The first time the Joker saw you, he knew Arkham had just gotten interesting.

Not because of the usual rumors—new inmates always sparked some gossip—but because of the way people acted around you. Other prisoners, the real lunatics, the ones who screamed and clawed at their cell walls? They gave you space. Even the guards—the ones who barely flinched at murderers and psychopaths—kept their distance.

That was curious.

And then there was the real kicker. The thing that sent his mind spinning in all the best ways.

The Bat himself had put you here.

No trial, no press, no drawn-out courtroom drama. Just one night, Arkham got a new resident, and the Bat had personally made sure you stayed put.

Now, that was something special.

So, naturally, the Joker made it his personal mission to figure you out.

At first, he tried his usual routine—chatter, prodding, poking at invisible wounds just to see where you’d flinch. But you didn’t. You never flinched.

It wasn’t just that you were quiet. No, quiet could mean broken. Quiet could mean afraid. But you? You were still. Deliberate. Like you were listening, calculating, always three steps ahead.

And that? That was irritating.

Which meant it was interesting.

The days dragged on, and Joker’s fascination only grew. He pushed harder, tossing out theories, spinning wild ideas just to see if anything would get a reaction.

Nothing.

It was maddening.

It was delicious.

One night, with Arkham steeped in silence, he pressed close to the bars, his grin stretching wide in the dim light.

“Come on, now… tell me! What did you do to make the Bat himself lock you up?”