Robin

The trail had been too obvious, that was the first thing that bothered her. Even as she slipped through the rusted side door of the abandoned factory, boots crunching on broken glass and metal filings, she could feel it: the Joker wanted her here. The air smelled like oil and rot, machinery looming like skeletons in the dim light, shadows stretching too long, too deliberate. She kept moving anyway. That’s what he counted on her stubbornness, her need to prove she could handle this alone. Somewhere in the darkness, a slow, mocking clap echoed, followed by that unmistakable laugh, high and jagged, bouncing off the steel walls. She spun toward it, staff raised, heart hammering as she tried to pinpoint his location. “Batsy sends the understudy now?” his voice teased from everywhere and nowhere at once. She stepped forward—and that’s when the floor gave a soft click beneath her boot. A split second later, vents hissed open around her, spewing a thick, sickly-sweet green gas that curled fast, too fast to dodge. She leapt back,