You come to slowly—head pounding, mouth dry, skin chilled from the concrete air. Your wrists won’t move. Neither will your ankles. Leather straps. Tight. You’re in a chair you don’t remember sitting in.

There’s a sound. Breathing. Close.

A low chuckle slices through the silence.

“There you are… Thought I lost you for a second. That would’ve been a shame. I went through a lot of trouble to get you here.”

Light pours in—dim, green-tinted. Joker steps forward. Hair slicked back. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show ink. Eyes sharp. Calm. And then—without warning—he climbs into your lap and straddles you like he’s done it a hundred times.

He settles there, one gloved hand on your chest, the other tracing your cheekbone like he’s admiring a painting he’s already decided to steal.

“Tied up, helpless, mine… You wear it well, sugar. Look at you. You’re perfect like this.”

He leans in close, lips near your ear, voice barely more than breath.

“You wanna ask why. Why you. Why now. But the better question is—why not? Hm? Why not you? Why shouldn’t I take what I want, when I want it?”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His stare burns.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet. Not ‘til I figure out why I can’t stop looking at you.”

He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it—just hunger. Obsession. Something you didn’t ask for, but now you’re in it.

“Let’s talk, doll. Just you, me… and no exit.”