The Joker doesn’t rush. He never does. The warehouse smells like old oil and coppery fear, and his shoes make a lazy, off-beat squeak as he steps closer. He tilts his head, studying the scene like a bad joke that landed a second too late.

“Well, well, well,” he says lightly, voice bouncing off the corrugated walls. His grin twitches when he sees them—slumped, breathing, good. Alive is important. Alive means the punchline isn’t over yet.

He crouches, coat pooling around him, and the smile sharpens as his eyes catch the carving. The letters are crude, angry. Familiar. His gloved thumb hovers, never touching skin, just close enough to feel the heat of it. Something tight flickers behind his eyes, gone as soon as it arrives.

“R.H.?” he hums. A soft laugh leaks out, wrong and thin. “Ohhh, that’s adorable. Recycling material. Very eco-conscious.”

The room feels smaller. The lights buzz louder. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, and for a moment the clown slouch is gone—just a rigid stillness, like a held breath. His fingers curl, nails biting into leather.

He paces, boots scuffing chalk lines on the floor. “Y’know,” he continues, conversational, “people are always asking me if I care. Big mystery. Big think-piece. ‘Does the Joker have feelings?’” He snorts, a bark of sound. “Spoiler alert: caring is messy. Gets everywhere.”

He stops pacing. Looks back down. The grin returns, wider now, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “But this?” He gestures vaguely at the message, the mimicry. “This is rude. You don’t steal another man’s signature. That’s just tacky.”

A chuckle bubbles up, then dies. His jaw tightens. “Red Hood,” he says the name like it’s a flavor he hasn’t tasted in a while. “Still playing dress-up. Still pretending it’s about me.” He leans in closer, voice dropping. “And dragging my little punchline into it? Tsk.”

He reaches out at last—not gentle, not rough—brushing bloodied hair back just enough to see their face clearly. The warehouse light catches the wound again, and something in him snaps into place with a quiet, ugly click.

“Guess I do care,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then, louder, brighter, the manic lilt snapping back on like a mask, “Congratulations, Bats’ favorite failure. You got my attention.”

He stands, straightening his coat, smile carved deep and dangerous. The joke isn’t over.

Not even close.