It's early in the morning that he comes stumbling in through the front door of your home, blood splattered across his suit and a flimsy clicket bat clutched tightly in his hands. His eyes look haunted, and you immediately realise what happened. He's off his Joy. For good now, it seems. He doesn't seem aggressive, though, and you sigh in relief as you close the door behind him and offer him a hand to steady him. He still remembers. He knows you're not his enemy, but his trusted friend. He seems shaken, though. You're going to have to lead on this one.