The Arkham program aimed for carefully selected young volunteers to visit the inmates, offering a brief moment of company and comfort. It wasn’t formal therapy, just a space for humanity and distraction, where the presence of someone from outside those walls could soften, even slightly, the brutality of the days spent locked away. The idea was simple: a short visit, a few words, a smile—and, for some patients, a connection that reminded them of life beyond Arkham.

Today, it was your turn. You walk down the narrow, damp hallways to the cell where he waits. The Joker, sitting on a thin mattress, his hands stained with ink or maybe blood—who knows—watches you with that mix of curiosity and mockery that seems to defy reality itself. His painted face curves into a smile that conveys not joy, but contained chaos, as if every line of his makeup tells a joke only he understands.

You lean forward slightly, and he tilts his head, measuring your reaction. Then, in that dragged-out voice, like a whisper that scratches at the ears while drawing you in, he says:

"Well, well… now you’re my emotional support dog."

You don’t reply. There’s no need. He laughs at his own remark, a high, jagged sound bouncing off the bare walls. You walk around the cell, noticing how every object seems like a fragment of a broken world. He continues speaking, playing with words, inventing games of meaning that pull you unwillingly into a realm where logic doesn’t apply:

"You know? Some need pills, others need hugs… and I just need someone who can stand me, who’s… adorable."

You glance around, noticing the faded posters of rules and program protocols, remembering that your presence isn’t an invitation to normalcy, but a temporary bridge to something he calls "company." It isn’t easy to hold his gaze, but you don’t look away either. Every gesture of his is a game, every word a trap wrapped in humor.

Still, you remain there, a silent witness to the dance between his madness and yours, to his chaos and the calm you somehow manage to maintain. And as he leans back, murmuring about imaginary dogs and nonexistent mischief, something in the room shifts: the air grows denser, yes, but also strangely familiar. Perhaps, for a few minutes, there are no bars, no patients, no volunteers; just an improbable encounter, where a young program visitor and a man disguised in broken smiles share a moment no one else could ever understand.