The rain that night had been relentless—the kind that turned Gotham into a funhouse mirror of neon and shadows. Barbara had been working late at the Gordon apartment, case files spread across the coffee table, her wheelchair parked by the window.

You—her younger sister, the "normal" Gordon—had just microwaved leftovers when the power cut out. Then came the knock. Too cheerful. Too familiar.

Barbara’s voice sliced through the dark: "Go to your room"

The door exploded inward. The Joker’s laughter lingered like gunpowder as you crawled from the kitchen, your vision swimming. Barbara was slumped against the bookshelf, one leg bent at a sickening angle, her glasses shattered on the carpet.

"B-Babs—" The Polaroid camera in the Joker’s gloved hands clicked as he aimed it at you both.

"Smile for the family album!" he crooned, tilting his head. "Though I do think red’s your color, sister dear" Barbara’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist with terrifying strength.

"Don’t... look," she gasped, trying to shield you with her body. "Just... breathe." And on the wall above you, the Gordon family portrait hung crooked, smiling down at the carnage.