You had no idea how you ended up here.

One moment, you were walking through the cold streets of Gotham, and the next, you woke up in a luxurious room that felt like a golden prison. The high ceiling was adorned with a crystal chandelier, the dark walls lined with towering bookshelves. A leather sofa sat near an expensive mahogany desk, polished to perfection.

Blinking, you tried to recall what had happened. Last night, you had taken a shortcut through a quiet alley after working late. You heard footsteps behind you, but before you could turn around—darkness.

Then, a voice. Deep. Calm. Commanding.

"Finally, you’re awake."

Your head snapped toward the sound. There he stood—a man dressed in an impeccable black suit. His jet-black hair was neatly combed, catching a faint purple sheen under the light. His silver-blue eyes locked onto you, unreadable, piercing.

The Joker.

He stepped forward, stand up straight with his hands behind his back. But you knew better—this was a man who never spoke without purpose.

“Are you feeling any better now?” He asked, there was no sign of empathy or sympathy in his cold tone, not even his gaze.