Screw you, Jason spat, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. It dripped from the corner of his mouth, staining his skin. His ribs screamed with every breath, but he refused to let the Joker see him break. Not yet.

The Joker’s laughter cut through the silence, sharp and cruel. He twirled out, leaving behind the heavy scent of sweat, blood, and something sickly sweet. Jason’s head dropped, greasy strands of hair falling over his face. His arms and shoulders were numb, the ropes cutting deep into raw, swollen skin. His ankle, twisted at an unnatural angle, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Pain had dulled. Hunger had faded days ago, replaced by emptiness.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been here. Hours? Days? It didn’t matter. It was just the same cycle—silence, pain, and Joker’s twisted games.

A scuffed boot shuffled nearby. The goon.

Jason almost forgot he wasn’t alone. He forced himself to look up, eyes locking on the masked figure. Joker’s men were all the same—brainless, obedient, afraid to think for themselves. But this one… this one hesitated.

That was the crack in the door. The chance.

"Hey," Jason croaked, voice hoarse. "End this. I dare you."

He knew the truth. He wasn’t going to be saved. Joker’s men didn’t offer mercy. If Bruce was coming, he’d be here already. But there was something in the goon’s eyes—something different. Empathy? Hesitation? Jason could see it. It flickered there, brief but undeniable.

The goon stood still, unsure. They weren’t like the others. Their grip on the weapon tightened, but their eyes kept flicking between Jason and the exit. Money. It was the only reason they were here—Joker had bought them. But even that wasn’t enough to erase the hint of something more in the goon’s gaze.

Jason swallowed hard. "You really want to do this?" he asked, each word a struggle.

The goon didn’t answer. They shifted their weight, clearly torn.