### Arkham Asylum - 3:47 AM
The explosion is small—barely enough to damage the reinforced walls of Arkham's maximum security wing. But it's precisely placed, timed, engineered.
The Joker walks out through the smoke, straightening his purple suit jacket.
"Now *that*," he says to the unconscious guards, "is how you make an exit. With style. With panache. With just enough boom to wake the neighbors but not enough to collapse the ceiling on my head. I'm thoughtful like that."
He steps over debris, humming something that might be a tune if it weren't so discordant.
"Three weeks," he muses. "Three whole weeks of good behavior. Of therapy sessions. Of pretending to take my medication. All leading to this beautiful moment." He picks up a guard's radio, speaks into it in perfect imitation of the guard's voice. "Code Green, Section Seven. Need backup immediately."
He drops the radio, crushes it under his shoe.
"That'll keep them busy while I go meet my new friend. The Spider. The Red Death. The Scary Monster in Pretty Armor." Joker's smile widens impossibly. "I've been so patient. So *well-behaved*. But patience has its rewards."
He finds his equipment in the evidence locker—a crowbar, some acid capsules, a few party favors. Everything a growing boy needs.
"Now then," Joker says to the empty hallway, "where would a spider be spinning his web at this hour?"
---
### Wayne Manor - 4:12 AM
Peter strips off his armor in the cave, every muscle protesting. Dick is already changed, looking annoyingly energetic for someone who just spent six hours fighting crime.
"You're still young," Dick explains, noting Peter's exhaustion. "Your healing factor is working overtime. Give it a few more weeks—you'll adapt."
"I had a healing factor in my world too. I'm still tired."
"Different universe, different rules. Your body's recalibrating." Dick heads for the stairs. "Come on. Alfred makes these things called 'post-patrol sandwiches' that are basically magic. You need one."
In the kitchen, Alfred indeed has sandwiches waiting—elaborate constructions of meat, cheese, vegetables, and what might be homemade aioli.
"Gentlemen," Alfred greets them. "Successful evening?"
"Very," Dick says through a massive bite. "Spider-kid did great. Took down a robbery solo, helped with an Ivy situation, and managed not to die. I'm calling it a win."
"Master Peter, you look exhausted," Alfred observes, sliding a plate across the counter. "Eat. Then sleep. You've earned it."
Peter devours the sandwich—it tastes like actual food again, not just fuel. Maybe he's finally adjusting. Maybe Gotham is becoming less alien.
Maybe.
His phone buzzes. Text from Madison: *Study group tomorrow at 2? Need your brain for quantum entanglement problems.*
Peter types back: *Sure. I'll bring my brain. No promises it'll work.*
"Girlfriend?" Dick asks with a grin.
"Lab partner. And friend. I think." Peter sets down his phone. "Is it weird that I'm making friends here? Like, my world ended three weeks ago, and I'm already having coffee with people and joining study groups?"
"That's not weird. That's healing." Dick's voice is gentle. "You're allowed to build a new life, Peter. That doesn't erase the old one. It just means you're surviving."
"Dick speaks from experience," Alfred adds quietly. "He lost his parents at eight. Watched them fall to their deaths. Master Bruce took him in, helped him heal. Healing doesn't mean forgetting."
Dick's expression darkens briefly—old pain surfacing—then smooths. "Yeah. It took me years to understand that. But Alfred's right. You honor the dead by living. By letting yourself be happy again."
Peter's throat tightens. "I don't know if I'm ready for happy."
"No one's ever ready. You just wake up one day and realize you smiled without thinking about it. That you laughed at something and didn't feel guilty afterward." Dick stands, stretches. "Give it time. You'll get there."
"And in the meantime," Alfred says, "you have us. A rather dysfunctional family of vigilantes, but family nonetheless."
Peter wants to protest that they're not his family, that he barely knows them, that accepting this means admitting his old life is really gone.
But he's too tired to argue. And maybe—just maybe—he doesn't want to.
"Thanks," he says quietly. "For tonight. For everything."
"That's what family does," Dick says simply. "Now go sleep. I'll take over monitoring for the rest of the night. Oracle will wake me if anything major happens."
Peter drags himself upstairs. Falls into bed still wearing his civilian clothes. His phone shows 4:47 AM.
He should sleep.
But his mind is spinning with the night's events. Poison Ivy's desperate rage. The terrified shoppers. The thieves who ran from him. The woman who said he wasn't as scary as the photos.
*You're doing good*, May's voice whispers in his memory. *I'm proud of you.*
Peter closes his eyes.
For the first time since arriving in Gotham, he falls asleep without nightmares.
---
### Gotham City - Various Locations - Early Morning
The Joker moves through Gotham like a ghost, like a rumor, like something that shouldn't exist but does anyway.
He visits crime scenes—places Spider-Man has been. Collects webbing samples before they dissolve. Studies fight patterns. Talks to criminals who've encountered the Spider.
"Tell me," he asks a terrified gang member, "what did he *say* to you?"
"He—he made jokes. About career choices. About—about paperwork." The man is shaking. "But his voice, man. His *voice*. Even when he was joking, he sounded like death."
"Jokes!" Joker claps his hands together. "Oh, I like him already. A comedian! In scary armor! That's *art*, that's *poetry*, that's—" He giggles. "That's someone who understands that the best way to hurt people is to make them laugh while you do it."
He visits the site where Spider-Man saved the family from the fire. Finds the mother being interviewed by a local news crew.
"He looked terrifying," she's saying. "But he was so gentle with my children. So careful. I don't know what he is, but he saved us."
Joker watches from the shadows, smile widening.
"Terrifying but gentle," he murmurs. "A contradiction. A puzzle. How delicious."
He visits the Diamond District. Finds residual webbing on the lampposts. Tests it—incredible tensile strength, completely organic, dissolves in sunlight.
"Smart," Joker admits. "No evidence left behind. No way to track him through the webs. But everyone leaves *something*, Spider-boy. Everyone has a weakness."
He pulls out his phone—stolen from a guard—and scrolls through social media. #GothamSpider is still trending. Photos, videos, theories.
And there—a post from Gotham University's campus feed. A photo of students at a coffee shop. Peter Parker is in the background, laughing at something, completely unaware he's been captured on camera.
Joker zooms in. Studies the face. Young, mid-twenties, brilliant eyes, the kind of face that hasn't been broken yet.
"Hello," Joker whispers. "What have we here?"
He cross-references. Peter Parker, scholarship student, Wayne Enterprises connection, recently moved to Gotham.
"Wayne," Joker says. "Always Wayne. Bruce just can't stop collecting broken birds, can he?" He studies Peter's face more closely. "But you're not a bird. You're a spider. And spiders are so much more interesting. Spiders build traps. Spiders wait. Spiders are *patient*."
He saves the photo. Starts building a file.
"Not yet," he tells himself. "Not yet. Let him settle in. Let him feel safe. Let him think Gotham is manageable, that he's doing well, that he's building a life."
His smile goes sharp as a knife.
"And *then* we'll play."
---
### Wayne Manor - 11:00 AM
Peter wakes to sunlight streaming through the windows and the smell of coffee.
He's slept for six hours. His body feels almost normal—bruises fading, muscles loose, the healing factor finally catching up.
His phone shows three missed texts.
Madison: *Study group's at the library. Don't forget!*
Dick: *Good morning, Spider-kid. Bruce called—emergency at the Watchtower is complicated. He'll be gone another two days. You're stuck with me. Try to contain your disappointment.*
Barbara (Oracle): *Nice work last night. Your combat efficiency is improving. Also, you're trending on social media again. Try not to let it go to your head.*
Peter scrolls through Twitter. #GothamSpider is indeed trending—new photos from last night's patrols, witness interviews, speculation about his identity.
One thread catches his eye: *Analysis: Spider-Man's fighting style suggests previous combat training. Possibly military or private security background. His jokes indicate psychological warfare training. This is not an amateur.*
"If only they knew," Peter mutters. "Amateur with superpowers trying really hard not to screw up."
He showers, dresses in normal clothes—jeans, Midtown High hoodie that Alfred somehow got cleaned despite it not existing in this universe. Peter tries not to think too hard about that.
In the kitchen, Alfred has breakfast waiting.
"Master Peter. You slept well?"
"Better than I have in weeks, actually." Peter accepts coffee gratefully. "Is Dick still here?"
"Master Dick left an hour ago. Something about 'Blüdhaven needing him' and 'Titans business.' He'll return this evening for patrol." Alfred sets down a plate—eggs, bacon, toast, fruit. "In the meantime, you have the manor to yourself. I suggest catching up on your coursework before tonight's activities."
Right. Coursework. Because he's supposed to be a normal college student.
Peter spends the next two hours on quantum mechanics problems. The equations are soothing—pure logic, no moral ambiguity, just mathematics and physics behaving exactly as they should.
His phone buzzes. Madison: *Where are you? Study group started 20 minutes ago!*
Peter checks the time. 2:17 PM.
"Shit." He grabs his backpack, his phone, his tablet. "Alfred, I have to—"
"Yes, Master Peter, you're late for your study group. I've called for a car." Alfred appears with Peter's jacket. "Do try to remember you're not *only* Spider-Man. You're also a college student who needs to maintain his cover identity."
"Right. Cover identity. Normal life." Peter heads for the door. "Thanks, Alfred!"
"Master Peter?" Alfred's voice stops him. "You received mail. From Gotham University. Official correspondence."
He hands Peter an envelope. Heavy paper, embossed seal.
Peter opens it.
*Dear Mr. Parker,*
*We are pleased to inform you that your essay "Quantum Entanglement and Information Theory: Practical Applications" has been selected for publication in the Gotham University Physics Review. Additionally, Professor Chen has recommended you for a research assistant position in her quantum computing lab.*
*Please contact the Physics Department at your earliest convenience to discuss these opportunities.*
*Sincerely,*
*Dr. Sarah Chen*
*Department Chair, Physics*
Peter stares at the letter.
"I didn't write an essay about quantum entanglement."
"No," Alfred says calmly. "But Peter Parker from your world did. I took the liberty of adapting several of your papers from Midtown High's database—which Master Bruce recovered from your phone before it died—and submitting them under your name here. Consider it establishing your academic credentials."
"That's—Alfred, that's amazing. And possibly fraud?"
"Master Bruce prefers the term 'aggressive resume building.'" Alfred's expression is perfectly innocent. "Regardless, you've earned this recognition. Your work was brilliant in your world. It remains brilliant here."
Peter reads the letter again. A research position. Publication. Recognition for work he did in another universe.
It feels like a lifeline. Like proof that Peter Parker—the real Peter, not just the vigilante—still exists.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"You're quite welcome. Now go—your study group is waiting."
---
### Gotham University Library - 2:31 PM
Peter arrives out of breath, backpack sliding off his shoulder.
Madison looks up from her laptop. "There you are! We were starting to think you bailed."
"Sorry, sorry. I lost track of time." Peter drops into a chair. "What did I miss?"
"Everything. We're on problem seven." A guy named Marcus—physics major, friendly, prone to terrible puns—slides a tablet over. "We're stuck on the entanglement correlation function. Nobody can figure out the normalization."
Peter scans the problem. It's actually straightforward if you approach it from the information theory angle rather than pure quantum mechanics.
"Okay, so the trick is—" Peter pulls out a piece of paper, starts sketching diagrams. "—you're thinking about entanglement as a physical property. But it's really an information property. The particles aren't 'connected' in space—they're connected in *information space*."
He walks them through it, building the math step by step. Madison watches with increasing fascination.
"How did you—" She checks his work. "That's not in the textbook."
"Different approach. I read this paper about quantum information theory and just kind of... connected the dots?" Peter shrugs. "It made sense to me."
"Made sense," Marcus mutters. "Kid makes quantum entanglement sound simple."
"It is simple! Once you stop thinking about particles as things and start thinking about them as information carriers—"
They spend the next hour going through problems. Peter finds himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of problem-solving, of teaching, of pure intellectual engagement that has nothing to do with crime or armor or fear.
This is who he is too. Not just Spider-Man. Not just the terrifying figure in red and black.
Peter Parker. Science nerd. Teacher. Friend.
"Okay, I give up," Madison finally says, closing her laptop. "My brain is fried. Coffee break?"
They migrate to the campus coffee shop. Madison orders something with seven adjectives. Peter gets plain black coffee because he's living on about four hours of sleep per night and needs all the help he can get.
"So," Madison says once they're settled at a corner table, "how are you adjusting to Gotham? It's been what, three weeks?"
"Three weeks, yeah." Peter thinks about how to answer. "It's... intense. Different from New York."
"Different how?"
"New York felt—" Peter struggles for words that won't reveal too much. "—felt safer, I guess? More hopeful. Gotham's darker. Literally and figuratively."
"That's accurate," Marcus agrees. "Gotham's basically if Batman's therapist's nightmares became a city. But you get used to it."
"Do you?" Peter asks. "Get used to it?"
"You learn to navigate it," Madison corrects. "Learn which neighborhoods are safe, which aren't. Learn to watch your back. Learn that vigilantes are just part of the infrastructure, like traffic lights and corrupt politicians."
"Speaking of vigilantes," a fourth member of their study group—Keisha, computer science major—leans in conspiratorially. "Did you guys see the Spider-Man videos from last night? The one where he's literally *joking* with criminals while webbing them to walls?"
Peter's coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth.
"I saw," Madison says, pulling up her phone. "Here—this one's my favorite. He tells a bank robber 'crime doesn't pay but student loans do, so maybe consider literally any legitimate career.'"
They all laugh. Peter forces himself to join in, trying not to think about how weird it is to watch people discuss him while he's sitting right there.
"I still think he's hot," Madison declares.
"You think everyone in armor is hot," Keisha teases.
"I have a type! Dangerous vigilantes with mysterious identities who probably have trauma! It's very valid!"
"It's very *concerning*," Marcus corrects.
They're all laughing now, and Peter is trying very hard not to blush behind his coffee cup.
"What about you, Peter?" Madison turns to him. "What do you think of Spider-Man?"
Peter's mind races. "I think—" He chooses his words carefully. "I think he's trying his best in a really difficult situation. Gotham's not easy to protect."
"That's very diplomatic," Keisha observes. "Most people have stronger opinions. Either he's a hero or he's another freak in a costume."
"Maybe he's both," Peter suggests. "Maybe that's what heroes have to be in Gotham. A little freaky to survive."
"Deep," Marcus says. "Very philosophical."
"Peter's good at philosophy," Madison says. "Also physics, chemistry, probably literature if we asked. Are you good at anything you're *not* good at?"
"Social interaction?" Peter offers. "I'm pretty bad at that."
"You're literally sitting here having a social interaction."
"Under duress."
They laugh again, and Peter feels something warm in his chest. Belonging. Connection. The simple pleasure of being young and normal and having friends who don't know he spends his nights fighting crime in horror-movie armor.
May would love this. Would love seeing him make friends, have normal conversations, exist as something other than Spider-Man.
His phone buzzes. Text from Dick: *Heads up—Oracle picked up chatter about Joker. He escaped Arkham last night. Be extra careful on patrol tonight.*
Peter's blood runs cold.
The Joker. The man who killed Jason Todd. Who's obsessed with Batman's partners. Who, according to social media, is now obsessed with Spider-Man.
"You okay?" Madison asks. "You just went really pale."
"Yeah, just—" Peter forces a smile. "Just remembered I have a thing tonight. Family thing."
"Hot date with the mysterious billionaire who sponsors you?" Keisha teases.
"Nothing that exciting. Just—dinner. Family dinner." The lies come easier now. Peter hates how easy they've become.
They study for another hour, but Peter's mind is elsewhere. On the Joker. On what it means that Gotham's most dangerous criminal is free. On Jason Todd's broken body and Bruce's endless guilt.
By the time he gets back to the manor, he's wound tight as a spring.
Alfred takes one look at him and sighs. "Master Dick informed you about the Joker, I presume."
"Yeah." Peter drops his backpack. "Should I be worried?"
"You should be *cautious*," Alfred corrects. "The Joker is... unlike other criminals. He doesn't want money or power. He wants to prove a point—that the world is chaos, that morality is a joke, that anyone can be broken with the right pressure."
"And he's interested in me."
"He's interested in anyone connected to Master Bruce. You're living in this house, training as a vigilante, fighting alongside Batman. You're a target by association." Alfred's expression is grave. "Master Dick will provide additional security measures tonight. But Peter—if you encounter the Joker, do *not* engage alone. He's killed far more experienced heroes than you."
Peter nods, but inside he's thinking about Jason. About how experience didn't save him. About how the Joker doesn't play by rules.
"I'll be careful," he promises.
"See that you are." Alfred heads for the kitchen. "I'll prepare dinner. Master Dick should return within the hour. In the meantime, perhaps review the Joker's case files. Know your enemy, as Master Bruce says."
Peter goes down to the cave. Pulls up the files.
And spends the next hour reading about a monster.
---
### The Batcave - 6:30 PM
The Joker's case files are worse than Peter imagined.
Murders. Torture. Psychological warfare. And *
jokes*. Always jokes. The Joker turns horror into comedy, makes death into punchlines, treats human suffering like material for his sick standup routine.
Peter reads about Jason Todd's death. The warehouse. The crowbar. The bomb. The way Joker called Batman afterward just to *laugh*.
He reads about Barbara Gordon. Paralyzed by a bullet to the spine, just to prove a point to her father. The Joker took photos. Made Commissioner Gordon look at them. Tried to drive him insane.
He reads about dozens of others. Cops, civilians, criminals who crossed him. All dead or broken or driven mad.
"Heavy reading."
Peter jumps. Dick is standing at the bottom of the stairs, still in his civilian clothes.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm very sneaky." Dick walks over, looks at the screen. His expression darkens. "Jason's file."
"Yeah. I wanted to understand—" Peter struggles for words. "Alfred said I should know my enemy."
"Alfred's right. But knowing him and facing him are different things." Dick pulls up a chair. "I was Robin when Jason died. I'd already left to become Nightwing, but he was my *brother*. And when Bruce told me what happened—" His voice cracks slightly. "I wanted to kill the Joker. Actually kill him. Bruce had to physically stop me from going to Arkham and finishing it."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because Bruce made me promise. Made me swear I wouldn't become what the Joker wanted us to become—murderers who've given up on justice." Dick's hands clench. "But some nights, I still think about it. Think about how easy it would be. How *right* it would feel."
"But you don't."
"But I don't. Because Jason wouldn't want that. Because killing the Joker wouldn't bring him back. And because—" Dick looks at Peter directly. "Because someone has to prove that you can survive this city without losing your soul. That you can face monsters without becoming one."
Peter thinks about his armor. About the fear he generates. About how criminals beg when they see him.
"What if it's too late?" he asks quietly. "What if I'm already becoming a monster?"
"You're not." Dick's voice is firm. "Trust me, I've seen monsters. You're just someone in scary armor trying to save people. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Because monsters don't ask that question." Dick stands. "Come on. Oracle briefed me on Joker's last known locations. We're going hunting tonight. And Peter? I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"If we encounter the Joker—if he tries to engage with you, talk to you, get in your head—you don't listen. You don't engage. You don't try to understand him or reason with him or fix him." Dick's eyes are haunted. "Jason tried that. Jason thought he could reach the Joker, show him that people could change. It got him killed."
"I promise," Peter says.
"Good. Now suit up. We've got work to do."
---
### Gotham City - Amusement Mile - 10:47 PM
Amusement Mile is a graveyard of failed dreams. Abandoned theme parks, shuttered arcades, rusted carnival rides that creak in the wind like dying animals.
It's also the Joker's favorite hunting ground.
"He always comes back here," Nightwing explains as they perch on a Ferris wheel's dead peak. "Something about the irony. Places designed for joy turned into places of horror. Very on-brand for him."
Peter's Spider-Sense has been screaming since they arrived. Everything here is wrong—the decay, the shadows, the smell of rust and something worse.
"Oracle," Dick says into comms, "any movement?"
"Negative. But I'm picking up heat signatures in the old funhouse. Three, maybe four people. Could be squatters, could be something else."
"We'll check it out. Stay on comms."
They approach the funhouse carefully. Peter's webs are charged, his armor's systems online, his entire body tensed for combat.
The entrance is a massive clown face, mouth agape, teeth rotted and broken. They step through into darkness.
"Lights," Dick says.
Peter activates his helmet's low-light vision. The world turns green-tinged. He can see everything now—warped mirrors, decay, graffiti covering every surface.
And ahead, movement.
"Nightwing," Peter whispers. "Three people. Tied up. Civilians."
"Hostages." Dick's voice goes hard. "Trap. This is a trap."
The lights come on.
Blinding. Disorienting. Peter's helmet automatically adjusts, but it's still too much, too sudden.
And then—laughter.
"WELCOME!" The voice echoes from speakers hidden throughout the funhouse. "Welcome, welcome, WELCOME to the show! Starring Gotham's Dynamic Duo—the Bird and the Spider!"
The Joker's face appears on screens throughout the space. That smile. Those eyes. Everything wrong with the universe condensed into one human face.
"I've been SO excited to meet you, Spider-boy," Joker continues. "The new kid on the block! The fresh meat! The—and I mean this with all sincerity—absolutely *terrifying* fashion statement!"
Peter's hands clench into fists. Dick touches his arm—*steady*.
"What do you want, Joker?" Dick calls out.
"What do I *want*? What a question! What does anyone want? Love? Acceptance? A good therapist?" Joker giggles. "I want to *play*. And I've set up a wonderful game for you!"
One of the screens changes. Shows a timer. Five minutes.
"You have five minutes to save my three guests!" Joker's voice is cheerful, like a game show host. "But here's the twist—you can only save TWO of them! The third? Well... let's just say they'll have a very *explosive* reaction!"
The hostages become visible now—three people tied to chairs, spaced throughout the funhouse. And attached to each one: a bomb.
"One of those bombs is real," Joker explains. "The other two are fakes. But you won't know which is which until you try to disarm them! Isn't that *fun*? It's like Russian roulette, but with more screaming!"
The timer starts counting down.
4:47... 4:46... 4:45...
"Oracle," Dick says urgently. "Can you identify which bomb is real?"
"Working on it. The interference here is massive—he's jamming my sensors." Barbara's voice is tight. "You'll have to choose manually."
Peter's Spider-Sense is going haywire. Every bomb reads as dangerous. Every hostage reads as a threat. But not because *they're* threats—because *everything here* is a threat.
"We split up," Dick decides. "I'll take the first two. You take the third. We disarm simultaneously—that way if one's real, we've got two chances to save people."
"But if we're wrong—"
"Then someone dies." Dick's voice is haunted. "But if we don't try, they all die. Move!"
They split.
Peter swings to the third hostage—a woman, maybe forty, terrified. The bomb is strapped to her chest. Digital display counting down.
3:12... 3:11... 3:10...
"It's okay," Peter says, trying to make his modulated voice gentle. "I'm going to get you out of this."
"Please," she whispers. "Please, I have kids—"
"You're going to see them again." Peter examines the bomb. It's complex—real wiring, real explosive compound, real detonator. But is it *armed*?
His Spider-Sense screams yes.
No—wait—it's screaming about *all* the bombs. He can't tell which threat is real.
"Nightwing," Peter calls over comms. "I can't differentiate. My Sense is reading everything as dangerous."
"Same. We're going to have to guess." Dick's voice is strained. "On my mark, we cut the blue wire. That's standard disarm protocol. Three... two... one... MARK."
Peter cuts the blue wire.
The bomb beeps.
Countdown speeds up.
1:43... 1:42... 1:41...
"WRONG WIRE!" Peter's hands move frantically. "Dick, I triggered a failsafe!"
"Cut red! CUT RED!"
Peter cuts red.
The bomb stops.
0:37 remaining.
Peter sags against the chair, hands shaking.
"Hostage three secure," he reports.
"Hostage one secure," Dick says. "But Peter—"
"Hostage two is the real bomb," Oracle's voice cuts in, panicked. "I finally got through the jamming—hostage two is—"
The explosion lights up the funhouse.
Peter's Spider-Sense screams. He throws himself toward the blast—shoots web after web, creating a barrier between the explosion and the rest of the building. The webs absorb some of the force, but not all. Fire and shrapnel tear through the space.
When the smoke clears, Peter is on the ground, armor smoking, ears ringing.
"Nightwing!" He scrambles up. "DICK!"
"Here." Dick emerges from behind a fallen wall, costume torn, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. "I'm okay. But hostage two—"
They run to where the explosion occurred.
The chair is destroyed. The hostage is—
Gone. No body. No remains. Nothing.
"What—" Peter looks around frantically. "Where—"
"SURPRISE!" Joker's voice booms from the speakers. "Plot twist! There *was* no third hostage! Just a very convincing dummy with a very real bomb! Gotcha!"
Peter stares at the destroyed chair. At the blood that isn't blood—just paint, red paint splattered for effect.
"You—" His voice shakes with rage. "You made us think we killed someone—"
"I made you *feel* something!" Joker's face appears on every screen, delighted. "That moment of horror! That split second where you thought you'd failed! That's *cinema*, baby! That's *art*!"
"I'm going to find you," Peter snarls. "I'm going to—"
"You're going to what? Hurt me? Kill me? Ooh, scary spider is scary!" Joker giggles. "But you won't. Because you're a *hero*. Heroes don't kill. Heroes save people. Heroes follow *rules*."
"Peter." Dick's hand on his shoulder. "Don't engage. That's what he wants."
"He's right, Bird-boy! Smart birdie! Don't let the spider get tangled in his own web!" Joker's smile widens. "But here's the thing, Spider-boy. I've been watching you. Learning you. And I've figured something out."
All the screens change. Show images of Peter—patrol footage, security cameras, photos from campus.
"You're not from here, are you?" Joker's voice goes soft, dangerous. "You don't move like Gotham. Don't talk like Gotham. You're too... *hopeful*. Too unused to horror. You still think people are basically good. That the world can be saved."
Peter's blood runs cold.
"Oh, I'm going to have SO much fun breaking that," Joker purrs. "Breaking *you*. Just like I broke the last bird. Because that's what I *do*. I find the brightest, most hopeful little heroes and I show them the truth—that everything is chaos, morality is a joke, and hope is just another word for delusion."
"You're insane," Peter spits.
"INSANE? Insane?! Oh, Spider-boy, you wound me! I'm not insane! I'm *enlightened*! I've seen behind the curtain! I know the punchline!" Joker's laughter fills the funhouse. "And soon, you'll know it too. Soon, I'll make you *laugh*. Even if I have to cut that smile onto your face myself."
The screens go dark.
Silence.
Peter stands there, shaking, fury and fear warring in his chest.
"Come on," Dick says quietly. "We need to get the real hostages to safety and get out of here. This place could have more traps."
They evacuate the two remaining hostages—both traumatized but alive. GCPD arrives. They give statements. They search the funhouse for the Joker.
He's gone. Of course he's gone.
But he left something behind. Something only Peter finds, tucked into a mirror's frame where only someone with enhanced senses would notice.
A playing card. Joker. And written on the back in purple ink:
*Can't wait to play again, Spider-boy. Next time, the stakes will be REAL. —J*
Peter pockets the card before Dick can see it.
---
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