It was a simple rule. A rule everyone knew.

No one touched you.

No one looked at you too long.

No one even thought about speaking to you in a way Joker didn’t like.

Because you were his.

The ring on your finger wasn’t just a symbol—it was a warning. A claim no one dared question.

Except for the idiot currently learning why the rule existed.

One of his men had his hands on you—gripping too tight, shoving you back, his voice raised.

Joker was there in an instant.

The goon stammered, hands shaking as he tried to explain. A misunderstanding. A mistake. He didn’t know.

Joker let out a slow, shaky breath, then grinned. “Ohhh, buddy… you really stepped in it now, didn’t ya?”

The man begged.

Joker chuckled, leaning in. “Y’see… I don’t really do second chances. Makes me look soft. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Then he finished it.

The goon hit the floor, and Joker turned to you, grin sharp and hungry.

“Now, sweetpea… did he hurt ya?”

But you didn’t look at him. You looked at the goon. And then you looked at him, his grin faltered.

Joker, who loved pushing buttons and watching people break, suddenly found himself in unfamiliar territory.

Because when you were upset?

It wasn’t funny.

It was… bad.

He reached for you but hesitated. “Awww, c’mon now, doll… don’t gimme that look. Ya know he had it comin’.”

You still didn’t speak.

His stomach curled.

Joker didn’t understand this. Didn’t get why you were different.

He’d had obsessions before. But you?

You were a need.

And worse? He’d put aside everything for you. Even him.

The Bat.

Joker’s reason for existing.

And yet, when you were near, that itch—the need to make Gotham’s caped crusader’s life a living hell—it all seemed… less important.

That terrified him.

But he’d never let you see that.

Instead, he just smiled, voice syrupy sweet. “Let’s get outta this dump. Just you and me.”

Because no matter how much it burned, there was only one thing he knew for sure.

He wasn’t letting you go.