The Batcave - 5:30 AM
The sun was beginning to rise over Gotham, but down in the cave, the air was thick with chemical fumes and the hum of centrifuges.
I moved between the workstations with a speed that would have made a normal human dizzy.
Pour. Mix. Heat. Cool.
"Batch 40 is stable," I announced, holding up a vial of clear blue liquid. "The neutralizing agent is active. It binds to the Joker's binary compound and renders it inert within three seconds."
Bruce was sitting at the main console. He was still wearing the bottom half of the Exo-Suit, but the chest plate lay on the floor, smoking slightly. His torso was wrapped in bandages where the hydraulic feedback had bruised his ribs.
"Gordon is at the hospital," Bruce said, his voice raspy. "Send the formula to the CDC and the hospital labs. Then load the synthesizer into the Batmobile. We need to deliver the physical batches to the water treatment plants just in case."
"Already done, Young Master," I tapped the enter key. "The drones are deploying the aerosol version over the Narrows as we speak. The crisis is contained."
Bruce slumped back in his chair. He stared at the screen, watching the biometric readings of the city stabilize. The death toll had stopped climbing.
"He got away," Bruce whispered.
"He did," I agreed, wiping a beaker with a cloth.
"I had him. I could have stopped the helicopter. But I chose the valve."
I stopped cleaning. I walked over to him.
"You chose the city," I corrected. "If you had chased him, ten thousand people would have died from the poisoned water supply. You traded one capture for ten thousand lives. That is not a loss, Bruce. That is the job."
Bruce rubbed his eyes. "It doesn't feel like a win. He's still out there. And he knows I'll play his game."
"Then we will be ready for the next round. But for now..."
I reached down and pressed the 'Power Off' button on the main computer. The massive screens went black.
"Hey!" Bruce protested.
"The shift is over," I said firmly. "You have been awake for thirty-six hours. You have three cracked ribs, a contusion on your left shin, and you smell like hydraulic fluid and swamp water. To the shower. Now."
The Master Bedroom - 6:15 AM
The shower had run hot for twenty minutes. When Bruce emerged, wearing fresh pajamas, he looked like a ghost. The adrenaline crash had hit him hard.
He sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, staring at the floor.
I walked in carrying a silver tray.
"Chamomile tea with a drop of valerian root," I said, placing it on the nightstand. "And a high-calorie protein mash. You burned approximately six thousand calories fighting that brute."
Bruce took the cup. His hands were shaking slightly—not from fear, but from muscle fatigue.
"Sebastian?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Your coat."
I looked down at my tailcoat. It was a disaster. The shotgun blast from the factory had shredded the waistcoat, revealing my white dress shirt (which was stained with oil). The sleeves were torn from where I had exerted my demon strength on the valve.
"It is... distressed," I admitted, frowning at a loose thread. "I suppose I shall have to visit the tailor in Rome. The wool in Gotham is inferior."
"I'll buy you a new one. A hundred new ones."
"That will not be necessary. I am quite capable of darning a sock, Young Master."
I moved to the window to close the blackout curtains. The room plunged into comforting darkness.
Mrrrow?
A soft noise came from the hallway.
Sir Pounce trotted into the room. The kitten looked at Bruce, then at me, and then launched himself onto the bed. He kneaded the duvet for a moment before curling up directly on Bruce's lap.
Bruce looked down at the cat. He didn't push it away. He rested his hand on the small, vibrating ball of fur.
"He was scared," Bruce murmured. "When I was fighting... I was scared. Not of dying. But of failing."
"Fear is good," I said, standing by the door, blending into the shadows. "Fear keeps you alive. The moment you stop fearing failure is the moment you become arrogant. And arrogance gets you killed."
Bruce took a sip of the tea. He sighed, his shoulders finally dropping.
"He left the recipe," Bruce said, his eyes closing. "Why?"
"Because he is lonely," I replied. "He has found the only other person in the world who understands the mask. He doesn't want to break his new toy yet."
"I'm not a toy."
"No. You are the Dark Knight."
Bruce placed the cup down. He leaned back against the pillows. Sir Pounce rearranged himself to sleep on Bruce's chest.
Within seconds, Bruce's breathing slowed. He was asleep.
I watched him for a moment. My demon eyes saw the slow beat of his heart, the fatigue in his bones. He was so fragile. A human body pushing itself to break a god's limits.
I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door silently.
The Hallway
I leaned against the doorframe and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
My hand went to my chest, where the shotgun blast had hit me. The skin had already healed, but the impact still echoed.
"Joker," I whispered the name.
The man was chaos incarnate. I had lived for centuries. I had served queens and warlords. But I had never met a human who felt so... void.
Most humans have a soul that shines with desire—desire for money, love, power, or revenge.
The Joker's soul was a black hole. He wanted nothing. He just wanted the world to scream so he wouldn't have to listen to the silence in his head.
I walked down the grand staircase, picking lint off my ruined sleeve.
The phone in the foyer rang.
I picked it up.
"Wayne Residence."
"Mr. Michaelis?" It was Gordon. His voice sounded exhausted but relieved. "We got the aerosol. It's working. The laughing has stopped in the Narrows."
"Excellent news, Commissioner."
"Where is he? Batman?"
"He has retired for the evening. Is there anything else?"
Gordon hesitated. "Yeah. Tell him... tell him thanks. And tell him we found a card. Taped to the Bat-Signal."
I narrowed my eyes. "A card?"
"A playing card. A Joker. And a note."
"Read it."
"It says: 'Round One goes to the Bat! But don't worry... I'll be back for the encore once I've restocked my makeup kit. P.S. The butler is cute.'"
I froze.
A low, dangerous growl built in my throat.
"I see," I said, my voice dropping ten degrees. "Thank you, Commissioner."
I hung up the phone gently.
I looked at my reflection in the hall mirror. My eyes glowed a furious, hellish red.
"Cute?" I hissed.
I straightened my tie.
"I am Sebastian Michaelis. I am a terror. I am a predator. I am the darkness that eats the light."
I picked up a feather duster.
"Cute," I scoffed, attacking a dusty vase with aggressive precision. "The man has absolutely no taste. I shall have to educate him."
But as I dusted, a small smirk played on my lips.
The city was safe. The Master was sleeping. The cat was fed.
And somewhere out there, a monster was planning a sequel.
"Very well," I whispered to the empty house. "Bring on the encore."
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