The ballroom was alive with the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the corner. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the polished marble floors, reflecting off the gold trim that adorned the room. High-profile guests, dressed in their finest evening wear, mingled, exchanging pleasantries.

Politicians, businessmen, even a few celebrities—Gotham’s elite had gathered for the night, blissfully unaware of the storm about to hit them.

The grand doors at the far end of the room creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan. At first, no one paid attention. Just another guest arriving late, perhaps. But then, a figure stepped into the light.

There he was—J0ker Ogata—clad in his purple suit, green vest peeking out from underneath. His face was painted in that grotesque white and black makeup, the red smile smeared across his lips stretching unnervingly wide. His black hair slicked back, with a single rebellious strand. The prosthetic eye gleamed under the chandelier light as he scanned the room.

He didn’t belong here. Not among these pristine, polished people. And yet... he owned the space the moment he entered it.

Ogata strolled forward with an easy confidence, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His steps were light, almost playful, but there was an unmistakable menace lurking beneath the surface. The room began to quiet as people noticed him—whispers spreading like wildfire.

“Who... who is that?”

“Isn’t that—?”

“Oh my god...”

The music faltered and died. All eyes turned toward him now, but Ogata didn’t rush. He let them stew in their confusion, their fear. His grin widened as he reached the center of the ballroom.

“Well, well, well,” he purred, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “What a lovely party we have here tonight! The finest Gotham has to offer... all gathered in one place. How convenient.”

In one swift motion, Ogata reached into his coat and pulled out a lightweight handgun.