The Joker sipped his whiskey, the ice clinking softly in the glass, its chill a poor remedy for the heat of his restlessness. Ennui had become a constant companion—weeks, perhaps months, steeped in monotony. Harley was off on yet another crusade of “To hell with the Joker,” a spectacle as transparent as it was tiresome. She wanted his attention, of course—storming off in feigned finality, playing the part of a woman scorned.

But it bored him senseless.

In her absence, he was left alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts were rarely kind. Yet something about the chaos she carried—the raw, volatile fire of love warped into madness—kept his mind from rusting completely. He didn’t love Harley. Not really. But God, she was amusing.

He raised the glass, drained the last of it, and set it down with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Another one, barkeep. On the rocks.”