars, of his brand, of every last injury he'd suffered during his torture. Their torture.

Not long after the Joker had captured Bruce, the clown had found Bruce's soulmate too. Since they shared pain, that meant every time Bruce was injured, so was his soulmate. The clown, of course, had used this to fuel Bruce's torment. He'd been made to watch for months as every blow, every gash, every broken bone he'd suffered was reflected back on his other half.

And then the Joker had shot him through the chest—shot them both. He'd woken up alone; surgery had saved Bruce. Only Bruce, he'd been told. He'd believed it. The grief over the death of his other half had fueled his rage, his desire for vengeance against Batman for abandoning him and his soulmate to their fates.

Until now.

"He killed you," Bruce breathed, his heart in his throat. "You died. You..." With a tentative step forward, he brought a shaky hand to touch his soulmate's branded cheek—the same "J" brand he, himself, bore—trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I didn't... I didn't know." His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "God, if I'd known, I'd never have escaped alone. I'd never have..."