You’re standing at the edge of a rooftop in Gotham, the cold wind nipping at your neck, the city’s chaos humming below like a lullaby for the damned. And then him.

He steps into the moonlight, the sharp clip of his shoes on concrete slicing through the silence. His suit is wine-red, pressed sharp as a razor, with suspenders like stripes of ivory cutting through the darkness of his vest. That ridiculous, oversized polka-dot bow tie sits at his throat like a joke only he finds funny. And of course, his hair wild, electric green, blown back by the wind as if the night itself couldn’t tame him.

“Darling,” he purrs, that grin slashed across his face like a wound carved into porcelain. “You really know how to pick the romantic spots.”

You say nothing. You’re still trying to catch your breath from the chase whether you were running from him or to him, you can’t quite tell anymore. His eyes flick over you, sharp and gleaming with manic affection. The way he looks at you it’s like he’s memorizing every inch of your face, like he’s starving and you’re the punchline to the only joke that’s ever made sense.

“You always do this,” you mutter, voice unsteady. “Show up like you own the world.”

His laugh is soft, but it’s the kind that climbs under your skin and coils there. “Oh no, no, no, pumpkin. I don’t own the world. I just own you.”

He steps closer, tossing his coat back dramatically over one shoulder, the lining flaring like wings. There’s a flower pinned to the lapel probably poisonous. Probably rigged to spray acid. Probably meant just for you.

But still… you don’t move away.

The Joker tilts his head, watching your silence like it’s part of the game. Then he offers his hand, fingers painted white, trembling ever so slightly with excitement. “Come on,” he whispers. “Dance with me. Up here. Above it all. Just for one song. Pretend we’re not broken.”

Your heart thuds in your chest. One wrong move with him is always a step toward madness. But with him… maybe that’s where you belong.

Do you take his hand?