Jude called up the system interface. Spent one dollar of asset points—barely anything, pocket change—and retrieved the exact location the Riddler had pointed at during the detective's interrogation.
The map materialized in his vision. Gotham City spread out like a tactical display. Attack sites marked in red.
"Stand-up comedy venue." Jude traced the first marker. "This is where the Joker attacked me this morning. I was there when it happened."
A notification appeared.
[DING—The system has launched a new product: "DS Intelligent Analysis." Would you like to try it?]
Jude snorted. "Ha. The system's getting better. Even taking advantage of DS popularity for marketing."
[Analysis initiated...]
[Attack locations identified:]
Stand-up comedy venue
Joke shop
Comedy movies theater
Talk show studio
Joke factory
[Analysis complete.]
[Result: Hidden composition detected—Clown without a nose]
Jude watched as the system connected the attack locations on the Gotham map. Lines drawing between points. A pattern emerging from apparent chaos.
The shape was simple. Unmistakable.
A clown face. Circular head. Wide grin. Eyes positioned perfectly.
But missing the red nose.
"Okay." Jude stared at the pattern. "That's... clownish."
Why couldn't the Gotham City Police Department see this? Why hadn't Gordon or his detectives connected these dots?
The reason was simple. Obvious, really.
Just like the question the Riddler had posed earlier: Why does the end of the world never come?
"Because the world is round," Jude answered aloud. Talking to himself on a Gotham street corner like half the city's population. "Who would use brain teasers to solve a case like this?"
Normal police methodology involved evidence. Witnesses. Forensics. Rational deduction.
Not riddles. Not visual puns. Not connecting crime scenes like a children's dot-to-dot puzzle.
But the Joker would use brain-twisting ideas to commit crimes.
Of course he would.
Although the police radio had gone quiet—no new reports of attacks, no fresh emergency calls—Jude was certain the Joker wasn't finished.
He looked at the part of the map where the nose should be.
Empty space. Unmarked.
Until you zoomed in.
There. A high-rise building. Hundreds of floors. The kind of skyscraper that dominated Gotham's skyline, visible from miles away.
"Which floor should I go to?" Jude muttered. "Can't exactly search every—"
The massive screen mounted to the building across the street flickered. Emergency bulletin. Breaking news.
The anchor's face appeared, professional concern barely masking excitement.
"News interruption. Ten minutes ago, a group of armed individuals used explosives to breach the Gotham City Police Department's holding cells. Officers killed three attackers, but the remainder escaped. The Riddler is missing and presumed at large. Citizens are advised to exercise extreme caution."
Jude stopped walking. Stared at the screen.
Incredible.
The code the Riddler had given—the signal he'd sent when the escape attempt failed—it definitely wasn't a termination order.
It was Plan B.
Execute the prison break from outside.
The Gotham City Police Department was in a miserable situation. Jude could almost imagine the public pressure they'd face. When the citizens learned that the Riddler had escaped from prison twice in one day—first attempt thwarted, second attempt successful—they'd probably flood the station with complaints and demands for resignations.
Gordon was going to have a very bad week.
A notification appeared.
[You have a new part-time job available. Please check it out.]
[NYGMA'S SURPRISE ATTACK ON THE PRISON, THE DISASTER STAR CAPTURES THE PUZZLE FOR THE SECOND TIME]
Mission Description:
A sage once said: "While your parents are alive, do not wander far; if you must travel, you must have a fixed destination."
This means that while your parents are living, you should remain nearby to care for them. If life requires you to leave, you should ensure your location is known and your purpose is clear, so your parents are spared unnecessary worry and can reach you if they need your support.
And for the calculating Riddler, this second encounter with an unlucky star who always appears outside his carefully constructed plans is enough to make him instinctively curse: "Fuck you!"
Note: As a police officer on temporary leave, you will still do your best to capture the Riddler who just escaped from prison. Interestingly, sooner or later, scheming people will have to learn the second lesson: accidents, like tomorrow, cannot be avoided.
Status: To be completed
Reward: Special skill "Fake Death"
"Oh my." Jude's eyes widened slightly. "That's a rare find."
Fake Death. The kind of skill that could get you out of impossible situations. Make enemies think you were gone when you were just getting started.
Very useful in a city where people tried to kill you regularly.
He looked at the mission parameters. Then at the map showing the clown pattern. Then at the news about the Riddler's escape.
Everything's converging.
The night in Gotham was colorful in the way that neon signs and streetlights tried desperately to hold back the darkness and mostly failed.
On a busy street in Burnley, a red taxi navigated through traffic. Heading toward the skyscraper district where glass and steel towers scraped the polluted sky.
Inside the vehicle, the passenger in the back seat spoke suddenly.
"A man went to a toy store and said he wanted to buy a new boomerang. Then he asked the clerk: 'How do I get rid of my old boomerang?'"
The taxi driver didn't react immediately. His brain processed the words—customer talking, sounds like a joke?—before understanding clicked.
He was being told a joke.
So in order to be polite, to maintain the professional friendliness that got better tips, he laughed.
Loudly. Enthusiastically.
"Hahahahaha—" He even turned his head slightly, making eye contact in the rearview mirror. "Man, that's a really funny joke!"
However.
The passenger in the back seat did not seem to agree with his assessment.
The taxi was driving down the street. A streetlamp on the opposite side of the road cast white light through the windows.
The illumination revealed the figure in the back seat clearly.
Pale skin. Dark green curly hair. A face set in displeasure.
And the gleaming muzzle of a revolver pointed directly at the driver's head.
"No," the Joker said flatly. "That's not funny."
BANG.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
The front windshield shattered. Exploded outward in a spray of safety glass and blood. Spider-web cracks spread across what remained, obscuring the view, turning transparency into fractured opacity.
The driver slumped. Dead before his brain registered the sound.
The driverless taxi suddenly lost control.
Tires screeched. The vehicle swerved violently.
Mounted the sidewalk.
"Get out of the way!"
Screams erupted. Warning shouts. Panicked pedestrians scattered, turning and running to avoid being crushed by the out-of-control vehicle.
A car approaching from another intersection was caught in the chaos. The taxi slammed into its side panel with the sound of crumpling metal and shattering plastic.
Both vehicles stopped. Smoking. Damaged.
But the taxi's momentum—transferred violently, redirected catastrophically—caused the vehicle to spin. The body became completely unbalanced.
And then it flew.
Actually left the ground. Airborne for several terrible seconds.
Before crashing into the ornamental fountain in the center of the square.
CRASH.
Water erupted. Stone fragments scattered. The taxi's frame twisted, compressing, absorbing impact energy by deforming completely.
Passersby screamed. Fled in all directions from the wreckage.
A few unlucky pedestrians had been struck by debris—knocked down, bleeding from head wounds, groaning on the pavement.
The crowd gathered at a safe distance. Staring. Pointing. Recording on phones.
Wondering what had happened. Who was inside. Whether anyone had survived.
A moment later, a figure emerged from the twisted wreckage.
Green hair. Black suit. Purple gloves.
The Joker climbed out of the destroyed taxi and scattered fountain pieces like he was stepping out of a limousine at a red carpet event.
Casual. Unhurried.
"Ugh." He covered his left cheek. Felt burning pain between his eyebrows.
Raised his hand. Examined it.
His purple gloves were stained dark red with blood. His blood.
I thought this would be funny, he thought distantly.
All this time. All these murders. All these people wanting him dead. All the narrow escapes and desperate gambles.
And then—on a beautiful night, for no particular reason—breaking his own neck in the back of a taxi. Dying in a traffic accident like a common civilian.
This should be hilarious. The kind of ironic death that would make him smile in his grave. That would have him laughing all the way to hell.
Perfect comedy. Perfect irony.
But.
The Joker walked out of the fountain wreckage looking depressed.
His face remained grim. Serious. Humorless.
No.
Still not funny.
He turned. Stumbled slightly—concussion, probably, internal bleeding possibly—and headed for the nearest building entrance.
Behind him, sirens were already approaching. Police. Ambulances. The usual Gotham emergency response.
He disappeared through the doors without looking back.
Just after the Joker entered the building, another figure arrived.
Dark green suit. Bowler hat. Moving with purpose.
Edward Nygma walked into the same building entrance. Whistling. Looking extremely relaxed despite having just escaped from police custody twice in one day.
He was muttering to himself. Rehearsing. Enjoying his own cleverness.
"Someone wanted to enter a store, but the guard wouldn't let him in. So he eavesdropped on the conversation between others and the guard, hoping to learn the secret code."
The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside. Pressed 78.
"The doorman said 'twelve' and the guest said 'six.' The doorman said 'six' and the guest said 'three.'"
The elevator began to rise. Floors ticking past.
"He was confident he understood the pattern and tried to enter. The guard said 'ten' and he replied 'five.' He was driven away."
The Riddler smiled. Appreciating the elegance of the puzzle.
"He thought it was a math problem—dividing by two. But it was a brain teaser. It was about the number of letters in each number. Twelve has six letters. Six has three letters. Ten has three letters, not five."
DING.
The elevator announced arrival at the seventy-eighth floor.
"And fools are like that," the Riddler continued, stepping out into a dim hallway. "Thinking they can tell the whole story from a single clue."
He approached a door at the end of the corridor. Reached out gently.
Knocked.
Knock—dong dong.
From inside, a voice responded. Cautious. Expecting someone but not certain.
"Who is it?"
The Riddler smiled wider. "Open the door and find out."
At that same moment, downstairs in the building's lobby, a third figure walked into an elevator.
"Come on—" He grinned. Actually grinned. "The Riddler's elevator is on the seventy-eighth floor! I don't even need to solve a puzzle!"
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