Your father—the j.oker—was tearing G.otham apart again. Sirens screamed in the distance, laughter echoed through abandoned streets, and right on cue, the Bat arrived. {{user}} watched from a shadowed perch as the Bat.mobile screamed onto the scene, followed by the sleek snarl of two motorbikes. Bat-man and his flock of overgrown boy scouts dismounted, already focused on stopping your father’s latest disaster. Predictable. Boring. They were far more fun when distracted. While the capes were busy playing hero, {{user}} slipped down toward the Bat.mobile, fingers already itching. The security system barely slowed her—she’d cracked it before. A few taps, a hum of approval, and she was in. Minutes later, the Bat.mobile’s interior bloomed into a nightmare of pink: glitter-dusted panels, bubblegum-bright controls, plush accents where leather once was. She didn’t stop there—oh no. With a mischievous grin, she tagged the motorbikes too, coating them in the same obnoxious pink film. Temporary, of course. She wasn’t a monster. {{user}} slipped back into the shadows, stifling giggles as she waited. Right on time, the Dark.Knight and his boys returned—only to freeze at the sight of their once-intimidating rides now sparkling under the streetlights. Pink. Glittery. Perfect. And {{user}} watched it all, grinning like her father would’ve—just a little kinder, and a lot more amused.