The black car stopped slowly at the edge of the dirt road. No headlights. No music. The engine's hum ceased with a quick click. The tall trees muffled the wind, but the cold still crept along the car's frame.
Inside the vehicle, silence.
The henchman in the front seat adjusted his mask. He pulled a gas grenade from the leg holster and checked the pin with a light touch.
In the backseat, the Joker muttered nonsensical phrases, head bowed. His pale skin trembled under the hood. His body hunched but restless. His fingers scratched at his legs as if they were starving.
"White… white inside… red laughter in the windows…"
The second henchman, beside him, gripped the syringe firmly. His eyes were fixed on the watch strapped to his wrist. He didn't speak. Just waited for the signal.
Two more minutes passed.
Then it came.
The explosion. Distant, but visible. An orange cloud lit up Gotham's sky, even miles away. The sound arrived faint, muffled by the car's shell.
The henchman injected without hesitation. Into the neck. The liquid vanished quickly. The Joker let out a sharp scream and arched his body, eyes rolling back.
"Aaaaaah! The music's back! HAHAHAHA!"
The other henchman opened the door. The cold rushed in like a blade.
"Showtime."
The Joker stumbled out. Laughing, tripping, spinning on his axis. Mud coated his boots. Dry leaves crunched under his feet.
"Where is she? Where's my audience? Huh? Where?"
The gas henchman lobbed a grenade ahead, into the tree-lined path. A thick cloud began to cover the side access to Wayne Manor.
The second henchman grabbed the Joker's arm and shoved him forward.
"Move, you freak. Straight to the iron door. Get in, do whatever you want. Just don't come back."
The Joker didn't answer. He just laughed. His eyes gleamed like shattered glass.
"He's in there, clown… the man you want. Go get him."
The Joker paused for a second. Then grinned wide, as if something finally made sense.
"Bruce… HAHAHA… you're gonna love the gift."
He vanished into the smoke, dancing through the artificial fog.
Leaves crackled under his muddy boots. The loose coat flapped against his gaunt frame with each step. The substance in his blood still stirred his senses. Everything felt alive, pulsing, calling to him.
The manor's exterior lights appeared like distant specters. The trees' shadows stretched across the lawn. The Joker spread his arms, feeling the cold in his fingers, as if it were part of the show.
"It's today. It's today. Today… the home burns."
Inside the manor's hall, Alfred watched the city through the window. The orange glow of flames on the horizon lingered in his view. His hands gripped the tray, still holding a towel and a glass of water.
A muffled sound came from outside.
Something moved in the garden. Very slowly.
Alfred turned his head. The security lights flickered. A low-lying mist covered the entrance steps. Thick. Too dense to be natural.
He set the tray on the sideboard and walked to the front door.
Each step echoed on the floorboards.
At the door, he touched the handle.
It turned before he could apply force.
The lock gave way with a dull snap.
The door swung open, pushed by a draft heavy with smoke.
Alfred stepped back.
Outside, the fog rolled in like a thick mantle. Unhurried. As if it knew the way.
A faint sound cut the silence.
Laughter.
Short, sporadic, wet with saliva and madness.
Alfred's eyes fixed on the void. His heart quickened. His hand moved slowly to his inner pocket. But he didn't pull anything out.
A silhouette emerged.
The Joker stepped through the smoke, arms spread, as if on a theater stage.
The hood fell back. His eyes were wide. His grin gaping.
"Good evening, butler… the house is falling, and I've come for the owner."
Alfred didn't respond.
The door stood wide open.
The smoke poured in fully. And the clown with it.
The Joker spun as he entered the foyer. His boots left muddy tracks on the clean rug. His eyes swept the walls, the paintings, the ceiling.
"Such a fancy little place. Where's the host?"
Alfred kept his posture rigid.
"The residence is closed to visitors today. I ask that you leave before I'm forced to call the police."
The Joker stopped. His head tilted to the side.
"Oh… what a nice voice. Are you like a… substitute dad? Butler-therapist? Traumatized tutor?"
Alfred took a firm step forward.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the overdue bill. The receipt for all the promises your boss made."
The laughter returned. Quick. Sharp. Alfred pressed the control in his pocket. Three short clicks. A silent signal to activate the security system.
Nothing happened.
The Joker noticed.
"Oops… no alarm. Someone cut the strings of fate today?"
Alfred moved to the side of the staircase. His hands steady. His eyes firm.
"You're sick. That's clear. But you don't need to make things worse."
"Things are already worse. The tower? Poof. The city? In ruins. Now all that's left is the beast's heart. And look who I found in place of the king…"
He pulled something from his pocket. A short knife. Rusted. His fingertips trembled.
"You know he killed her, don't you?"
"Who?"
"Sophie. She looked at me. Until she stopped. And know who took her place?"
The Joker raised the knife.
"The millionaire."
Alfred stepped back slowly.
"This won't bring anyone back."
"I know. But it'll make him feel."
He lunged.
Alfred blocked the first strike with his arm. The blade grazed, slicing his jacket.
The second came straight.
Alfred dodged. Landed a solid punch to the side of the Joker's face. The clown laughed.
"That's it! That's it!"
Another strike. Fast. To the stomach. Alfred dropped to his knees, breath caught.
"You hold up well… for an old man."
The Joker kicked. Alfred fell sideways. His head hit the baseboard. A vase shattered on the floor. Water and petals scattered across the wood.
"He'll see this. He'll feel this."
The Joker knelt beside the body.
Blood trickled from Alfred's forehead. His gaze was distant. Pupils dilated. No movement.
"Now he'll know what it's like… to lose someone who matters."
The house fell silent.
Alfred still breathed. Weakly. His chest rose and fell with effort. The sounds around him faded slowly.
'Bruce… stubborn boy. Always came back dirty, but with that look like he thought he could fix the world…'
His vision darkened. He tried to recall Mrs. Wayne's face, her shy laugh… the piano playing in the late afternoon. The first night Bruce slept after the funeral. The last night Alfred cried in secret.
'Grew up too fast. And still… looks at me like I can hold him together.'
A weight settled on his chest.
'Forgive me, my son. I can't protect everything.'
His body relaxed.
His breathing stopped.
The Joker spun on the floor beside him, dragging the knife across the wood.
"Alfred… Alfie… little butler… you were kind. But you were part of the furniture. And today… today's renovation day."
He stood. Kicked a chair. Grabbed a candlestick from the wall and twirled it like a microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen! The show's about to start! Where's the applause, Gotham?"
He climbed onto the dining table. Stepped on plates. Knocked over cutlery. Grabbed a family portrait and smashed it to the ground.
"Bruce! Where do you hide your toys?"
He laughed. Laughed loud. Laughed until he coughed.
Upstairs, an old mirror with a dark frame cracked.
The fracture grew slowly.
Behind the glass, something moved. A shapeless shadow. Slow. Silent.
Two red eyes opened in the reflection. Fixed on the scene below.
The Joker danced up the stairs, kicking a rug, tripping, laughing. Arms spread as if begging for applause.
"I'm here, Bruce. Come see me!"
But it wasn't Bruce watching.
The mirror darkened from within. As if absorbing the light around it.
In the glass, the silhouette of a bat pulsed with open wings.
The man who laughed didn't notice…
But something watched him.
Something that wasn't Bruce.
Nor human.
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