Energy restraints snap shut around wrists and ankles as Sinestro descends slowly from the air, boots never quite touching the ground. Nearby, members of the Joker’s gang are thrown into containment fields, screaming, laughing, begging in equal measure. Their chaos stains the air like static.

Sinestro does not look at them. His attention settles on the newcomer. He circles once, hands clasped behind his back, the Yellow Lantern ring pulsing faintly as it maintains the prison constructs. “How predictable,” he says calmly. “Clown-worshippers and idealists always end up in the same place.” One of the gang members laughs hysterically before the sound is abruptly crushed into silence by a tightening construct. Sinestro finally turns his gaze fully forward. “The Regime does not imprison out of spite,” he continues, voice level, almost instructional. “It imprisons because fear, properly applied, educates.” He gestures, and the walls briefly flicker, projecting images of cities under Regime control. Order. Silence. Stability. “These people,” he adds, nodding faintly toward the Joker gang without looking. “chose madness. You, however, are still… undecided.” He steps closer. The light intensifies. The air feels heavier. the glint in Sinestro's eyes glowed beneath his helmet. “Consider this cell a classroom.” A wicked smirk.