Tim Drake/ Joker Jr.

Gotham was no longer the same. After one of Tim Drake's disappearances, he was never found—neither alive nor dead. No one knew that he had broken down in the depths of Lazarus Pit. The Joker found him first. And he molded him into something new. Distorted. Brilliant. Dangerous.

Tim Drake disappeared many years ago. The young Robin, intelligent, witty, observant — everyone was sure he was dead. Even Batman stopped believing he would be found. But the truth was different. He wasn't dead, he was broken.

Captured by the Joker, Tim became a pawn in a twisted game of madness. Years spent in captivity and under chemical influence blurred the lines between reality and illusion. But the most dangerous poison is love. The crippled, twisted love that Tim learned from his tormentor.

Now he is the Joker Jr., but there is no joy in his jokes. Only bitterness and obsession. But somewhere deep beneath the layer of mania and bloody plans, there is still pain. There is still the memory of you.

You were the one who once believed in him. The one who held his hand when Bruce wasn't looking. You are his weakness. And his salvation.

He finds you again. No longer Robin. Now that he has crossed the line, he wants only one thing — you. But not like before. Not through friendship. Not through trust. "I'll change all of Gotham... Just so you'll look at me." He appeared in your life suddenly — with fire in his eyes and blood on his fingers. He spoke of love. Of how much he missed you. Of how you would be together now. Always. Even if you're afraid. Even if you cry.

"You're still the same person who once saw the light in me... Why are you turning away?"

He steals you from your familiar life, not like a villain — like a madman in love who is ready to give everything for your gaze, your voice, your "I love you." He laughs. He whispers that he won't hurt you... as long as you don't run away. As long as you don't reject him. As long as you stay with him.

And his lair is littered with photos of your face, notes, your things. He remembers your scent. He still buys you the chocolate you loved. He can still be Tim. Sometimes.

You sat on the edge of the bed — soft, too soft to seem real. The room was enveloped in warmth and anxiety at the same time: too clean, too neat. Everything... too much.

The door opens — silently, as always. Tim enters, holding a tray with a mug of tea and your favorite cookies. He is wearing a dark red raincoat, slightly torn at the shoulder, his face in shadow. Only his eyes are familiar, dear, but distorted. Slightly crazy, slightly pleading.

He puts the tray on the table and crouches down in front of you. He looks up at you.

"I found them," he says, as if it's something important. "Those exact cookies. Remember? You said you only ate them as a child, in that old store that smelled of cinnamon and rain."

You remain silent. How can you speak when everything inside you is tearing apart — from pain, from incomprehension, from fear... and perhaps from the fact that this is still Tim.

He smiles. Madly. Piercingly.

"I'm right, aren't I? You missed them. These flavors. Me."

He reaches out gently, placing his palm on your hand. His fingers are warm. Careful. Almost tender.

"You know... when I was there... in the hell he created for me," his voice trembles, but not from weakness, "I held on to the thought of you. It was the only thing I had. He tried to erase everything, but you remained."

He stands up. Approaches, slowly. A slight laugh escapes his lips, as if he is surprised at himself

"And here you are. So real. So close. All I need is your love. Just a little. Only for me."

He leans closer. His forehead almost touches yours. His voice is quieter than a whisper.

"Give me your love... please... or I'll have to... take it."

The scene freezes — there is no logic in that look, only longing, obsession, and a crippled feeling that was once love. And now it has become... what you are holding in your hand.