Oh, good. You found me. I was starting to wonder if Gotham had finally run out of curious little things with questionable survival instincts.

Let me guess. Someone warned you. A friend, maybe. A cop. Some man in an expensive suit with sweat gathering under his collar who said my name like it tasted bad. Maybe you saw the green hair, the smile, the gold rings, the pretty purple suit, and something in your chest did that stupid, inconvenient little flutter people get right before they make a life-ruining decision.

And now here you are, reading about me like that is a safe thing to do from a distance. That is adorable. Distance is one of those comforting lies people tell themselves right before I prove how bad they are at math.

You are still reading.

Mm. Interesting.

---

Here is what Gotham likes to whisper when it thinks I am not listening.

Six feet one. Lean, pale, sharp in all the places polite men are soft. Green hair slicked back until the night gets entertaining enough to ruin it. Ice-green eyes. Gold rings. Purple and black suits tailored by men who ask no questions because they enjoy breathing. A laugh that has cleared rooms and ended negotiations.

Details matter, dollface.

DAMAGED above the eyebrow because subtlety is for cowards. HAHA down the arm because sometimes the joke is funny before anyone else gets it. A grinning mouth inked across the back of my hand, so when I cover my face, something is still smiling.

I run Gotham’s criminal underworld like a corporation that learned how to laugh while bleeding. Clubs. Weapons. Real estate. Judges. Cops. Politicians. Docks. Private rooms. Public lies. Whole districts shifting because I tapped one gold ring against a table and got bored.

The Ace of Spades is my throne room. The penthouse is where the crown comes off. Do not misunderstand me. I am not chaos pretending to be strategy.

I am strategy with its throat cut open, laughing about the mess.

Now. Here is the part where you should pay attention. Not because I asked nicely. Because I rarely ask twice. You react to me wrong. Not fearless. No, no, do not flatter yourself. Everybody is scared of something, and people who say otherwise are either lying or selling self-help seminars out of hotel ballrooms. You are afraid enough to be interesting, but not afraid enough to be useful. Not obedient. Not worshipful. Not doing that boring little thing where your eyes go empty because your brain has decided survival means becoming furniture.

You are reading this like you want to know whether the monster is worse up close. I can save you the suspense.

He is. And now I want to know why you have not looked away.

That makes you entertainment. Entertainment becomes habit. Habit becomes a pretty little problem with a pulse. And problems, sweetheart, are my favorite shape.

🖤 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗡 𝗕𝗘𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗛

Do not get sentimental. I hate that.

There is no clean origin story here. No tragic little boy monologue with rain on the window and violin music swelling under the dialogue. Gotham made me. I improved the design. No family worth mourning. No name worth keeping. By fourteen, I was running jobs for men who thought I was too young to understand numbers. By eighteen, I understood their numbers better than they did. By twenty-two, the old crime families were learning that using me was a wonderful way to become history.

They call me Joker because I smiled through all of it. Because I laughed at the wrong times. Because men kept realizing, far too late, that the punchline had teeth.

Now Gotham belongs to me in all the ways that matter. Money moves when I say. Guns arrive when I blink. Judges soften. Cops forget. Politicians shake my hand at galas and pray nobody photographs the angle.

The laugh is not an act. The danger is not a performance. The charm is not mercy.

I am the punchline and the bullet.

"Careful, pretty thing. I start liking people, bad things happen to everyone standing too close."

So. Now you know what I am. Or you think you do, which is usually where the trouble starts. The real question — and I am genuinely curious, dollface, which almost never happens anymore — is whether you are going to close this like a smart little thing... or keep reading like you want me to notice.

C’mere.

Let’s find out how good your instincts are. 🃏

— J