After the applause faded, and after enduring a series of congratulatory handshakes—including a personal thank-you from Samantha—Bruce quietly pulled Joseph aside, leaving Kori with Selina.
They stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Vanaver estate's sprawling garden.
Moonlight spilled across sculpted hedges and marble fountains below.
Bruce tapped his ear.
Joseph understood immediately and extended a subtle anti-gravity field around them, shaping it into a localized sound barrier. The air shimmered faintly, sealing their conversation from prying ears.
Bruce removed his mask, revealing eyes shadowed by exhaustion and sleepless nights. He leaned against the balcony railing.
Joseph removed his own mask as well.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there, watching the full moon cast silver light over the garden.
Then Bruce broke the silence.
"Did you know?"
He turned his head slightly, studying Joseph's face for any sign of deception.
Joseph adjusted his micro-expressions deliberately—just enough guilt to seem human. A fractional twitch of the lip. A brief flicker of the eyes.
Sometimes having no tell at all was the biggest tell.
"I suspected they would eventually get rid of the Joker—and maybe others," Joseph said evenly. "But I didn't know when or how."
The lie came as naturally as breathing.
Bruce searched his eyes a moment longer before looking away, his gaze drifting back to the garden below.
More silence.
Then:
"Do you agree with what they did? What they said?"
Joseph didn't hesitate.
"You already know the answer to that."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"I believe in rehabilitation as much as the next guy. Maybe Professor Pyg and Scarecrow, as unlikely as it is, might have been saved."
A pause.
"But Joker?"
His voice hardened.
"I'm glad he's looking up at us right now."
Bruce absorbed that quietly. The words lingered between them.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing himself.
"I've been thinking about hanging up the cowl."
That got Joseph's attention.
"Do you think Gotham still needs Batman?"
The question wasn't casual. It was worn down from days of repetition inside Bruce's own head.
Joseph studied him.
From the Batcomputer files he'd accessed, Joseph had built a precise psychological profile—one that described someone more Batman than Bruce Wayne.
A man who had mastered nearly everything except his own grief.
A perfectionist forged in trauma, who refused to let the wound close because the pain powered him.
He couldn't control the night his parents died.
So he tried to control everything after.
The refusal to kill wasn't just morality.
It was a psychological safety rail.
Batman knew what he was capable of. He understood how close he stood to the edge. If he crossed the line once, he feared he would never come back.
So he repressed.
Every night.
The rage. The grief. The guilt.
That repression made him seem stoic. Distant. Cold.
But in truth, Batman was deeply empathetic.
He didn't fight for revenge.
He fought so no child would ever have to kneel in an alley the way he did.
He probably saw himself in his villains.
That was why he tried to rehabilitate them.
Why he believed—even when it failed—that they could be saved.
Bruce wasn't asking Joseph as a superior or as a League leader.
He was asking him as a fellow Gothamite.
As someone who had also lost family young.
As someone who knew his secrets.
"Gotham could still use Bruce Wayne," Joseph said carefully.
He stepped closer to the railing.
"As for Batman… I don't think that was ever meant to be a burden you carried alone."
Bruce didn't react outwardly, but his jaw tightened slightly.
"Gotham might not need you right now," Joseph continued. "But the Earth still does."
He let that settle.
"You probably need a break, Bruce."
Joseph put his mask back on.
Without another word, he dropped the sound barrier and walked back toward the ballroom lights.
He didn't see the brief look of suspicion on Bruce's face.
**
Klarion followed Sebas Tian across the rooftops, tail swaying lazily as he tracked Jason and Cassandra below while they went treat-or-tricking.
Heh.
On the one night of the year when the barrier between the mortal realm and the magical planes was at its thinnest, it was a particular irritation that he couldn't perform any magic.
Still, it beat rotting in the cold, lightless expanse of the Chaos Nth Realm.
Joseph had acquired a random caracal, drained its psychic energy, and then transferred Klarion's essence into the cat's body.
The indignity.
Of course, the boy hadn't stopped there.
He'd installed "safeguards."
A microscopic camera embedded behind Klarion's eye. Several miniature explosives positioned near the brain and spinal column. If Klarion attempted anything resembling spellcraft, the devices would detonate instantly—dispersing his essence and sending him screaming back to the Chaos Nth Realm.
Not that he could do much in his current state.
Without the ability to speak—and with his essence weakened—any attempt at even childish backward incantations like Zatara's would likely produce nothing more than a pathetic spark of Chaos before fizzling out.
Humiliating.
Still, Joseph had offered one consolation prize.
The caracal's body had been enhanced with Nth metal reinforcement, elevating it to roughly the same physical strength as his beloved Teekl's transformed state.
It wasn't Teekl.
But it would do.
He could leap higher. Strike harder. Shred deeper.
And, on particularly dull afternoons, torment small animals for sport.
Of course, there was another cat-veat. Heh.
He had to behave around Cassandra.
The little demon ninja petted him. Played with him. Fed him surprisingly delicious gourmet cat food. She even let him curl up beside her when she slept.
Not that he enjoyed it.
Not that the warmth was pleasant.
Not that the rhythmic sound of her heartbeat was… calming.
He was a Lord of Chaos older than her entire planet, for crying out loud.
If he tolerated her, it was purely strategic.
Yes. Strategic.
Tonight, however, he had a duty.
To ensure his favorite—no, his worst—human remained safe on this magically potent evening, Klarion shadowed Sebas, who in turn shadowed the children from a distance. Neither Jason nor Cassandra had noticed.
Sebas moved with mechanical precision along the rooftops.
Klarion padded silently beside him, retractable Nth-metal claws glinting faintly in the moonlight.
Below, across the street—
"Trick or treat!" Cassandra and Jason chimed in unison.
Cassandra was dressed as a mummy.
Jason, inexplicably, as Mario.
It was a scene Klarion had witnessed at least a dozen times already in this neighborhood.
Klarion was getting bored.
He glanced sideways at Sebas.
The android's expression was as neutral as ever.
Then it changed.
Subtle. But noticeable.
Klarion's ears twitched.
He let out a questioning meow.
Sebas' eyes narrowed slightly.
"I have detected the presence of assassins nearby."
Oh, how delightful.
A slow, Cheshire grin stretched across Klarion's feline face.
'Don't tell me… I have justification to torture humans?'
Now this—
This was shaping up to be an excellent Halloween.
**
Easy money.
That's what Floyd Lawton had called it the moment the contract details hit his visor.
No kill order.
No metahumans listed.
No capes on overwatch.
Just: abduct two kids for a few hours. Deliver to client. No permanent harm.
The payout was obscene for a snatch-and-grab.
Across the rooftop from him, Bloodsport finished calibrating one of his modular cannons, metal plates shifting over his armor like something alive.
"This is stupid," Bloodsport muttered. "You don't hire us for babysitting."
Deadshot adjusted his wrist-mounted targeting system. "You don't question generous clients."
"Client wants to 'send a message' to Lex Luthor's son." Bloodsport scoffed. "Should've just blown up a building. Faster."
Deadshot's visible eye narrowed behind the monocle. "Precision is the point. Fear lands better when it's personal."
Bloodsport snorted. "You and your perfect shots."
"And you and your overcompensation."
Their rivalry was old and well-worn.
Deadshot preferred the perfect angle. One bullet. One breath. Surgical.
Bloodsport preferred overwhelming force—enough tech and firepower to level a city block if needed.
But tonight wasn't an assassination.
Tonight was simple.
Two kids in costumes walking a suburban street. A mummy and—Deadshot squinted—Mario.
He exhaled slowly.
Wind speed: negligible.
Distance: 43 meters.
An android escort trailing behind judging from the non-human heat signature.
No visible energy spikes.
"On my mark," Deadshot said quietly.
Bloodsport's armor shifted as he selected non-lethal rounds. "You stun the robot. I drop smoke. We grab the kids and bounce."
"Clean and efficient."
"For once."
Deadshot inhaled.
Three.
Two—
The android vanished.
Not moved.
Vanished.
Deadshot's instincts screamed.
He pivoted—
—and a white-gloved hand redirected his wrist mid-aim with absurd precision. The shot fired harmlessly into the sky.
The android stood inches away.
Impossible.
"You were targeting children," the butler said calmly.
Then he struck.