"The fugitive, the Riddler, is known to have left his signature question mark on a wall in Gotham Square. Experts say this mark is highly unusual for the Riddler—and our guest today is Kiel Castro of the Gotham Academy of Criminology."
The voice came through the radio. Professional. Neutral. The tone you used when discussing supervillain behavior like it was a weather pattern.
Commissioner Gordon listened with a bad look on his face. Jaw clenched. Eyes hard. Driving through Gotham's streets toward the square.
After a year—one full year of relative peace, of the Riddler sitting quietly in a GCPD holding cell, cooperating, solving cases, betting on football—the pattern had shattered.
The Riddler had tried to escape from prison three times in two days.
And finally succeeded.
Now he'd left a criminal mark in Gotham Square. Public. Brazen. Visible to thousands of civilians.
Everything showed that Edward Nygma was about to restart his criminal activities in Gotham City.
Full scale. No more cooperation. No more quiet consulting.
War.
Gordon's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
He immediately left the hospital crime scene—delegated evidence collection to his officers, trusted them to do their jobs—and drove toward Gotham Square with a small convoy of police vehicles following.
Sirens. Lights. Emergency response.
Again.
Always again.
In East Gotham, Jude looked at the room in front of him with satisfaction.
Small. Modest. Clean enough.
One window overlooking a narrow alley. A bed that looked like it had seen better decades. A kitchenette barely large enough to heat water. Bathroom shared with two other tenants on the floor.
But private. Lockable. His.
The negotiations with the landlord had gone smoothly. Since Jude had the business card—physical proof of introduction, social currency in the East End—and the comedian had already called ahead to vouch for him, the landlord had been willing to consider renting to a police officer.
Which was unusual.
Jude guessed the landlord and the comedian must have a good relationship. Maybe the comedian had lived here for years. Paid on time. Kept quiet. Been a model tenant.
For a landlord who pursued safety and stability above all else—who needed tenants who wouldn't attract attention, wouldn't cause problems, wouldn't bring police raids—the identity and position of potential renters were critically important.
This building was maintained by gang forces. Falcone family territory. Protection payments made. Rules established.
Naturally, there were many gang members living inside. Enforcers. Bookkeepers. Muscle. The lower ranks who needed cheap housing and couldn't afford the nice neighborhoods.
Plus a large number of lawless people engaged in illegal industries. Drug dealers. Fences. Con artists. Sex workers. The gray economy of Gotham's underworld.
Although there were many corrupt police officers in the Gotham City Police Department—everyone knew that, it was basically an open secret—the landlord wasn't sure whether Jude was one of them.
Couldn't tell from looking. Couldn't risk it.
So before Jude moved in, before signing the lease, the landlord had given him a warning.
Blunt. Direct. No room for misunderstanding.
"Remember." The landlord's voice was flat. Experienced. "This area is under the protection of the Falcone family. Don't cause any trouble here. After work hours, you are no longer a police officer."
He'd leaned forward slightly. Making sure Jude understood.
"If you dare to shoot someone or arrest a criminal in this building—ever—get out immediately. No refund. No second chances. Just gone."
Not bad, Jude had thought. Quite polite, actually.
Better than Drake's landlord back in his home dimension. That man had warned his tenants by shooting rocks with a shotgun. Demonstrating range and accuracy. Making his point through controlled violence.
This was just verbal threats. Civilized by comparison.
Jude had nodded. Agreed. Signed the lease.
He didn't have much luggage. Just what he'd brought through dimensional travel. Clothes. Basic supplies. The furniture in the small room—bed, table, chair, rickety dresser—could meet the daily needs of an ordinary person.
Good enough.
He sat on the bed. Tested the mattress. Lumpy but functional.
Then pulled out his phone.
Tuned to the police force's internal radio channel—the one he'd hacked into after his official radio had been confiscated during the "temporary leave" period.
There's nothing we can do about it, he thought. Batman probably does the same thing.
Monitoring police communications. Staying informed. Operating outside official channels when necessary.
The radio crackled to life.
"Attention all officers." A dispatcher's voice. Clipped. Professional. "The wall in Gotham Square is currently under protection for evidence collection. We've covered it with a sheet to preserve the scene."
Fabric rustling in background. Wind probably.
"Everyone in the surrounding area should be on the lookout for any signs of the Riddler. He just left this mark, so he might not have gotten far. Canvas the nearby buildings. Check security cameras. Interview witnesses."
Jude sat up slightly.
What?
"The Riddler might not have gotten far yet?"
He spoke aloud. Confused. To his empty apartment.
Isn't the Riddler locked up in the hospital?
He'd just left Gotham Hospital. The Riddler had been there. Recovering from a gunshot wound. Under guard. Contained.
He ran away again?
Thank god he put the Riddler name again into his [I Didn't Kill Anyone] skill.
Although if you thought about it carefully Arkham Asylum couldn't stop super criminals like the Riddler from escaping. The revolving door of Gotham's criminal justice system was legendary. Infamous.
But three escape attempts in two days? Two successes out of three?
That still made Jude feel helpless. Frustrated. Like the universe was playing a joke.
However, he thought philosophically, if prisons could actually hold people, super criminals wouldn't be able to escape and continue doing bad things. Which would be a headache for comic book writers.
Can't have an ongoing series if the villains stay locked up.
On the radio, police chatter continued.
"Understood. Are there any victims over there in the square? Anyone injured or missing?"
"Nothing has been found yet." Another voice. Different officer. "But the question mark and the message appear to have been written in blood. We can't completely rule out the possibility that someone nearby may have been victimized. We're still searching the area. Checking alleys. Abandoned buildings."
"Copy that. What did he write?"
A pause. The sound of paper rustling. Someone reading.
"I'm going to kill you, Joker. And then I'm going to laugh, ha, ha, ha."
Silence on the channel.
Then: "That's what he wrote? Word for word?"
"Yes. In blood. Large letters. Very clear."
Another pause. Someone processing.
"But what about the riddle? Shouldn't he leave a riddle this time? That's his signature. His calling card."
"I don't know. Maybe this is the riddle somehow?"
"Or maybe—what kind of advanced riddle is this supposed to be?"
No, Jude thought. Listening carefully. Analyzing.
This sentence doesn't sound like a riddle at all.
It's just a direct mockery.
Others might not understand how serious it was for the Joker to not be able to laugh. They hadn't seen what Jude had seen.
But he'd witnessed the Joker in the theater. On the seventy-eighth floor. The execution performances. The desperate search for humor.
The man had looked bad. Grim. Empty. Fundamentally broken.
And now this message would be reported on the news. Broadcast across Gotham. Trending on social media.
If the Joker heard that sentence—especially the three words in the second half, the "ha, ha, ha" written in someone else's blood—his mood would probably become even worse.
Because he really wanted to laugh but couldn't.
And the Riddler was laughing at him. Promising to laugh. Rubbing in the one thing the Joker had lost.
This is escalation, Jude realized.
This is war.
"Kiel, what do you think?"
The TV continued. Interview format. Expert commentary. The kind of programming that filled airtime after breaking news.
"Andrew, I can't say for certain. This is very strange."
Kiel Castro's voice was measured. Academic. Gotham Academy of Criminology professor analyzing criminal behavior patterns.
"The Riddler usually leaves riddles at crime scenes to hint at his next target. Future crimes. Locations. Methods. It's a game he plays. Intellectual superiority through puzzles."
Paper rustling. Notes being consulted.
"But this is different. Completely different. You see, he just wrote this: 'I'm going to kill you, Joker. And then I'm going to laugh, ha, ha, ha.'"
The Joker stood in front of a mirror.
Full-length. Expensive. Mounted in an abandoned building he'd claimed as temporary headquarters.
Looking at his face carefully. Studying. Analyzing.
While the sound of news coverage played from a television in the corner. Background noise. White noise. Voices discussing him like he was a case study instead of a person.
"Is this unusual?" Andrew's voice. The interviewer.
"It's very uncharacteristic. Very literal."
The Joker smiled at his reflection.
Tried to smile.
Attempted several variations. Different approaches. Different emotional contexts.
Reserved and confident. Professional. The smile you wore to business meetings.
Stiff. Wrong.
Cheerful and sunny. Open. The smile you showed children or dogs or people you wanted to trust you.
Forced. Fake.
He even stretched out his hands. Reached up. Began fiddling with and rubbing his entire face. Fingers pressing. Pulling the corners of his mouth upward. Physically manipulating the muscles.
Trying to shape his expression through pure force.
But unfortunately, his face wasn't plasticine. Couldn't be molded by rubbing. Wouldn't hold the position when he released pressure.
No matter which smile he attempted, it seemed stiff. Disharmonious. Wrong.
The awareness of that wrongness made him even more irritable. More unhappy.
The emotion fed on itself. Spiraling.
As soon as he let go, the corners of his mouth drooped naturally. Gravity. Biology. Truth.
It turned out he couldn't force himself to laugh when he was unhappy.
Couldn't fake it. Couldn't pretend. Couldn't perform the one thing that defined him.
"But what's the point of such directness for lunatics like the Joker, the Riddler, or Batman?"
The TV continued. Oblivious. Analyzing.
The Joker's face in the mirror changed.
From several stiff failed smiles → to frustration → to anger → finally to something gloomy and quiet.
Dangerous quiet.
The kind that preceded violence.
"I don't know either, Andrew." Kiel's voice. Uncertain. Honest about limitations. "Their thinking is different from ours. Normal people can't understand them."
The professor paused. Choosing words carefully.
"I can only say that I have been following their news. These people are not only crazy, but also smart. Brilliant, actually. They can kill any one of us. Even all of us, if they wanted."
Another pause. Heavier.
"And sometimes—I really think they want to do it."
The Joker stared at his reflection. At the grim face. At the man who couldn't laugh.
"Thank you, Kiel Castro, for your interpretation. Tonight, we will continue—"
The television was suddenly turned off.
CLICK.
Silence.
The Joker took out his cell phone. Face still gloomy. Expression dangerous.
Scrolled through contacts. Found a number.
Dialed.
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the Diamond District.
Far from the chaos. Far from the blood and the question marks and the escalating violence.
Today was a rare good day in Gotham.
Birds singing. Flowers blooming. Sky clear. Sun shining.
Wrong, but beautiful in its wrongness.
In a forest surrounded by green trees—old growth, carefully maintained, expensive property—a white luxurious villa stood on the top of a hill.
Architectural statement. Display of wealth. The kind of building that said "I own this entire hilltop and everything you can see from it."
The sun shone on tall double oak doors. On natural limestone exterior walls. On a shimmering swimming pool that probably cost more than most Gotham families earned in a decade.
On a sculpture of a girl beside the pool—marble, classical style, commissioned art.
And on the man relaxing poolside.
Surrounded by several bodyguards in black suits. Professional. Alert. Armed but trying not to look armed.
Carmine Falcone wore a white suit. Expensive fabric. Perfect tailoring. Comfortable in his power.
Sitting on a velvet chair. Basking in the sun leisurely.
Sunshine.
This was something he had not enjoyed much in Gotham before. It sounded funny—absurd, even—but it was true.
Whether poor or rich, as long as you lived in Gotham City, you understood the value of sunshine.
Appreciated it when it appeared. Savored it. Knew it wouldn't last.
His phone suddenly rang.
Vibrating. Buzzing. Interrupting the peaceful moment.
Falcone looked at the screen. Number he'd never seen before. Unknown caller.
He was confused at first. Who had this private line? Who would dare call without introduction?
Then the confusion quickly transformed.
→ Shock.
→ Anger.
But in the end—after weighing options, calculating risks, considering possibilities—he still answered.
Pressed the button. Raised the phone to his ear.
"Yes?"
A voice came through. Familiar from news reports. Infamous from a thousand nightmares.
"Carmine."
Casual. Like they were old friends. Like this was normal.
"I'm the Joker."
Falcone's grip tightened on the phone. Face carefully neutral. Bodyguards watching him. Reading his reaction.
"And I need you to do me a favor."
The Joker's voice was flat. Serious. No humor. No jokes. Just business.
A pause. Letting the absurdity sink in. Letting Falcone process the impossibility of this moment.
Then:
"I need you to help me kill the Riddler."