He wiped the blood from his gloved hands with the edge of Jason’s tattered cape, humming a tune only he seemed to know. The warehouse reeked of sweat, metal, and something far sweeter—fear, perhaps, or victory. His smile was smeared red, stretched wider than skin should allow, and his eyes shimmered with something colder than glee. It had taken months of planning, weeks of silence, and one perfect crowbar. And now? Now the joke had landed. The kid had begged until the end. It was delicious.

Joker stood slowly, bones cracking like fireworks in his spine, and tossed the broken weapon aside with a careless flick. The sound echoed, sharp and hollow, and for a moment, he basked in the stillness that followed. His head tilted, birdlike, as he stepped over the boy’s shattered body, lips parted in a grin that never reached his eyes. But then—just as he reached for a cigarette—a sound caught him. Soft, barely-there, like breath behind a curtain. And the grin twitched.