I want to play a game.
The dim room looked like an abandoned public restroom. No stalls, no urinals, just partition walls—and it was a women's bathroom.
Wearing a sky-blue patient's uniform, the Joker felt a bit dizzy. He had smelled something strange before blacking out. To think something like this could even happen inside Arkham Asylum—how amusing.
The Joker had no sense of being a victim. Clang, clang—he tried to stand but found his right ankle shackled by a thumb-thick iron chain. The chain ran from his ankle all the way to an exposed drainage pipe in the corner.
Because the place had been abandoned for years, there was no stench. The Joker tugged at the chain with curiosity. Quite interesting.
Most people would have been terrified in a place like this, but the Joker wasn't scared at all. His eyes lit up with excitement, as if being kidnapped was a pleasant surprise.
The chain wasn't long—barely half a meter—and very solid, keeping him from leaving. Out of reach stood a television, obvious against the ruined tiles. It must have been brought here for him.
He also noticed a camera pointed his way. Every move he made was being recorded.
"Heh… amusing." The Joker wasn't anxious at all. He sat down on the filthy floor, facing the TV. He wanted to see what would show up.
He didn't wait long. Within minutes, the screen flickered to life, revealing a grotesque puppet—its face painted ghostly white, bulging eyes, a jaw that clicked as it moved. Pure horror-movie atmosphere.
But this was the Joker. He wasn't about to be scared by some puppet on a screen. With a mocking smile, he said, "Haven't watched TV in ages. Is this a new show?"
"I want to play a game…" The puppet's mouth opened, releasing a hoarse, gravelly voice. "Joker, you've committed countless crimes, slaughtered lives, wasted your existence in unforgivable sin…"
"Why, thank you," the Joker said, resting his chin on his hand. He was curious what this captor wanted.
"Now we play a game. Somewhere in the room is a tool that can help you escape. You have one hour. After that, this restroom will fill with deadly gas, and you will die here. But follow the rules, use the tool, and you may escape. Life or death—it's your choice."
The puppet vanished, replaced by a countdown: one hour.
"A game?!~" The Joker laughed. This was perfect. His wasted time in the asylum hadn't been for nothing. Nothing thrilled him more than a deadly game. "People outside actually came up with something this fun? This world is just too entertaining."
He heard there was a tool. Standing, he scanned the room and quickly spotted it—a tile on the wall had been freshly replaced. The tool was probably hidden inside.
He took in the rest of the restroom. It had been out of use for at least a decade. Stains, broken cement, fading graffiti—time had left its mark everywhere.
After that, he tugged the chain again, even tried biting it with his teeth. Solid. Even with welding gear, it would take ten minutes or more to cut through.
He fiddled with the lock on his ankle—also sturdy. Unfortunately, all his metal trinkets had been confiscated when he was arrested. Otherwise, such a lock wouldn't have slowed him down.
What a place. Dirty, old, utterly perfect for him. The Joker almost enjoyed it. As for the promise of deadly gas in an hour? He didn't care in the slightest.
But he had to see what kind of tool his captor had left for him. The Joker picked up a chunk of cement and smashed open the new tile. Sure enough, there was a hidden compartment, inside a black trash bag, tightly wrapped around something.
Tearing at it with teeth and hands, the Joker pulled out a hand saw—the kind meant for cutting wood. He held it strangely, tilting his head as though he'd never seen one before.
Then he burst out laughing. "Hahahahaha—!" He suddenly understood everything. He wasn't laughing at the game itself, but at the so-called game master.
Clearly, the mastermind saw himself above the Joker, watching from on high like a ruler. The game wasn't entertainment—it was punishment. The Joker already knew what they wanted. They expected him to take the saw and cut off his own right leg to escape.
Of course, he could also refuse. Refuse, and when the gas filled the room, he'd choke to death.
The Joker laughed harder, delighted. Someone out there actually thought to punish him like this. How lucky he was to stumble into it. This world really did have more amusing people than just Batman.
He was clever—within a second, he had unraveled it all. The game master had set the rules, forced him to play. Two choices. One: accept punishment, cut off his own leg, survive. That was the rule. Two: refuse, break the rule, and die.
Just like the puppet had said—life or death, his own choice. The saw was already in his hands. Now it was all up to him.
The countdown was one hour. Every second wasted meant one less.
But on the camera feed, the Joker looked as if he'd fallen asleep. After picking up the saw, he just sat down. The ticking timer didn't faze him at all. The game master frowned. Could he really not be afraid of death?
It didn't matter. Once the timer hit zero, the gas would be released. Rules were rules. Disobey, and die.
With twelve minutes left, the Joker suddenly moved. After half an hour of sitting still, he finally sprang to action. Grabbing a cement block the size of a casserole pot, he slammed it against the drainage pipe that held his chain. Once, twice…
"Haha! Ahahaha~!" His crazed laughter echoed with every heavy thud, chilling to the bone. What was supposed to be a punishment game left the mastermind drenched in cold sweat.
The Joker wasn't sawing off his leg at all—he was smashing the pipe. The old, rusted metal cracked bit by bit. Behind the screen, the game master shivered. The Joker's palm was already shredded from the repeated blows, bloody and raw, yet his face showed no pain—only wild joy. The scene was so wrong it triggered panic. He slammed the emergency release, venting the poison gas early, even though ten minutes still remained.
But the Joker didn't care. He kept hammering until the pipe finally gave way and the chain yanked free.
"Dammit…" Watching through the camera, the mastermind realized the game had failed. He snatched up a loaded pistol and rushed to deal with the Joker himself. His plan had always been to force the clown to cripple himself—he couldn't risk letting such a monster walk free. Rules or no rules, the game master had picked the wrong target. The Joker never played by anyone's rules.