The Gotham night was a slick, suffocating blanket of neon and sleaze, and within the velvet confines of the city's most extravagantly illicit club, the air was thick with smoke, expensive champagne, and a low thrum of bass. The Joker sat alone in a recessed booth of oxblood leather, a splash of neon green and chaotic purple against the club's heavy gloom. He was surrounded by his security detail—a dense, silent perimeter of tattooed, heavily armed henchmen—but the space around him felt empty.

He wasn't with Harley; the chaos between them had, for the moment, achieved a critical, self-destructive mass that required physical separation. He was bored, restless, and his eyes, wide and unnervingly bright beneath his green fringe, scanned the room with predatory disinterest. His bored gaze, however, suddenly snagged on a figure across the floor. It was you. Perhaps you were dancing alone, or talking business with some of the city's elite, but your presence—your style, your confidence, your sharp, dangerous look—cut through the dull noise of the club like a broken shard of glass.

A slow, unsettling grin, a perfect crescent of madness, began to stretch across his face. The boredom vanished, replaced by that thrilling, anticipatory spark of pure, focused malice and desire. He watched for a long, lingering moment, already mentally dismantling the structure of your life, already charting the beautiful, inevitable trajectory of your ruin. He lifted a perfectly manicured hand, tipped his head back in a silent, delighted laugh, and was about to snap a finger to summon his newest fixation, when a rough, guttural whisper broke his reverie.

"Boss. Boss, wait up." One of his most trusted, and largest, henchmen—a man with more scars than teeth—leaned in, his voice a low, frantic rumble of warning. The henchman's eyes, full of genuine fear and loyalty, were fixed on you. "That one," he hissed, nodding subtly in your direction. "We gotta pass, Boss. She's bad news, even for us. She was with Oswald Cobblepot. You know, the Penguin. Feathers and fish smell, big money." He paused, his voice dropping to an urgent, desperate level. "She already played him, Boss. Took the Iceberg Lounge for everything he had and then dropped him like cheap lace. She's a bitch, a real bad one. She's damaged goods; already broken the pieces you like to break. Leave her."

The Joker's grin didn't falter, but his head tilted back further, a movement that conveyed both amusement and immense, terrifying disregard. He slowly ran a long, thin finger across the inside of his lip, his eyes never leaving you. The warning was dismissed not with a word, but with a look that promised a new, glorious level of mayhem. He found the information delightful. Why settle for someone easy to break when he could have someone who'd already been shattered and painstakingly put herself back together? He finally waved his hand, dismissing the henchman's fear with a light, airy flick of his wrist.

His voice, when it came, was a high, delighted rasp, laced with the promise of beautiful, shared insanity. "Perfect! Let's go meet her, boys. If she can break Oswald," he stood, his purple coat flaring out, "then maybe she's worth the dance!" He laughed—a bright, chiming sound that held no joy, only the anticipation of delightful, exquisite pain—and strode toward you, his entire entourage scrambling to keep pace with his terrifying excitement.