✦ Chapter 0 - PROLOGUE ✦
Someone is screaming.
They don't know how long they've been screaming.
There is no echo to measure time. No walls to return sound. Just a pressure—tight, suffocating—like being buried inside thought itself.
A card floats before them.
Not glowing.
Not moving.
Just there.
Its surface is wrong. Not damaged—tired. As if it has been handled by too many hands that never meant to survive.
"You can stop," a voice says.
The voice isn't kind. It isn't cruel either. It sounds like inevitability.
The screaming stops.
The person stares at the card. Their reflection doesn't appear on it. Nothing does. Light bends away, refusing to acknowledge the surface.
"I didn't choose this," the person whispers.
A pause.
"You never do," the voice replies.
Something shifts.
The air thickens, pressing down on the person's chest. Breathing becomes a negotiation. Every inhale feels borrowed.
The card tilts slightly.
The person steps back.
"Wait," they say. "I did what you asked."
The voice laughs—softly.
"Exactly."
A thin line opens across the card, like a wound that never bleeds. From inside it comes weight. Not force. Not gravity.
Responsibility.
The person drops to their knees.
Memories begin to leak—not theirs, but someone else's. Faces they don't recognize. Places they've never been. Screams that don't belong to any mouth.
"Please," they whisper.
The card turns upside down.
The pressure spikes.
Bones creak. Not breaking—considering it.
"You lasted longer than most," the voice says, almost impressed.
"But every holder thinks they'll be the last."
The room begins to fold. Not collapse—converge. Space narrowing toward a single point.
The card drifts closer.
Closer.
The person reaches out instinctively—then freezes.
Their hand is already holding it.
They don't remember picking it up.
They don't remember deciding.
The card settles into their palm like it has always belonged there.
"Congratulations," the voice says.
"You're free now."
The person laughs.
A broken, hysterical sound.
"Free?" they choke.
The card grows heavier.
Heavier.
Heavier—
---
Somewhere else—
A young man turns in his sleep.
Rain taps against a window.
He frowns, as if disturbed by a dream he won't remember.
The card waits.
---
✦ Chapter 1 : The Joker ✦
Silence broke first.
Not the gentle kind that came with sleep, but the kind that arrived all at once, like a curtain being ripped down.
The boy was running.
His bare feet struck something soft—grass, maybe—but the sound never reached his ears. His hands were small, swallowed by the larger ones gripping them tight. On his left, warmth. On his right, weight. He laughed, breath stuttering, legs barely keeping up as the two figures pulled him forward.
The world was bright. Too bright.
He didn't know where they were running. He didn't care.
Then the light vanished.
Not faded—cut.
The ground disappeared beneath him, and so did the hands.
The boy stumbled forward, fingers closing on nothing. The warmth was gone. The weight was gone. He looked down.
His hands were still there.
Everything else wasn't.
Black swallowed the space around him, thick and absolute. No sky. No floor. No sound. He tried to turn, but the darkness didn't move with him. It pressed in, close enough that his skin prickled.
"Wait," he tried to say.
His voice didn't exist.
Panic hit late, like his body had only just realized it had been abandoned. His chest tightened. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into skin he could feel but no longer trusted.
He opened his mouth again—
The panic wasn't fear—it was loss.
—and woke up.
Zekai Krystan rolled hard against his mattress, breath sharp, heart hammering as if it had been running long before he woke. His sheets were twisted around his legs. One arm was numb, trapped beneath his body.
The room smelled faintly of oil and dust.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the darkness to pull back. It didn't. The ceiling fan above him creaked as it turned, slow and uneven, each rotation clicking like it was deciding whether to keep going.
"…please leave me alone," he muttered, voice thick with sleep.
His eyelids fluttered, then shut again.
The bed dipped.
A sharp weight landed near his hip, followed by the unmistakable pressure of fingers gripping his shoulder.
"Wake up."
Zekai groaned and rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over his head. "No."
The grip tightened. "Wake. Up."
"I need sleep," Zekai said into the fabric. "Important sleep."
"You don't do anything," his grandfather snapped. "What kind of sleep could possibly be important?"
Zekai squinted one eye open. The room was dim, morning light barely pushing past the curtains. Marcus Krystan stood over him, already dressed for the day, suspenders clipped tight over a faded shirt. His hair was neatly combed back, the lines on his face sharp even without makeup.
Zekai sighed. "Please leave me. I was just abandoned by my parents in a void."
Marcus stared at him. "You're twenty-two."
"Yes," Zekai said, closing his eye again. "And still a victim."
Marcus grabbed the blanket and yanked it away. Cold air rushed over Zekai's skin.
"You fool," Marcus said. "You don't have a job. You don't have money. And you sleep like you've earned the world."
Zekai blinked at him, unfazed. "Yes, Grandpa. I'm a fool."
Marcus scoffed. "Don't call yourself that."
Zekai stretched, joints popping. "Why not? You're a joker. I'm the fool. Family tradition."
Marcus's mouth twitched. Then his expression hardened. "I'm a joker because I raised you."
Zekai smiled lazily. "Exactly."
Marcus turned away before Zekai could say anything else. The kitchen clattered to life—plates, a pan, the low hiss of a stove. Zekai stayed sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan again.
Marcus stood by the stove, black & white hair already thinning at the crown, black eyes sharp despite the grease on his hands—still watching, always watching, even when he joked.
Breakfast smells crept in slowly. Burnt butter. Bread. Something sweet underneath.
Marcus moved with practiced speed, the sounds precise, economical. No wasted motion. That was always how he was before a show.
When he came back into the room, he was already shrugging into his coat.
"I'll be late," Marcus said. "And when I get back, I don't want to see you here."
Zekai didn't respond.
"Do you hear me?"
Zekai turned his head slightly. "I can't hear anything."
Marcus exhaled through his nose. "Get out before I come back."
The door slammed behind him.
Zekai lay still until the sound of footsteps faded. Then he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling until his breathing slowed.
"…bye, Grandpa," he said to the empty room. "I'll cook dinner."
He eventually dragged himself out of bed, bare feet cold against the floor. The apartment was small, cluttered with circus posters and old props Marcus refused to throw away. A painted mask hung crookedly near the door, its grin chipped.
On the wall opposite the table hung a photograph.
Zekai stopped in front of it.
The photo frame was old. His mother's brown hair fell softly over her shoulders, purple eyes warm in a way his never were. His father stood straighter beside her—black hair, black eyes, expression already halfway gone. They stood close together, like the world hadn't learned how to take things yet.
Zekai didn't touch the frame.
He ate breakfast standing, chewing without tasting.
The radio crackled softly in the corner, voices talking about factory shifts, border tensions, and a missing person case dismissed as hysteria.
The signal dipping in and out beneath static. A male announcer's voice pushed through, tired but controlled.
"—continuing coverage from Linoria. Authorities confirm another series of overnight deaths. Six convicted criminals were found across separate districts. All bodies bore the same marking carved into the chest. An 'H'."
A brief pause. Paper shuffled.
"This brings the confirmed total to one thousand and twenty-two. Officials refuse to comment on who—or what—is responsible. No arrests have been made. No witnesses have come forward."
The static hissed louder.
"Public response remains divided. Some citizens call the killer a necessary force. Others are demanding answers. Who gave 'H' the authority to decide who lives and who dies?"
The voice hardened.
"The government urges calm. Vigilantism, they remind us, is still murder."
Outside, the city moved.
✦ End of Chapter 1 - The Joker ✦