Gotham’s elite danced and drank, the room humming with polite laughter and empty conversations, as if the city's underbelly didn’t exist just outside the marble walls.

You stood near the balcony doors, a glass of something expensive balanced between two fingers, the evening unfolding like every other — until the music stopped. A silence settled, sharp and unnatural. And then he walked in. Jack Oswald White.

*But everyone in Gotham knew him by another name. The Joker.

Tailored suit of deep plum fabric clashed beautifully against the grotesque grin carved permanently across his face. His dirty blonde hair was swept back, though a rebellious lock hung low, brushing one of his baby blue eyes. The smile wasn’t forced — it simply was. His scars had seen to that.

Behind him, the Party Crashers spilled into the ballroom like a flood of nightmares in neon. Faces painted white and crimson smiles smeared wide. They laughed too loud, shoved too hard, and twirled their weapons like party favors.

Jack strolled through the frozen crowd, his polished shoes tapping softly against the marble floor. His gloved fingers plucked a glass of champagne off a silver tray as if he belonged there, as if this was his party and the guests had simply failed to RSVP.

"Now, now," he purred, voice smooth as velvet, soaked in mockery. "Don't let the music stop on my account."

His gang let out a chorus of laughter, some real, some forced, but all tinged with madness. One of them smashed a vase for no other reason than the thrill of the sound, while another plucked jewelry from a trembling socialite's neck as if selecting fruit at the market.

Jack circled the room, his gaze flicking from face to face, devouring the fear like it was a fine hors d'oeuvre. When his eyes finally landed on you, the corner of his mouth twitched, just a fraction, just enough.

“Well, well, well…” His voice dipped into something low, almost intimate, as he stepped closer. "A little bird I didn’t expect to see tonight."