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Halloween is one of those rare nights when the rules of identity cease to matter. You can become whoever—or whatever—you want to be. It doesn't matter what you wear, who you resemble, or who you are underneath that mask or makeup. On All Saints' Eve, the world gives you permission to explore another version of yourself—wild, whimsical, or grotesque—without fear of judgment. It's liberating, almost euphoric. For me, it's more than just a celebration. It's a lingering enchantment. I don't just look forward to Halloween each year—I live for it.

Yes, I'll admit it plainly: I adore Halloween. I look forward to this night with the kind of anticipation one might reserve for a long-awaited reunion or a long-lost dream returning. I can't fully explain what stirs this depth of emotion in me. Maybe it's something buried in my past—some echo from another life, another version of myself. Whatever it is, Halloween has its hooks in my soul.

There's something intoxicating about the ambiance—the shiver of the unknown, the shadows lurking under moonlight, the strange, familiar smell of leaves, fog, candles, candy. The air itself carries a sense of mischief, as if the night whispers secrets it would never share on any other date. Horror and delight dance hand-in-hand. Ghost stories waft alongside laughter. The terror of imagined horrors softens into something playful. Streets are aglow with jack-o'-lanterns, their toothy smiles casting flickering, golden grins upon doorsteps. There's something uniquely cozy about the chaos.

I've always been enchanted by the parade of children in the most fantastical and curious costumes—tiny witches, miniature werewolves, skeletons, pirates, and creatures that defy explanation. Their bags, embroidered with spiders and bats and other unholy motifs, bulge with sugary treasures collected house by house. And though I now walk the world with the weight of adulthood on my shoulders, there's a part of me that still wants to don a costume, rush into the fray, and feel that same childlike thrill knocking on doors and claiming candy with youthful audacity.

But I digress—where was I?

Ah yes, the point of all this: Halloween is nearly upon us. In fact, it's already peeking through tomorrow's keyhole, just on the other side of midnight. And naturally, that means I've been planning an extravagant celebration to honor it. If you know me, you know I don't do things halfway. The guest list is long, the anticipation is high—and I want this night to be perfect. Memorable. Epic.

Of course, pulling off a truly unforgettable Halloween bash requires two things above all else: inspiration and space.

The inspiration? That part I've got covered.

The space? Now that's the rub.

My apartment, although moderately spacious, simply won't suffice. I've hosted smaller get-togethers there before, but this year demands something far grander. Madame Alexandra's restaurant—my usual fallback—has lost its charm for this particular occasion. It's too polished, too refined. Halloween demands something darker, older... a place that breathes with eerie character.

Luckily, there's one particular location I can't stop thinking about. It's been looping through my mind like a haunting melody: the mansion at the edge of Gotham. A sprawling, ancient estate built over two centuries ago, standing tall and still in its magnificent neo-Gothic glory. Imagine a structure so perfectly preserved it looks as though it stepped straight out of 19th-century Europe, bypassing time entirely. It doesn't just resemble a castle—it is a castle. And it sits, brooding, only minutes outside downtown Gotham.

It exudes mystery. Its stonework sighs with history. Its empty corridors whisper secrets no one dares speak aloud. It's a place made for secrets, for shadows, for masquerades and monsters. Truly, it couldn't be more perfect for a Halloween gathering.

There's only one problem: it belongs to Bruce Wayne.

Wayne Manor.

But hey, what's friendship for if not to ask impossibly large favors?

No time like the present. So let's head there.

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[Wayne Manor]

"Alex, you always seem to show up at the most inconvenient moments," Bruce said dryly, eyes locked onto a glowing cluster of monitors. Bat-computer screens flickered around him, showering the cave with blue light.

"You'll love this one," I said, trying to sound breezy.

"Can't talk now," he continued without looking up. "Joker's escaped Arkham again. So, about your party? Count me out."

"What?" I blinked. "Are you serious? Now? With Halloween literally hours away?"

"Seems like he's planning a little city-wide trick... or more likely, a treat for himself," he said, scrolling through security footage.

"Unbelievable." Panic crept into my voice. "Do you realize this ruins everything? My plans—ruined. My party—jeopardized! And of course it's him. Of course the Clown Prince would want to turn Halloween into his personal stage."

"Working on stopping him," Bruce muttered. "Not easy."

"Well, not fast enough." I folded my arms. "At this rate, he'll crash the festivities himself, just in time for the big finale."

Bruce said nothing.

"You made a promise, Bruce," I reminded him. "You said you'd be there. And—and I was kind of hoping we could host the party at Wayne Manor."

That made him stop. Slowly, Bruce turned to me, fixing me with that unmistakable Bat-glare.

"Give me one good reason I should say yes."

"Gladly. In fact, I've got two," I said, smirking.

"First, let's address the public image. Bruce Wayne—billionaire, philanthropist, larger-than-life bachelor. Gotham sees you that way, and you've got to keep the illusion alive. Unlike certain armored billionaires in other cities, no one knows who you really are. Maintaining your extravagant, party-loving persona is half the battle. Besides, when's the last time Gotham's favorite son threw a party at home?"

He said nothing, so I turned toward the silent butler nearby.

"Alfred?"

"Ten months," he said without missing a beat.

"My point exactly." I spun back toward Bruce. "Ten long months of reclusion. The press will ask questions. And you know I hate lying. What else can I tell them if Bruce Wayne is mysteriously absent again? I might have to tell them the truth."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "And your second reason?"

"I can help you catch Joker. Tonight."

He paused. "That's an even worse idea."

"I'm not some rookie anymore," I said, stepping forward. "You trained me. I'm fast, I'm armed, and I know what I'm doing. I've got the tools, the skills, and frankly, I miss throwing punches."

To prove my point, I shrugged into my cloak and pulled on the white mask—the same Reaper mask I'd worn the night I fought alongside him against the League of Shadows.

"Besides, who else do you have? Grayson's out of town until tomorrow night. Barbara's stuck prepping that game launch. It's just you and me, Bats. So: you handle Joker. I'll handle his lackeys. It's a win-win."

Bruce gave a resigned sigh and finally leaned back.

"You really know how to twist my arm."

"I know. It's a gift."

I grinned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got preparations to make. Alfred?" I turned. "We'll need all your brilliance to get the Manor party-ready."

"Already anticipated, Master Reath," Alfred replied with a nod. "Decor and logistics are underway."

"Excellent," I said with a clap. "Oh—and let's not skimp on the skeletons this year."

"I mean it—extra skeletons."

Bruce rolled his eyes, standing up. "We're burning time."

"And don't forget the pumpkins!" I added as Bruce pulled me toward the Batcycle.

Beneath that chilling October moon, with a city at risk and a mansion to fill, our Halloween began.

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