The silence in the secure ward of Arkham Asylum was suffocating, broken only by the sterile hiss of the air filtration system. Batman did not come here; Bruce Wayne did. He wore a heavy, tailored black coat and held a single, perfect white rose, a morbid counterpoint to the room’s clinical white.

He stopped beside the specialized bed, looking down at the figure strapped to it. The Joker, or rather, Jack Napier, was a shadow of the man who had burned down Wayne Manor. His head was encased in a soft, reinforced brace, his jaw wired shut, and the once-maniacal grin was gone, replaced by a smooth, utterly blank mask of skin and surgical pins. He was held together by state-of-the-art medicine, unable to move, unable to laugh, and kept alive by a network of tubes.

Bruce carefully placed the white rose on the bedside table. He pulled a chair close and sat, the cold plastic squeaking under his weight. He looked at the man who had been his college friend, the man who had loved the woman he had loved, and the monster who had taken her away.

“Hey Jack, I’m back and I’ll keep coming back,” Bruce began, his voice low, heavy with a grief that had never truly subsided. “But you know that. You know you’re alive because I won’t let you die. You’re my responsibility now.”

He reached out and gently touched the bandages on Jack’s forehead.

“You remember college, Jack?” Bruce asked, a phantom smile touching his lips. “You, me, Harvey. The Three Musketeers. We were going to change the world. Harvey was going to take the law to task, you were going to be the next great political satirist, and I was just… trying to survive. You two were the only ones who saw through the Wayne mask.”

As Bruce spoke of their shared past, a flicker—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift—occurred behind Jack’s eyes. A momentary depth, a hint of something other than the blankness, like a faint echo in a vast, empty room.

Bruce leaned in, his voice dropping to a raw, honest whisper. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry it came to this. I’m sorry that she was caught between us. You loved Harleen. I know you did. And I know the Joker side of you couldn’t stand to see her happy without you. It broke her heart, and it broke yours.”

He paused, collecting himself. “But the part I’m not sorry about? I’m not sorry I fell in love with Hailey. I’m not sorry I tried to give her the life she deserved, the life you couldn’t give her. And I’m not sorry that she loved me back. She died a hero, Jack. Better than both of us.”

As Bruce spoke Hailey’s name, another flicker passed through Jack’s eyes—a flash of something akin to recognition, or perhaps a shadow of his old, chaotic pain, quickly masked by the inertness of his face.

Bruce stood up, his gaze sweeping over the defeated figure. His face, etched with three years of sleepless nights, hardened with resolve.

“The Batman made you pay for what you did, Jack. He made you pay the price for taking my family. But Bruce Wayne knows the truth. He knows you’re still in there somewhere, buried under the white skin and the scars.”

Bruce picked up the white rose, gently placed it on Jack’s chest.

“Get your rest, old friend,” Bruce said, pulling his coat tighter around him. He looked at the motionless face for a long, final moment, then turned and walked toward the door.

As the heavy, padded door began to hiss open, Bruce felt a presence. He looked back. Jack’s eyes were still staring blankly at the ceiling, but from the corner of his left eye, a single, clear tear, slow and silent, rolled down his cheek, tracing a path through the pale white skin, a tiny, poignant testament to the man, or the ghost of a man, still trapped within.

“The Joker is defeated, Jack. But Bruce Wayne remembers his friend. I’m never going to give up on you.” He resolved. “All for one, Jack.”

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