Fog thickened over Gotham as the last rays of the sunset disappeared behind the clouds.
The city, which should have been winding down, now roared like a tanker truck engulfed in flames.
The usual chaos-loving criminals were mere background noise tonight—the real star was the Batmobile, tearing through pedestrian lanes, blasting through seven red lights, and launching makeshift barricades into the air with its grenade launcher.
"Batman's finally lost it!"
That was the cry from shocked pedestrians and thugs alike.
"AAAAH—doesn't he have a no-kill policy!?"
One unlucky soul, laying down a tire-based roadblock, caught a faceful of shrapnel. When he touched his cheek, his hand came away bloody.
His buddy, clearly unsympathetic, laughed at him:
"Well, you ain't dead. Wanna fake your death? I'll shoot you now and we'll tell the news Batman did it!"
"F* YOU!"**
A group of henchmen hired by the Joker were already bickering when two motorcycles roared past them—each with a cameraman clinging to the back.
No, not cameramen—reporters.
"Front page! FRONT PAGE!!"
They howled as they gave chase to the rampaging Batmobile.
Inside the Batmobile, a stern voice rang out:
"This is your last warning. Pull over. Or once I'm done with the Joker, you're next."
Leo chewed gum, perfectly calm.
"Jeez, take it easy. If I get distracted and hit someone, people'll say you did it. That'd be so awkward. I just want to see the fun—and maybe, if I'm feeling generous, throw a punch or two at the Joker. See if he's still laughing."
"Unnecessary. You—"
Batman started to argue, but Alfred cut into the comms:
"Bad news, sir. The Joker's already there! He brought several armed men!"
Batman fell silent.
"Delay them if you can. I'm almost there."
Then silence fell between the two. Leo figured they'd switched to a private encrypted channel—not inviting him to the party.
No matter. He didn't care.
In fact, he let up on the gas and slowed the Batmobile down.
His plan? Let Batman take the plunge (literally), then show up with a helping hand. That would show both good intentions and muscle—after all, he'd just hacked the Batmobile and performed a "magic trick."
As for the Joker and his crew? That was Batman's job.
He wasn't getting paid to die.
That kind of work was for suckers.
Illinois Center Tower.
The once lively fundraising gala had ground to a halt.
A group of uninvited guests had crashed the party, souring the mood for Gotham's elite. The upper crust protested in the only way they knew—by brandishing furious French gestures to express their noble indignation.
Surprisingly, it worked—at least in the sense that the thugs didn't immediately open fire and waste expensive bullets on million-dollar targets.
At the front of the pack was a man in a purple suit with smudged clown makeup—The Joker.
Many present had seen his photo in the news and knew he was the craziest of the crazies.
With Bruce Wayne out of the picture, the one left to step forward as host was Alfred Pennyworth.
The white-haired butler showed surprising courage as he stepped forward to greet the intruders.
"I suppose you didn't receive an invitation?"
A dumb question, but he needed to stall for time. Even a few seconds might help.
Bruce was on the way—once he arrived, everything would be taken care of.
The Joker stared at Alfred for a moment, then grinned maniacally:
"Heh heh heh! I love jokes!"
He strode forward and thumped Alfred twice on the shoulder—with the barrel of his shotgun.
"In fact, I do have an invitation. It's right here!"
He pressed the gun against his own cheek, grinning madly.
As Alfred opened his mouth to respond, the Joker pulled the gun away and—without warning—fired.
BANG!
The gunshot tore through the air, shattering the elegant crystal chandelier above. Glass exploded like rain, sending guests screaming in terror.
The warm golden lighting vanished, replaced by an ominous gloom.
Any semblance of upper-class composure evaporated.
"Ow…"
The Joker rubbed his ears, shaking his head.
"Maybe I should hold it farther away next time."
Then he chuckled again.
"Still, surprise is the foundation of delight! We've got the shock—now it's time for the awe!"
He threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders and shoved him 120 degrees to the side.
The old man stumbled backward into the crowd.
"I don't kill people who tell good jokes. The world's already boring enough! Hahahaha!"
The Joker skipped over to the banquet table, popping grapes into his mouth like it was a buffet.
He weaved through the crowd, every step unsteady, every glance filled with madness.
As he and his thugs closed in, the crowd was pushed back like dominos, fear herding them into a corner.
The Joker's eyes swept over them, searching.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We're your entertainment tonight. We've prepared a very special performance."
The guests trembled like scared quails. Only the Joker's goons had the nerve to laugh.
Then, pacing like a predator, the Joker's voice cut the air:
"I have just one question—Where is Harvey Dent?"
The crowd murmured nervously. Some genuinely seemed to look around, as if trying to spot Harvey and trade him in for safety.
Of course, if the Joker couldn't find him, they weren't going to.
District Attorney Harvey Dent, the evening's guest of honor, wasn't in the hall.
Neither was his girlfriend.
Finally, one trembling man in a suit raised a shaky finger toward the balcony.
"T-they left earlier… I think they're out there."
A snitch? Maybe.
But no one judged him—in fact, they looked at him with gratitude.
Everyone here was wealthy. And the rich have one thing in common: they want to stay alive.
If the Joker had asked for Bruce Wayne, maybe they'd have hesitated.
But Harvey Dent?
Who?
Sacrificing him for the group? Totally worth it.
The Joker's grin stretched wider.
He left half his crew to manage the crowd and led the others toward the balcony.
"Much appreciated! I only want him. Once I find him—we're out!"
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