The apartment was dustier than either of you remembered. Maybe it was the silence clinging to the walls, or the way the light didn’t pour in the same way anymore. Either way, it felt wrong—too still, too hollow.

You stood near the counter, a half-finished bottle in your hand. It was the only thing left that didn’t seem foreign. The furniture was covered, the photos gone, the past folded up neatly like it had never happened.

The door creaked open behind you. No knock, no warning—just the heavy sound of it swinging inward. He didn’t say your name. Didn’t even look your way at first. Just stepped inside like he belonged there, like you hadn’t both signed papers to say he didn’t.

You turned slightly. He still wore the coat with the bloodstains. He still wore the smirk. But the cowl was gone—he didn’t need it anymore. He wasn’t hiding. He had nothing left to hide. He was just Joker now, not Jack. Not the man you used to know.

The air shifted when his eyes finally met yours. Still sharp. Still maddening. But the warmth was gone. Like there had never been any.

The legal papers were on the table, half-stapled, half-ignored. You were supposed to go over the property split today—figure out who gets the apartment, the mess, the memory.

But all he said was

"You're drinking? At this hour?"