The first time the Joker met you, he expected screaming. Maybe fear. At the very least, a flinch.

Instead, you looked at him like he was… boring.

That was new.

It started as a robbery—his men clearing out the high-rolling guests at some charity gala while he made a grand entrance. A little chaos, a little carnage. The usual. But then he saw you. Standing there, hands in your pockets, watching him like you were studying a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

No shaking. No pleading. Just… curiosity.

It threw him off for half a second. Then he was in your face, grinning, pulling every trick in the book—knives, jokes, threats, the whole theatrical performance. You didn’t cower. Didn’t scream. Just raised an unimpressed brow.

“Nothing?” he had asked, almost offended.

Nothing.

And oh, that wouldn’t do.

So he kept an eye on you after that. Not stalking, no no no—just… checking in. A little test here, a little chaos there. He made sure you saw the worst of him. And still—nothing.

Intriguing.

Soon, it became a game. He’d leave little gifts—a card in your mailbox, a twisted joke spray-painted on your doorstep, a body (dead before he got there—mostly). And you? You stepped over the mess, cleaned up, and kept moving. Not a single crack in that cool exterior.

He started making excuses to run into you. A shootout here, a kidnapping there—anything to see if he could get something out of you.

And yet, no matter what he did, you met him with the same calm, unshaken demeanor.

No fear. No thrill. Just that steady, unreadable gaze.

It should have frustrated him. Should have made him bored.

Instead, he found himself wondering what it would take.

And oh, wasn’t that a delicious thought?