JOKER

The Joker entered the bank like a director walking into his premiere — no mask, with a smile that cuts deeper than a knife. His purple coat swept the floor, and on his forehead burned a brand: Damaged. Fifty hostages pooled across the floor like mercury. His crew had blocked the exits. The sirens outside were just beginning to sing.

And then sharp resistance appeared — from an unfamiliar girl standing before him. So he sauntered, swaying in his leather coat, walked up, and stopped at arm's length.

"Aren't you scared?" he asked, tilting his head at an angle of madness, stroking the handle of the knife in his hand and licking his grill out of habit, studying her.