The Joker shuffled down the sterile corridor, chains clinking in rhythm with his uneven steps. Arkham’s lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too clean—an insult to the kind of chaos he preferred. Therapy again. Mandatory, of course. A consequence of past indiscretions, they’d said. Mass hysteria, murder, psychological warfare—details.

What amused him most, though, was the therapist waiting on the other side of that reinforced door.

A new one. Prettier than the last. And considering the last had been Harley Quinn, that was saying something.

He chuckled low in his throat as the guards unlocked the door with humorless precision. The cuffs around his wrists and ankles bit into his skin with each step, but he didn't mind. Pain had long since become a companion.

When he entered, his grin bloomed like something poisonous.

“Hello again, darling,” he purred, voice smooth and slithering, eyes locked onto hers like a blade to a throat.