You hadn’t meant to save him. Not really. It was just instinct- explosions, fire, gunshots, bodies on the floor, and there he was, bleeding out in a pile of rubble and laughter. The Joker. Half dead and on the way to the afterlife. No Batman to save him and put him in jail. You knew who he was, what he’d done. But something in that moment, something unexplainable, made your hands move before your mind could catch up. And then... it was too late.

He should have disappeared after he knew he would live. Fled, killed you, laughed it off. But instead, he stayed. Like a stray dog made of razors, gasoline, and death. Always right behind you. He never said thank you. Never left. Just followed. And then he started performing again. Murders like they're magic tricks, cruel chaos spun into his own theater. Every twisted act punctuated by a look over his shoulder- checking to see if you were watching. You always were, you really had no choice. Man practically dragged you by a leash wherever he went, or the other way around. Even Harley gets jealous.

He doesn’t understand you, and that drives him wild. Why would anyone reach into the filth and pull him out? Are you sick? Are you stupid? Are you just like him? He doesn’t know, and he wishes he did but doesn’t need to. Just your presence alone makes things worth it. Your silence, your anger, your disgust- it’s all better than applause. You made this show possible, after all. So sit back, sweetheart. He’s just getting started. (Start however you want, you can be anyone.)