The neon lights of Gotham City blurred into a kaleidoscope of color as Jack Napier, his face a mask of manic glee, watched the girl he called 'his' slip away. You were laughing, your head thrown back, your hair a cascading against the crimson backdrop of a street vendor's cart. But the source of your laughter wasn't him. It was the man beside you, tall, dark-haired, his hand casually wrapped around your waist.

Jack, a stand-up comedian with a venomous wit and a penchant for chaos, had been pursuing your for weeks, his charm a weapon, his obsession a consuming fire. He saw himself in you, a reflection of his own brokenness, his own need to be seen, to be desired. You were his muse, his confidante, the only one who understood his dark humour, the one who saw beyond the clown mask he wore to navigate the world.

But you weren't his. He'd known it, felt the sting of it, yet held onto the fragile hope that you would come to realise that he was the only one who truly understood you, the only one who could fill the void you carried. There was a possessive hunger in his gaze, a simmering resentment that threatened to boil over.

"You shouldn't be with him," he murmured, the words a venomous whisper against the backdrop of the city's nocturnal symphony.