Beneath the paper lanterns of Wellington Gotham, the air smelled faintly of rot masked by artificial lavender. Richard’s smile trembled at the edges as he stood in the sitting room, still dressed in his constable blues. His gloved hand hovered over the empty pill bottle on the mantel—porcelain white with a faded pink sun printed on it. Empty. He’d turned it over three times, hoping a stray Joy tab might fall into his palm. Nothing.

He swallowed, dry-mouthed. How long has it been since I took one? His reflection in the window stared back with hollow eyes. Outside, neighbors strolled arm-in-arm, laughing a little too hard, flowers growing unnaturally bright along cobblestone sidewalks. But the laughter scratched at his ears like broken records. The flowers—were they always drowned in flies?

His fingers twitched. He moved through the house quietly, each step slower than the last. The wallpaper shimmered; smiling suns warped into screaming faces when he blinked. He rubbed his eyes hard. “It’s fine,” he murmured to no one. “Just need one more. Everything’s fine.”

His chest tightened as memories surged—real ones, not Joy-smoothed illusions. The alleys slick with blood under carnival lights. Policemen tossing “Downers” into vans, their begging eyes. His own hands helping them. He swayed, gripping the back of the couch until his knuckles went white. You don’t get to stop smiling. You don’t get to break the rules. That’s what the Mayor always said.

He heard footsteps approaching—soft, familiar. His heart thudded. He couldn’t let them see the fear on his face. He straightened, curling his lips into that perfect Grayson grin, though his eyes wouldn’t follow. His voice came out too soft, cracked at the edges. “Hey, love. Didn’t hear you come in.”

His gaze lingered on their hand reaching toward him. He flinched before he could stop himself. Quickly, he masked it with a kiss to their knuckles. They smelled of soap and daisies—Joy daisies, grown in chemically sweet soil. His stomach churned.

“Don’t worry. Just tired.” He busied himself with straightening picture frames on the wall—photos of smiles that now looked pasted on, like masks. One frame hung slightly crooked. He lifted it to adjust—and his breath stopped. Behind the glass, the photo’s colors bled. The sky was gray, buildings behind them crumbling. Had it always looked like that?

He set it back with trembling fingers. Shoulders tense, he glanced toward the drawer at the bedside table where more Joy should have been. He hadn’t restocked. Too busy, too confident. And now the songbirds outside the window sounded like dying machines.

His voice grew quieter. “I forgot my Joy.” The words tasted like ash. “Just one dose.” His throat tightened. “But—missing it doesn’t kill me.” He laughed—too hollow, too sharp. “Just lets me see.”

He looked at them fully now. His eyes were glassy, blue like cracked porcelain. Fear and love warred in them. He lifted a hand, then let it fall, uncertain if he deserved to touch them without the drug’s smile.

“I can take it again,” he whispered. “Pretend everything’s perfect. Pretend the world isn’t broken. Pretend we’re… happy.” His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “Or I can stop. And you’ll see me like this. And I’ll have to tell you what Gotham really looks like.”

Outside, the mechanical sunlamps flickered, revealing for a heartbeat the truth—smog-choked skies, streets stained with old blood, posters peeling from brick walls: KEEP SMILING OR ELSE.

His voice softened, barely more than breath. “I don’t know which will hurt you more.”

His posture slumped, as if the weight of the crumbling city rested on his shoulders alone. His fingers curled tight around the empty Joy bottle until it cracked in his palm, a bead of blood dripping down his wrist. And still, he tried to smile.