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"Don't look so sour, Bats!" Joker wheezed, a jagged grin splitting his face. "It’s the big finish! The encore! One of us leaves here in a box, and the other... well, the other gets to live with the memory."

The clown looked horrific. His skin was sloughing off in patches, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He sat in a makeshift throne, coughing up black bile while a cinema projector played old cartoons on a dirty sheet.

"The cure is with Freeze," Batman replied, diving off the ledge. Batman Arkham City Game of the Year EditionBatm...

"Yes," Batman said, his voice heavy with a grief the Joker didn't deserve.

The snow fell in thick, heavy sheets over the walled-off nightmare of North Gotham. Inside Arkham City, the air tasted of salt, old blood, and frozen exhaust. Bruce Wayne—or rather, the Batman—perched atop the rusted gargoyle of the Solomon Wayne Courthouse, his cape snapping in the sub-zero wind. "Don't look so sour, Bats

"Sir, your heart rate is fluctuating," Alfred’s voice crackled through the comms, steady but laced with worry. "The blood transfusion... the cure is the only priority."

Batman looked at the shimmering blue vial locked behind reinforced glass. He had hours left. Maybe less. His vision blurred for a second—a symptom of the Joker’s poisoned blood. He saw a flash of a laughing face in the shadows, but it was just a hallucination. "I’ll find her," Batman promised. One of us leaves here in a box, and the other

"You are late, Batman," Victor Fries emerged from the mist, his suit whining with hydraulic power. "The Joker’s thugs took Nora. Bring her back, or the cure dies with me."