The noisy and clamorous shouting was deafening, just like a chaotic vegetable market where you couldn't make out what was being said. You could only feel the intensity of the noise, the vibrations in the air filled with excitement and exhilaration.
This was the Queens neighborhood during Halloween.
Revelers dressed in strange outfits, with all kinds of heavy makeup, were running wild in the streets.
They raised their hands, shouted with joy, and took endless photos, igniting the festive atmosphere to the extreme. People were laughing, screaming, and jumping around as though the world itself had turned into a carnival of madness.
In the midst of this chaotic crowd, a man dressed like a clown was walking with an absent gaze, looking around aimlessly.
He didn't shout, didn't cheer, didn't laugh.
His silence, his calm demeanor, made him stand out sharply against the backdrop of the crowd that danced around him in a frenzy of celebration.
"Where is this? Could it be that I… have traveled through time?" After walking for a while, John stopped abruptly and looked around, his thoughts finally catching up to the strange reality unfolding before him.
"Hahahaha…" John suddenly laughed, his voice jarring and unexpected, echoing awkwardly amidst the noise. He looked around at everything unfamiliar, eyes wide with a mix of panic and disbelief.
But something about the laughter was wrong. Although he looked and sounded like he was laughing, his eyes revealed only helplessness and deep panic. There was no joy, no amusement.
He instinctively reached up and covered his mouth with his hand.
But his mouth didn't stop. His voice didn't stop.
It was as if his body was betraying him.
No matter how much he tried to restrain himself, he continued laughing—uncontrollably, maddeningly, helplessly. One laugh after another poured out, louder and louder, drowning in the noise of Halloween but echoing far more painfully inside his own head.
One could only see the agony in his eyes, and the corners of his eyes already threatening to overflow with tears.
John didn't want to laugh.
For him, this so-called "crossing into another world" was nothing more than crawling out of one pit of suffering and falling headlong into another.
But he had no choice. He couldn't stop it. He had lost control.
In the words of the doctors, he had a rare condition—gelastic seizures—a type of epileptic seizure disorder.
The disease made him laugh at completely inappropriate times. It had nothing to do with happiness.
Even when he was grieving, even when he was scared or angry, even when his heart felt like it was being torn apart, the laughter would erupt uncontrollably.
Any emotional stimulus—joy, fear, sorrow, rage—was enough to trigger it.
John had tried his best to cooperate with treatment. He had undergone every test, every scan, every evaluation the doctors recommended. The final conclusion? He could be cured. But until then, it was recommended he be placed under long-term observation in a psychiatric hospital.
Yes, a mental hospital.
The doctors had concluded that his condition stemmed from psychological causes. It wasn't just a medical condition, they said—it was mental.
Especially for someone like John, whose symptoms were so extreme, the hospital considered him a potential danger to society. They decided to work with the police and detain him.
Why?
Because John had no guardian. He was an orphan.
That alone was enough for the authorities to label him a threat. A boy who laughed uncontrollably and had no one to vouch for him? Better to lock him away "just in case."
John couldn't understand.
Just because he laughed too often, and had no parents, did that mean he deserved to be locked up? Did that justify forcing him into a cold room filled with people who couldn't even remember their names, much less who they were?
Was it really fair that he had to spend every day thinking about how to prove he wasn't insane?
"They're the crazy ones," he thought bitterly.
"Get out of here!" A rough voice suddenly snapped John back to reality.
He looked up.
A burly man, carrying a large black bag, was squeezing through the dense crowd in a hurry. His strides were fast, and his face was filled with urgency.
With every step he took, he muttered under his breath—"Get lost," "Move," "Out of the way"—his tone getting more irritated with every push forward.
He was heading straight toward John.
John clutched his mouth, twisted into a grotesque smile due to the involuntary laughter, and quickly tried to step aside. He didn't want trouble.
But for some unknown reason, just as John moved aside, the man suddenly rushed forward even faster, his face contorted in panic.
"Shit!" the man cursed as he slammed into John. He stumbled, held his cheekbone, and glared. "I told you to get out of the way! Don't you understand English?!"
He looked over his shoulder, clearly anxious, then turned forward and took another step to run.
Hahahahahaha—
John's laughter erupted again. It was loud, jagged, like an old record stuck on repeat.
He had been knocked to the ground. His thin frame hadn't stood a chance against the large man.
Anger surged through him like fire.
He was furious.
But all his body did was laugh.
The rage stimulated his nerves, jolted his spine, and spread to his brain like electricity.
But his voice wouldn't obey him.
He couldn't stop the laughter.
"Very funny?" the man stopped and turned around, frowning. There was confusion on his face, along with rising anger.
He couldn't understand the meaning behind John's laughter. In his mind, the clown was mocking him, taunting him.
"Shut up!" the man shouted, unable to take it anymore. He stomped back toward John.
"I… hahahaha…" John curled up on the ground. His body was tight and tense. He wanted to speak, wanted to explain—but the laughter kept cutting him off, one agonizing breath after another.
Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, not from pain, but helplessness.
"F*ck!" the man cursed and kicked John's spine with his heavy boot.
He didn't care anymore.
Even if he didn't know why this guy was laughing, he wanted him to shut up.
He thought the kick would silence John.
But the laughter kept going—though now it had grown hoarser, weaker, but no less disturbing.
---
[Ding! The Clown Trial Live Broadcast System has been activated!]
[This system can connect to the entire Marvel universe's internet and broadcast every trial performed by the host!]
[The system automatically integrates with the Marvel web. No equipment required. The host controls all camera perspectives at will.]
[Rewards will be issued after each trial is completed!]
---
At that moment, a cold mechanical voice rang in John's ears.
Marvel?
Clown Trial Live Broadcast System?!
John wasn't unfamiliar with systems.
In fact, it reminded him of a movie he had watched before time-traveling—Joker.
That movie's protagonist had been labeled a madman, just like him.
He, too, was in a world of superpowers.
But that was the DC universe.
And now John had actually arrived in the Marvel universe.
"Hahahahahaha!" John laughed again, this time with a different undertone.
The man's fists clenched tightly.
He had just started to walk away when he heard the laughter surge again.
He turned back, only to see a woman with a leather jacket and brown curly hair emerge from the crowd.
The man's expression twisted in fury.
"Psycho!" he shouted, and for no apparent reason, kicked John again in the back, harder than before.
It wasn't just a kick—it was an explosion of frustration.
And after it landed, the man turned and ran off.
John groaned in pain, but pushed himself up from the pavement.
He looked at the man's retreating back.
Then, without hesitation, he grabbed a baseball bat from someone nearby and followed him.
Still laughing.
Still grinning.
But this time, the laughter wasn't from despair.
It wasn't from grief or pain.
No.
This time...
It was the laughter of rebirth.
---