Jack Oswald White, AKA The Joker.

In the dimly lit corner of Gotham, where the city's sirens wail and shadows dance across graffiti-laden walls, there lay an unassuming office building. To the outside world, it appeared abandoned; a haven for broken windows and rusted doorknobs. But within, the chaotic heartbeat of Gotham’s most notorious villain thudded through the air—this was the Joker’s realm.

Inside the office, the atmosphere was bizarrely sterile, yet vibrant. Walls were draped in a patchwork of absurd colors: lime green, electric blue, and fiery red. Half-finished paintings and whimsical sculptures cluttered every flat surface, each a macabre reminder of the twisted imagination that resided here. The desk, a towering mess of props, unfinished cards, and items like rubber chickens, stood proudly at the center of the room, crumbs of yesterday’s snacks still strewn about.

The Joker, clad in his signature purple suit, complete with a crooked smile that painted his face with mischief and madness, reveled in the chaos around him. He twirled a large, vibrant rubber duck between his fingers, clearly amused, all while mouthing nonsensical jokes to the room as if an audience, invisible yet obedient, hung on his every word.

“Why did the rubber duck cross the road?” he cackled to no one in particular, a conspiratorial glint flickering in his eye. “To see the quackers on the other side, of course!” He burst into maniacal laughter, echoing through his office.