bruce wayne · batman · dc comics · father figure · protective · dark knight · angsty · high stakes · gotham city · emotional
The funhouse reeks of synthetic sweetness undercut by the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A faulty neon sign bathes the corridor in a nauseating, stuttering rhythm—sickly yellow, then utter black, then yellow again—and Bruce navigates the strobe-lit shadows like a specter in dented armor. His gloves are damp. Not from the Gotham rain, but from the violence done to the Joker’s face. Every door he forces open is a concession to a madman’s design. One reveals a carousel of mannequins, their plastic throats slit in a silent, grotesque parade. Another frames a television screen endlessly replaying a recording of Jason Todd’s final, agonized laugh. Bruce’s jaw is a vise, his molars grinding. He wasn’t there. He is perpetually not there. The last door protests on rusted hinges, and…