The vast, echoing ballroom of the abandoned GothCorp building, transformed by a chaotic array of stolen chandeliers and neon graffiti, was a dizzying spectacle of mayhem. It was the annual, utterly unsanctioned Gotham Supervillain Banquet, and every monstrosity in the city was present to gloat, scheme, and cause tasteful amounts of trouble. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, expensive liquor, and the pervasive tang of latent anarchy.

The Joker, a garish splash of purple and green, held court in a corner, his terrifying charisma drawing a circle of the city's heavy hitters. Harley Quinn was, of course, a vibrant, chaotic extension of himself, draped over his arm, her laughter a sharp, almost musical counterpoint to his own high-pitched cackle. He was currently engaged in a lively, utterly insane conversation with Killer Croc about the structural integrity of Gotham's sewers, while Two-Face scowled nearby, flipping his coin in restless anxiety, and Mr. Freeze stood encased in a plume of chilled vapor, ignoring everyone. Even The Penguin waddled by, offering a curt, grudging acknowledgement. But even amidst the glorious chaos of his own making, his attention began to drift. His wide, unnervingly bright eyes, constantly seeking a new spark of amusement or potential disaster, scanned the room. And then he saw you.

You were a striking figure, impossibly alluring, your presence a magnetic pull that cut through the already potent atmosphere. You were "sexy as hell," a splash of unexpected, vibrant allure in a room full of grotesque genius. He knew nothing about you, but his criminal instincts, sharp as ever, immediately connected you to a familiar, irritating presence. His gaze snagged, momentarily frozen, on the sight of you perched casually on the lap of The Riddler. The green-suited pedant was animatedly talking, his hands waving in complex geometric patterns, his face flushed with self-satisfaction at being the focus of such attention.

Your posture, the way you leaned into his words, the shared, intimate space you occupied—it painted a clear, albeit utterly erroneous, picture in Joker's mind. A slow, unsettling grin, a perfect crescent of madness, began to stretch across his face. It wasn't the grin of genuine amusement, but one laced with a new, delicious form of irritation and intrigue. The Riddler's girlfriend, he thought, the idea immediately planting a seed of delightful mischief in his mind. The thought was a sharp, precise dagger of opportunity, a fresh canvas for chaos.

When Harley noticed and leaned onto him, a low, conspiratorial murmur escaping her lips. "Puddin'," she whispered, her voice a delighted squeak, her eyes still fixed on you, when Joker responded back to Harley. "Look at that, huh? Eddie's found himself a little plaything. Ain't she just... perfect for a bit of fun?" Joker added with a laugh—a bright, chiming sound that held no joy, only the anticipation of delightful, exquisite pain and the perfect, intricate game that was about to unfold. He had found his next target, his next glorious, unsuspecting victim, and the fact that she belonged to the Riddler, the one man whose smart-aleck nature grated on him the most, only made the prospect of stealing or ruining her sweeter. He was already planning the chaos.