Roxy, female, writing for the love of story. Huge TDK and 2019 Joker fan. Joker fanfiction, generally romance and dark romance. 18+ Blog. Come find me on A03. Requests Open!
This blog is for Joker lovers. I am a huge fan of both the Ledger and Phoenix Jokers. I enjoy writing and reading Joker adventures and highly romanticized depictions of Joker, Joker X reader and original characters as well. Happy to take requests.
Started: 24/12/2020
Last Updated: 16/2/2022
Total Works: 18
Ledger Joker (TDK)Â
Russian Red (The Joker catches you playing with his lip stick)
Wild Pearl *New Work* Joker gives you a very unique Xmas gift.
Elvira This is my first crossover fic and itsâs 1983 Scarface/2019 Joker! It is set in an AU after the unfortunate demise of Tony Montana. Joker was a good and loyal friend, but he always loved Elvira. Now that he is gone, Elvira comes to Gotham seeking comfort, without Tony around, the lines between them are blurred.Â
New Work** Murray Franklin Show (Holly meets Joker through her backstage work at the Murray Franklin show and after being in awe of his performance she spontaneously invites him to take refuge in her apartment. Arthur Fleck is a quite house guest and their relationship awkward. Holly is ready for Jokers return and so is Gotham city.)Â
Murray Franklin Show Part 1Â
Murray Franklin Show Part 2Â
Murray Franklin Show Part 3
Murray Franklin Show Part 4Â
Murray Franklin Show Part 5Â
Murray Franklin Show Part 6
***
Little Black Dress (Love story/ angst/ SMUT NSFW 18+)
Tomorrowâs Light (Love poem for Arthur)Â
Hot Buttered Muffins (Domestic Fluff and Shameless Smut)Â NSFW
Clown Wars Chapter 1: Joker Island (action adventure/ love story)Â
Clown Wars Chapter 2: The Purple Coat  (action adventure/ love story)Â
Clown Wars Chapter 3: Home (action adventure/ love story)Â
Red Suit Re-bound (SMUT with feelings 2019 Joker, NSFW)Â
Dark passenger  (SMUT with Feelings 2019 Joker NSFW)Â
I come bearing proof that I am still completely and utterly obsessed with J & Alina. So obsessed, in fact, that I've apparently started drawing them now. đ
Exhibit A: attached sketch.
But you're probably wondering when the hell the next chapter is dropping. I mean... it's not like it's been four months or anything...
Okay. Apparently it has been four months.
First of all, I am so, so sorry for disappearing. A lot of things were happening in my personal life. Everything is completely okay now, life just has a way of getting a little out of hand sometimes.
I was also procrastinating aggressively out of fear of messing things up. Shout out to my fellow perfectionists đ«
I have good news though! The next chapter will be posted on Monday. And even better, I've got the following two chapters mapped out as well.
I am genuinely, ridiculously excited about where this story is headed. Some of the scenes coming up have been living rent-free in my brain since 2024, and I cannot wait to finally share them with you.
To everyone who's still here after my accidental vanishing actâthank you!!! Thank you for the comments, the hearts, the asks, the reblogs, and for continuing to care about these two chaotic disasters as much as I do. It means more than I can properly put into words.
And for anyone worried:
Yes, this story will have an ending. I know how it ends! The challenge is figuring out how to get from point A to point B without writing another 200,000 words along the way. đ But I'm going to do it, dammit. I don't care how long it takes.Â
Thank you for sticking with me. I love you all very much, and I hope you enjoy this little sketch. It's still a work in progress, and this is only a zoomed-in peek, but I couldn't resist sharing.
Can't wait to show you more. đ€đđÂ
â Jesterfairy
P. S. Please ignore the hand, I need to redraw that bitch. Hands man... They're the bane of my existence đÂ
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide, mentions of grape.
Connection
Night 3 in the clownâs apartment felt different.Â
Hazelâs mind was alive with the story he had spun, and she chewed the details relentlessly. It hadnât got better after reading the report â rather, reading it had fuelled her rage. It shattered reality; yet, made more sense than anything to date. The details provided in the submission turned her heart to ice and channelled her rage like a laser.
There would be retribution, that was certain.
She couldn't fucking sleep.
How was she meant to recover from her injuries and close this case if she was just staring at the cracked ceiling all night?
Where the fuck was the clown?
Joker had said he would be out on business for a couple of hours, but it was well into the night. Hazel had spent the day reading and re-reading the testimony, her mind spinning. She had taken a shower, borrowed another one of Jâs shirts, rummaged through a drawer and borrowed briefs, washed her old garments and hung them on a small wire rack near the window. Occasionally she sat and patted Jâs big mut of a dog, or raided his fairly baren cupboards for cereal.
Hazel let out a frustrated huff.
Maybe he didnât want to be near her after the things that he had shared.
Maybe he didnât want to be near her after she kissed his scared jaw as though he was human.
Maybe he was out torturing the lieutenant!
Maybe he was playing with her for sport.
Hazel felt a flush to her cheeks as she thought of him one-upping her â he had tricked her before. Still, this time his confession didnât feel like a lie. Her gut said it was the truth.
Jesus.
The city had gone to hell. The joker wasnât even the worst of it.
The face of that little boy repeated on her. A memory that she had repressed for so long was now at large in her mind; dark eyes afraid, mirroring her blue ones as she had sat in her dadâs car. Two children, no power in the world, no choice. Yet, even with everything she had been through, she was one of the lucky ones.
Jack wasnât.
Yet, he had made his own luck in the most twisted sense.
A strange wave passed through her: admiration. Then it crashed.
Hazel felt a pang in her guts. It made her sick that the badge she served could have failed that little boy. It took one man to harm him, but a whole failed system to bury it.
Anger flooded her anew, her hands balling beneath the sheets.
Hazel remembered her parents fighting in the kitchen. That recurring dream now took new meaning.
âYou need to stop, Carl.â Hazel remembered how her motherâs tone sounded, low and cold. âYouâre going to get in trouble and take us down with you. You know what they do to whistle blowers.â
âI canât live with the blood on my hands! I want a better world for you and Hazel.â
All these years she thought her dad had lost his conviction, his dignity, as an officer. Lost his backbone for the job. But that was just the cover up â in fact they ousted him because he had the spine to stand up, but integrity was no match for a city that fights dirty. He couldnât even convince his wife to stay beside him as he fought for what was right.
And Jack.
The recovery from his facial wounds must have been torture, and he survived on his own after that⊠an orphan. A street rat. No wonder he knew the underbelly of Gotham as well as he did.
It was incomprehensible.
Something ached deep inside her as these thoughts played out, boiling in her chest. It was an angry, burning, grief-fuelled ball that was spreading inside her creating pressure that threatened to burst. It had something to do with her dad, something to do with Miff, and a lot to do with Jack and the injustice of it all, but none of it was clear.
Hazel didnât want to know what the feelings meant, she wanted to cut the pain out of herself, or perhaps she wanted to unleash them.
Hazel snapped back to the present as the locks at the door rattled.
Joker was home.
The apartment door opened with a creak of a hinge and Hazel pretended to sleep as heavy boots crossed the floor.
Hazel held her breath as he drew near. Her heartbeat faster, strangely thankful for his return.
He seemed to pause a moment, as though checking for her on his mattress. His presence made the air prickle as he watched over her. Several seconds passed: an unnatural stillness and Hazel imagined his eyes trained on her, perhaps running the length of her. She could feel his gaze, she was sure of it.
At last, the scuff of boots as he moved on.
Hazel listened to the rustle of his undressing: the methodical clacking of weapons placed on the kitchen surface, one after the other, then the swish of the heavy coat to the rack, lighter with its arsenal off-loaded. A pause stretched, and then she heard the running of the bathroom tap as he performed the rudimentary removal of grease paint and towel washed down his body over the sink.
Already she was learning his routines. Before bed the face was always bare. He ate breakfast like a king but skipped meals otherwise. The last thing before bed, was to check the dog where she slept happily in her crate.
âGood night, Sacha Girl.â He hummed. Hazel heard the big dog let out a happy whine in reciprocation.
Finally, Hazel felt the drop of weight on the mattress beside her and felt the mattress hollowing, drawing her in his direction.
Hazel stayed limp, her breath slow and deep to mimic sleep. Inside, her stomach flipped, charged by his presence. Once again, she lay in the dark with the clown prince, only he was not just Joker anymore, he was also Jack. Not just a monster, but something human. Whatever pull he had before, whatever mystique, it was more alive than ever.
Hazel laid still a long time until the rhythm of his breath deepened, then, carefully, she turned her head to look at him.
He rested on his back; his sheet bunched at his hips as was typical -the man ran hot. His breath was steady with an easy rise and fall of his chest.
Asleep so soon?
Uncanny.
Like a sin, Hazel studied his scars in the dim light. The shadows pooled in the hollows like moon craters. Bare faced he resembled that boy â but in rugged man form. His quite expression and sandy hair were a nod to the person he might have been, if life had unfolded differently.
Her eyes continued along his sleeping form, the shadowy dip between his chest muscles, and the lines in his abdominals. He was lean, and scrapy, like a cage fighter. Small puncture wounds marked his belly in those same shadowy divots.
He looked good. Fit, strong.
Judging by the map of scars across his body, he probably wouldnât be alive without someone fixing him up. Had the same Dr who fixed her, stitched up those wounds across his abdomen? What about when he was a boy â had her father brought a doctor to him? How could he have trusted anyone? Had her father stitched him himself?
That thought was mind bending.
Hazel raised a hand, tentative. Hovering above the sleeping man, afraid to bend the air space between them in case he sensed it. Her hand hovered above the puncture scars on his abdominal.
She watched his belly rise and fall.
Something in her tingled. Yearned.
She hesitated, but only for a beat. Â Â
Suddenly she had the overwhelming urge to touch him, just as she had earlier that day.
How would he react? Especially when sleepingâŠ
Her heart skipped just at the thought of connection.
It was one thing to sleep with an informant⊠deep down Miff was a good guy. But to seek warmth from a man like this⊠Gothamâs most wanted was dark to his core, yet she desired it.
Hazel knew it was madness, yet the compulsion to touch was overbearing.
Hazel lowered her hand and let the tips of her fingers contact his abdomen.
Just a graze.
Her heart spiked â feeling warm skin under her fingertips. Jokers body heat.
Holy fuck.
Lightly, she traced the v-line groove of his obliques admiring his sleek form.
He gave a grunt. A short, involuntary response to her touch. Then, his had snatched up and grabbed her wrist.
Hazelâs heart thrummed evenly in her chest. As much excitement, as respect for the harm he could inflict.
His grip was tight, strong. All Joker, no Jack. Her wrist seemingly fragile wrapped in his broad hand.
It stung.
"I canât sleep." she said softly, answering a question he didnât ask out loud.
His grip held.
Testing him, she turned her wrist.
He allowed it, and she turned herself free.
Registering his release as encouragement; she spread her hand across his lower stomach with increased conviction.
Taught.
"And you think thatâs gonna help you sleep?" he answered, dryly.
"Yes."
She knew it would.
Nothing quietened the noise in her head like doing something she shouldnât.
She glanced at his face, measuring his expression.
Neutral.
Always the performer.
Always the impression of control and restraint, like if he could control himself, he could control the universe.
But, there was a glimmer of something in the eyes. The mask of indifference had a crack - just enough to tell: he was intrigued by her attention.
He laughed. A short breath through the nose.
"All your problems are still gonna be there when we are, ah, done, sweetheart. Except, youâll have one more.â
He gestured at himself in the dark: the additional problem.
Then he shifted. His dark eyes finding hers in the dim light of the apartment.
She didnât see the carefully composed façade that was joker, but the blood and bones of the man beneath it. His body hummed with restrained energy. His expression remained relaxed but the small amount of light that reflected in his eyes revealed something hungry, predatory.
She had his attention.
It thrilled her.
Heart hammering, Hazel nudged her frame up against him and curled into his side. His chest was warm. Her legs just touched his. His lean muscles coiled to pounce like a man famished.
âWhatâs one extra problem, at this point?â Hazel retorted.
âhmmâ The clowns only reply.
Then Hazel got serious.
âItâs not right what happened to you.â She said quietly, as she traced her fingers in small circles across his skin.
âIs that what this is about?â She could hear the eye roll. âDonât delude yourself, detective. I am not that boy.â
âYou look like him. Just older⊠and meaner.â
Her hand brushed the elastic waist of his briefs, and she curled a finger beneath the band, curiously.
There was a rumble from the clown and hips shifted slightly towards contact.
âYouâre going to get yourself in a lot of trouble, Detectiveâ his voice was smooth. âIf you tell yourself Iâm some injured plaything you can nurture. I liked killing my dad. I like hurting people. Ya understand, cupcake? No womanly wiles can fix what this is.â
âMaybe your dad fucking deserved it. Besides, Iâm not trying to fix you. Fuck that.â
Hazel let the band relax back, flush with his skin and brushed a flat hand across the outside of his briefs. The rock-hard protrusion spoke louder than words, contradicting his nonchalant tone.
Hazel stroked her hand up the length of him through his briefs, feeling a kick and then let her hand settle on his abs.
Knowing that his body already hungered was enough.
She could feel his energy intensify dangerously as she backed off.
Felt his hand beside her flinch, resisting the impulse to grab her.
Hazel smiled in the dark.
She leaned in, lips to his ear.
âI know exactly who you are, Jack. Joker. I donât care. Maybe I will tomorrow.â Hazel kissed the crest of his ear softly. Â âIâm sick of thoughts. Sick of feelings. Sick of rules that donât make any fucking sense. I lost my dad to some bullshit I was fed, and I licked boots my whole friggen career just to read what I read today - call it a beautiful decent to chaos, if you want.â
Again, that rumble in his chest. The sound of his amusement that had become so familiar.
The sound enveloped her in a comforting fuzz as warm as his skin.
âTheres too much noise, Jack.â She grazed her lips across his ear âright now, I just need you to silence it.â
A calloused hand wrapped around her thigh. Tight, squeezing.
He dragged her limb across his, entwining them, as though her physical surrender was a commodity that now belonged to him.
Hazelâs heart raced.
âA beautiful decent to chaos.â He purred âThatâs interesting to me doll. We would make an ironic, ah, coupling.â
âSo you do want it then?â Hazel teased at his pride, knowing full well he burned. âYou have a good poker face.â
Again the rumble of amusement, but his grip tightened, teasing on the edge of rough â a warning of sorts as to where the power really lay, and that her teasing edged a fine line.Â
Hazel knew exactly where the power lay and carefully testing it was a rush. He was lot of man and a presence that commanded her to stay alert. She liked that. She was bored by men she could toy with carelessly.
Now he nuzzled into her, as he answered, burying his face in her neck, her hair.
Hazelâs breath caught at the brush of his cheek on hers and a tangle of his hair up against her.
âYou think I didnât notice your tight little form the first time you came to see me. Hmm?â he breathed the words into her skin. âYou think I didnât consider the taste of you as I ran my hands up your thighs?â He kissed her neck. âI confess, detective. They werenât the prettiest of thoughts⊠not if itâs romance youâre after.â
âWhat thoughts?â Hazel breathed, tilting her chin and absorbing kisses along her neck.
âI considered helping myself, detective, and tossing your ruined body into Gotham harbour.â He drew back slightly âWhat do you think about that? Hmm.â His eyes shone with Machiavellian glee. âDo you still pity that dead boy inside me?â
A small sound escaped hazels throat as he resumed kisses. Jâs lips were hot on her skin and that heady mix of spiced cologne and combustibles that seemed to permanently linger on his skin made her giddy.
âWhat a gentlemanâ she breathed, sarcastically, then âBut you didnât. Why?â
In part she teased. In part she wanted an answer.
Her skin was hot, flushed by his attention, and an ache coiled in her belly.
A hum of approval from the clown, savouring her responses as he kissed to her collar bone.
The grip on her thigh released and his hand swept the length to her hip. He cradled her curves and squeezed
âI told you, detective. You are special. Irreplaceable. Part of a bigger plan.â
More kisses feathered across her collar bone, then a pause.
âI wouldnât be the man of reputation that I am today if I couldnât play long-game. Self- restraint is the difference between common criminals, and what I am. I donât commit crimes, detective. I discipline Gotham.â
Hazel groaned, frustrated by the lengthy answer and the pause in his affections. She reached a hand down his briefs.
The clowns grip on her ass tightened painfully in response. His focus flicking back to her like sheâd poured fuel on embers.
âItâs a little taboo for a cop, donât ya think?" He almost growled the question.
His chin tilted towards her, breath washing across her skin and dark gaze burying into her soul.
His gaze was burning, dangerous.
Right now, there was a beast in there he was struggling to harness.
Hazel could feel the heavy beat of his heart and the heat of his skin.
The tension in his posture.
The composure and restraint were a lie he was barely holding together. Â
The feral look in his eyes was the truth.
For a beat he explored her features. Then shifted to close the gap between them. His lips crashed on to hers. Hard. Feral. The rush of it firing her synapses, flooding her, and clearing her mind of every thought and feeling except him.
Drunk on him.
He pulled her in tightly and she gasped as he squeezed her flesh. A whimper escaped her as he pressed to her, dissolving into heated kisses, the clowns tongue finding her own.
He kissed with the intensity of a man who burned cities for entertainment.
He kissed her like a man whoâd tried to bury human needs and failed terribly.
He was a man as much as a monster and human need burned tirelessly at his core.
Hazel breathed raggedly into his neck as his hands swept over her body, squeezing soft parts of her, gripping, savouring. She could feel her pulse between her thighs.
The hands that intoxicated her now had also destroyed so much. Hurt so many. Could easily hurt her.
As she kissed him back, Hazel didn't care.
Her anger was channelled elsewhere.
My enemies enemy is a friend.
Brilliant.
Maniacal.
Clown Prince of Gotham.
Broken enough to enthral her.
And now she was just broken enough to stop resisting.
With a surge of energy, the clown pushed her down, and with a hard kiss rolled on top of her.
Hazel let out a sharp cry at the pain in her side. Her stitches were only a few days old and the movement felt like ripping, but the euphoria she felt beneath his weight quickly numbed the pain.
Her heart raced beneath the cage of his strong arms and chest, the light catching striations in his curved shoulder muscles as he hovered over her.
Surreal.
He eyed the teal shirt she lay in.
"Iâd tear that shirt right off you, if it wasnât mine.â He smirked âLose it, detective. Lose all of it.â
Hazel laughed a little, working down the buttons and rolling her arms out of it.
âkeep goinâ, cup-cake. A man hasnât got all day.â
Hazel lifted her hips and wiggled out of the briefs she had borrowed.
âhmm.â His dark, vicious stare ran down her neck and body, consuming every inch of her. âThatâs better.â
He sank onto his elbows and his lips met her bare chest, broken lips feathering kisses across her breasts.
Hazel drew breath as his lips caressed her.
Then a kick of his knee against her thigh. Spreading her. Rough. Sharp.
He knelt between her thighs bending over her.
Kisses to her stomach.
Hazel held her breath as he curled his tongue across her lower abdomen.
Slow.
Intentionally withheld.
His hand grasped her thigh pressing open as he feathered broken kisses along her lower abdomen, and the crease of her thigh. He reached a hand to hers entwining fingers beside her hip, as kisses worked the length of her thigh and back up.
âPeople assume that Iâm impulsive.â
He hovered between her thighs, eyes trailing over places that made Hazel want to curl up. He trailed his fingers softly, across her skin, admiringly.
âIn fact, I am a man of extraordinary discipline when it comes to getting what I want-t.â
Hazelâs breath caught as hot lips met flesh.
He lavished his tongue slowly across her, and she whimpered, curling her hips towards him. Â
âThatâs good Doll.â
He spread his tongue across her and held, before sucking gently, tantalisingly withheld.
Hazel wanted to scream.
Soft kisses worked to tease her, intentionally not giving too much. Â
And then she felt his fingers against her, as though gently mapping her.
Hazel grew stiff, scared heâd withhold.
He circled her core.
His lips stilled on her flesh as he slid a finger into her. Maddeningly slow, and smooth.
Hazel moaned, almost tearful with need.
And then he resumed the pressure with his tongue and lips, filling her with his fingers.
Hazel cried out a little.
âGood girl.â He breathed into her. âyouâre a wet little mess, detective.â
He licked the length of her as his fingers worked, kissing methodically, adoringly between her thighs.
Hazel squeezed around him in agony.
He kept building.
Pacing.
Teasing.
It made no sense that this depraved man could make her feel that good.
The coil in her belly started tightening.
And she entwined her fingers in her hair.
His fingers deepened, broadening strokes, allowing her more as he kissed her.
Hazels hips curled and her breath laboured, short sounds escaping her throat as he pleased her.
The clown focused, intensifying his tongue in gentle curls.
Hazels back arched desperately, her legs opening for him and in response he gave her more.
Hazel felt a wave building as he pushed deep with his fingers and lavished with his tongue.
She cried out as a wave surged through her, and she pulled him in towards her.
Her body contacted, electric waves rolling through her body and the clown didnât slow.
Wave after wave, and trembling as he dragged her pleasure out almost too far.
He stopped only when she curled away from him, sensitive. Then he travelled up over her, his hand adjusted his own briefs, sliding back from his hips and his weight coming to rest over her.
He took her breast in his mouth, pressing a tongue to nipple and hazel ran thick wedges of his green curls through his fingers.
Hazel wrapped her arms around his strong body, hands gripping his shoulders, his kisses worked back up her neck and he found her lips. Firm kisses. Deep.
His hips rolled against her.
His hard cock pressed against her still sensitive parts.
He perched up on his elbows and aligned.
Again, Hazel held her breathâŠ
Then he pushed, stretching her mercilessly.
Deeper.
Hazel gasped into his shoulder, struggling for breath as he gave her more than she could contain. Her hands clung to him helplessly.
A growl from the clown as he paused and savoured the feel of her wrapped around him and gave her body some time to adjust to what he offered.
âThatâs it, Doll.â He purred âopen for me.â
The he curled his hips and deepened, impossibly.
Hazels head tipped back into the pillow and he opened his mouth in her neck, sucking and kissing.
âIâve always wanted to fuck you, detective.â He growled between kisses. âI knew youâd be so tight. So sweet.â
He rocked his hips hitting deep and Hazel scrunched her eyes shut, breathless.
He open kissed her mouth and rocked again, strong hand clamped to her hip, pinning her beneath his force.
Hazel relaxed under his weigh as he ground rhythmically into her, his lips exploring everywhere that he could reach.
He built his rhythm savouring her until his knocks came steady and firm.
Again that coil started to build in Hazelâs belly, she ached between her thighs. She kissed him back, harder.
Her eyes locked with him a moment. Blue eyes lost in the abyss of his stare.
A guttural sound from the clown.
She curled her fingers into his back as he fucked her, the steady motion becoming a chase, the look in his eyes depraved.
The coil tightened into something so intense it had to shatter and she held his dark stare as it did.
Hazel cried out as her body released.
The clown growled as he ruptured. Stuttering against her hips as he released himself, before lowering onto her heavy breathing and sweaty.
Hazel held onto him in the dark, their hearts hammering against each other.
Killer. Madman. Man.
She savoured his warmth and his weight.Â
**
Hazel lay in stillness. Her head against the clownâs shoulder.
Her mind wandered, softly.
âThe testimonyâ â Hazel started, almost to herself âIt changes things.â
âmmm-hhmm.â The clown responded lazily âI knew the truth would change things, Doll.â
âI donât know what Iâm going to do about it.â
âYou will, detective.â He opened his eyes a slit. âAt least now you arenât restrained by lies, and thatâs the fun of it.â
He rolled away punctuating the end of the discussion.
Hazel scooched closer, put and arm around him and rested her forehead on his back, soaking up the skin and connection. Â
The clowns easy breathing steadied hers Leaving Hazel in a state of hollow, depleted, calm against him.
Except the headache she could feel slowly setting inâŠ
Perhaps the excitement had stirred up concussion symptoms â but she was determined for a good night sleep, she had a lot of work ahead of her. Â
Peeling away from the clown, Hazel stood up. It was like a knife in the head as soon as she stood and it reminded her of the pain in Lieutenant Jamesâs apartment, and the first night at Jâs when her injuries were freshest.
She slipped into the bathroom.
Maybe the clown would have something. She swung open the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Russian red lipstick, Band-Aids, mouthwash, sleeping pills. Hazel paused.
Nothing of use.
Reluctantly she went to the kitchen and repeated the same process. Mostly the cupboards were bare except for the cereal she had been eating, some tins, and some pancake mix.
She tried the fridge. Behind the eggs was a little bag that looked like a medical bag. Hazel glanced over her shoulder â she was really snooping at this point.
Her head pulsed with another surge of the headache.
Fuck it.
She needed a good rest.
She picked up the little bag and unzipped it.
No headache tablets.
Just little vials and syringes. AnaestheticâŠ
Her stomach dropped.
Hazel remembered the first night the clown had stuck her. The sting of it. The way her vision had faded and how she ended up back in her own bed like she had woken from a dream. He had put her in a car trunk and ransacked her home.
He had lied to her then. He had lied more than once.
Hazel picked up the vial of anaesthetic in her hand and turned it in her fingers. The headache faded as her attention narrowed.
She wasnât living the lie anymore, and the truth said: she couldnât trust anyone. She new what justice looked like, and the only person she could trust to deliver it, was herself. Â
Suddenly it dawned on her - she knew what she had to do.
She didnât like it, necessarily. Yet, it was the only thing that would fix the problem: once and for all.
Hazel felt peace wash through her. Not the kind of peace she stole by giving her body to the Joker, letting him flood her mind and her senses for the fleeting, albeit incredible, distraction. True peace. The kind of peace that comes from solving a problem.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
Origins
âDo you wanna know how I got these scars?â
The question hung in the air, teasing. Threatening. Daring Hazel to answer.
A trickle of sweat ran the length of her ribs under the borrowed teal shirt.
The question was the clownâs signature.
He was known to taunt with false intimacy before he killed, the same way a cat might release a mouse for the sport of catching it again. But none of the stories he told were true... they were always changing. The story was his prelude to death. Psychological warfare.
Yet, Hazel couldnât resist the possibility that he was offering her the truth. Â
Jokerâs breath washed over her neck; his knife still paused to her cheek. The wall of chest at her back and his physical presence like a vice grip she was frozen in.
âCat got your tongue, Doll-Face. Hmm?â he rumbled.
Hazel turned to face him. He loosened slightly. Tentatively she raised her eyes to meet his. Her heart galloped as their eyes met.
His expression was still. Emotionless.
He was waiting for her to take to answer the question. Waiting for her to take the bait.
Hazel let out a slow breath.
Despite herself, her gaze dipped to his cheeks: deep rivets of pain. Of trauma. Hazel savoured the details of his jaw: the strong cut of his features, the ropey texture of the scars, the smaller nick that partially cleaved his bottom lip. She lingered reading his features because her let her.
It was a terrible story etched into his face and perhaps it was the origin of it all.
Hazel felt a trill of life breathed into her, a welcome distraction from the Lieutenant, and Miff, and the path ahead of her. She wanted the answer at any cost and she buzzed with anticipation. Joker was offering information forensic psychologists spent careers unravellingâŠÂ what drives such a mad-man?
Her professional curiosity was temptation enough, the fact that the story linked to her father⊠this wasnât information she could afford to pass.
Her perhaps that was the lie she told herself to excuse her personal interest.
Hazel drew breath, readying to speak as though she was negotiating a trap that might spring any second.
"How did you get your scars?" Hazel swallowed.
The words felt wrong hanging in the air. Like she had asked the question in the stillness of a tomb
The clown flicked the knife shut as though for no reason the mood had left him. Â He stepped away from Hazel, leaving cold air in the space where he had stood over her.
Hazel watched him wander to the sofa and drop into it, letting his knees fall broadly. Theatrics and threats were discarded, replaced with a demeanour that seemed earnest â or perhaps another façade to fool her.
One mask, swapped with another.
With a sweep of his fingers he ran his sandy-green hair back off his face and then leant forward looking Hazel over from under his brows.
He didnât run his usual routine, instead he took a conversational tone.
 âAlright detective.â He said simply.  âParts of the story you already know - Iâll, ah, help you fill the gaps.â
He circled a hand in the air lazily for emphasis.
âWe were kids you and I, but I know you remember, even if you havenât made all the pieces click.â
"We were kids?" Hazel repeated his words as though the sentence itself was senseless. She shook her head "I don't even know what you are suggesting.â
"Itâs the truth cup cake. I saw you that day. Like me, you were no more than ten years of age, passenger side of the squad car. Iâd never forget those eyes.â He paused. âCall it our meet cute. I know you saw me."
He smirked at that comment, entertained with himself.Â
Hazel furrowed her brow.
âI first saw you in the holding cell at GCPD before the batman disappeared from Gotham â the night before you hijacked the ferries on Gotham harbour. Right before you blew the guts out of the holding cell and escaped.â
âNot that doll, ancient history compared to tha-t.â he rolled his eyes, impatient.
Hazel frowned, matching his impatience: he was winding her up.
âIâd remember if Iâd met you before â it doesnât make any sense.â
He raised his brows.
âJust because you donât remember right now, doesnât mean it didnât happen. Trauma hides things from us, Doll, but I know deep down you remember.â
The clown looked at her with dark eyes. Measured.
Suddenly she felt naked, like he was looking through her into parts she didnât mean to share. He looked at her with such conviction that she almost believed him.
Almost.
He was a known liar, and she was proving herself gullible.
Hazel opened her mouth to tell him so, but he spoke first.
âI heard you say my name, Detective.â He paused. âI didnât think you remembered until this morning. You were dreaming, and you said my name in your sleep."
Hazelâs stomach lurched.
It was strange, but possible. She had been in his company for days â so-what if he entered her dream. It didnât mean anything.
âI said Joker?â Hazel asked.
The clown shook his head with a tsk. A flash of irritation crossed his features as though Hazel should comprehend faster.
"Thatâs not my birth name, Doll. You said my name."
Hazel felt a cold freeze come over her body, like she was locked in place by the words and the weight of the implication.
His birth name.
Impossible. Â
Even the GCPD didnât know who the fuck Joker was. He had a record and prints at the station, heâd been in and out of the asylum, but there were no early records that predated the alias of Joker. No one in the system new his origin.
The muscles in her shoulders burned with tension.
No.
Hazel, Enough!
He was lying and wasting time. She was an idiot to think he was revealing something to her because she was special. He was probably stalling whilst his hench men went after the Lieutenant so he could beat her and piss her off.
Hazel went to protest, to insist she was done with games, but before she spoke a sense of familiarity hit her.
The image of a sandy haired boy flashed in her mind.
The boy from her dream.
In that instance she knew it was the truth.
It was not sudden clarity, not a revelation, but an echo. A wisp of something vague. A fragment of recognition.
Hazel stilled. Her mind raced in disbelief. There was something there in the repressed quarters of her mind, she was suddenly sure of it.
Either that, or the clown was sending her loopy.
The clown smiled, a smile that told her he saw her realisation and hungered for it.
Hazel ignored him and focused her mind on the face of the little boy â he was clearer now.
Sandy hair, loose and wild around his face. Shockingly dark eyes that locked with hers and held them.
Hazel replayed the whole dream scene. She was seated in her dadâs squad car deep in the Narrows. She remembered how withdrawn and troubled her father had been, frighteningly distant despite his physical presence. She watched him as he approached the warehouse and the little boy appeared in the doorway and the little boy locked eyes with her.
Hazel felt her gut knot as though she was transported right back to that moment.
Dark eyes, bandaged cheeks.
The little boy stared, and Hazel stared back.
In many ways the look in his eyes was a mirror of herself. A thousand words: powerlessness, confusion, the desire for comfort, expressed silently through the meeting of their gaze. Despite the distance, they connected over something profound: fear and uncertainty.
Holy shit. It was like an electric bolt through her body as fragmented memories fired.
Without warning, everything in her mind snapped into focus:
The words escaped her lips before she could consciously process what she was saying.
âYou are Jack Napier.â
She said the words fast and full of breath.
âThe missing boy. My fatherâs last case beforeâŠâ a lump rose in her throat and she stopped.
A pleased rumble from the clown.
âhmm. Thatâs the one, DollâŠthatâs me. Little Jack.â
Hazelâs mind was spinning wildly. Snippets of old news coverage and her parents hushed arguments came flooding in.
âThey said you killed your parents.â Hazel blurted. âThey said you drowned in Gotham Harbour.â
âReally, I was just a boy that wished he was a man. My mother used to speak of my father and say, Jack, one day I fear he will kill me, yet she stayed. I dreamed of running away and taking her with me. We talked about all the places we might go⊠but there was always one more reason to stay.â
His voice was steady, matter of fact. Like he was detached from the story he was telling.
âOne day he came home angrier than usual, laid off from his job. Heâd already been drinking. My mother and I tried to stay out of his way, but that only enraged him more. He came looking for us, looking for trouble. This time when he took his hands to my mother, I decided to be that man I wished I was and protect her.â
Silence stretched.
âYou fought him?â Hazel asked.
Joker let out a laugh, rueful, one of regret. A laugh that said, if only.
âI called Gotham City Police Department.â He licked the scar on his bottom lip âIt was the first time I had ever called for help, and it was the last. Scared me more than my father did, to make that call. Why would they help a boy from project housing in the narrows?â
Hazel felt the urge to protest but didnât â it was their job to help. Why wouldnât they?
âHe was starting off slow with her that night, but I couldnât shake the feeling that it was the day he would kill her. So, I called, and sure enough GCPD came to the rescue. Or so it seemed.â
Joker smoothed the material of his pant leg, taught quads giving shape to the pin stripes. Â
âThatâs the night I first met your dad.â
âHoly crap. My dad was one of the officers that took the call-out? Hazel gave a bewildered shake of her head. Her palms were damp in her lap. This information was wild.
âHe was, and a colleague officer. Your father took my dad in cuffs and took him to the squad car where he remained, but his colleague stayed in our apartment. This officer wasnât well intentioned and had the room all to himselfâŠthe way he wanted it.â
Hazel drew a breath. Without knowing what he would say, she could feel the darkness ahead. As though she was being drawn into deep, murky waters waiting for something to wrap around her ankles and drag her under.
âMy mother sat, frail and shaking, like a bird. Like something hopeless thatâs been broke too many times and canât remember being whole, a packet of frozen peas pressed to her bruised cheek. The officer gave my battered mother a smile Iâll never forget.â Joker paused to lick the scar in his bottom lip then added âEvery time I burn this city, itâs in the name of that smile, and his words that followed.â
Jokerâs eyes flicked up to meet Hazels. Arctic cold and razor sharp.
âI can make all your problems go away, Mrs Napier⊠but nothing in this city comes free.â
Hazelsâ blood ran cold, but Joker smiled at her with an ironic grin, seemingly amused at the darkness of it all. Despite the loopy grin, Hazel caught the anger that flickered beneath it.
âEven as a child who had never expressed lust, I knew what he wanted. The hunger and contempt in his eyes told me everything I needed to know; we were in more danger than before Iâd made that call.â
âJ, no.â Hazel breathed.
Joker arranged his posture to embody the officer and the memory that lived inside him.
âYouâre pretty Mrs Napier, but are you smart?â Joker borrowed the officerâs mocking tone. âAre you gonna put those good looks to work to save you and your boy.â
Hazel felt chunks rise in her throat.
âWhen asked to choose between her dignity or her safety, my mother chose dignity. I remember the hatred in the officersâ eyes when she straightened a little and told him no. She was so powerless, but she hurt him with that single word. Maybe he didnât expect rejection from a woman with nothing, wasnât used to it. For a moment, I could see him wrestling with his choices â take her by force, or punish her with natural consequence â he chose the later, and after a several minutes of silence he brought my father back in, ugly and cursing and left us to him.â
âWhat happened then?â Hazel asked, but her stomach turned because she already knew.
âMy father turned to me first. He labelled me a traitor, a pig-loverâ an insolent boy. Told me he was going to permanently fix my attitude. And he did â calved a new outlook right into my face. A hack-job with a kitchen knife.â
Hazel watched the flicker of tension in Jâs jaw. There were feelings beneath the scars, but he denied them, distorted them, used them in violent ways.
Her stomach curled.
Who could hurt a child that way?
âand your mother?â
âHe killed her, and for that, I killed him.â
He spoke about his parentâs deaths with clinical indifference. Matter of fact. Emotionless. Like a spoiler to a film youâd never bother watching. The grief belonged to a skin he had shed many years ago. All that was left was a twisted mess, anger and hollowness and sadistic glee.
Hazel felt a surge of anger.
âWas my dad complicit in this?â Her voice rigid âdid he know.â
Hazel swallowed. Even after all the years of anger towards her father, she couldnât bare to believe he was complicit to the harm of a mother and her child.
âYour father wasnât complicit, but he was naĂŻve. After I ran he found me hiding-out in a warehouse in the narrows, fed me, brought me basic medical items. He admitted that his partner extorted victims regularly. He believed that if he stood with me to tell the story, he could bring down the perpetrators within GCPD and have me acquitted. He had me sign a testimony about what happened that night and promised me he would stand as a witness.â
âHoly fuck.â
Hazel let the information sink in. It was almost too much. Her father, harbouring a fugitive. A child. This boy that would ultimately become Gothams most destructive force. She almost didnât believe it, but it made too much sense. The dreams of her father that haunted her continuously, the way he always tried to tell her something, but couldnât. What could he have said? The little boy in the warehouse door wasnât a dream, he was real and he was the monster seated in front of her.
The clown leaned back locking his dark eyes with Hazel. What was his expression? Unreadable. Maybe it was just empty in there, reflecting whatever Hazel wanted to see. A true void.
âThere was a warrant for my arrest â wanted for the murder of both my mother and my father. There was no record in the system of the police call out so there was nothing to corroborate my version of the story except my word and his â the truth was covered with lies. In a state like this, with no juvenile justice system â I would have spent life in Black Gate prison for killing the man who murdered my mother and mutilated my face. The same system I turned to for help was about to eat me alive and pick itâs teeth with my bones.â
Hazel stared through the floor. After all the years she had looked towards her dad with disappointment and contempt, she felt a flare of pride at his stance. Perhaps he wasnât a coward after all.Â
âMum never talked about the specifics of his dismissal from GCPD â just that she was ashamed of him. I could see he had changed and didnât care about the job. That broke my heart to see. He was angry, he drank. Her story was easy to buy.â Hazel paused âWhen I got old enough to ask real questions, I didnât bother. He was gone by then, and Iâd closed my heart.â
âYour dad tried to convince me that I was important, that someone would care, but that stary eyed optimism cost him. He needed to believe it because he had you. I knew it the moment I saw you, seated in his vehicle: big blue eyes, so unassuming. He needed a world that he could bare to leave you in, and that blinded him.â
The clown leaned back into the sofa resting too casually, in comparison Hazel perched, hanging breath by breath to the new reality as it unfolded.
He stared at her in a way that made her shiver.
âIt fascinated me that he loved you so much that he projected it onto me. He actually thought that I was worth something. I wasnât worth shit, and the world showed him that soon enough.â
âHe made a mistake thinking I mattered just because you did. He made a mistake trusting the system to be its own judge. Worst of all, he made a mistake trusting me. I didnât want to be acquitted in a court and move into the foster system, nameless and abused. I wanted to become something that the whole city would regret⊠and I did.â
The grin that teased Jokers lip was something different. A sick pride. Power. Showmanship.
He enjoyed what he had become. It was something he had accomplished.
âYour father tried to fight it alone, a glutton for punishment. His story never made court, they buried him in lies because the truth was too ugly and all the while I watched from a distance. Gotham showed her true heart like I knew she would and your father took the fall⊠but he carried out one last justice.â
âIt didnât take much, a little DNA on the scene, his report that heâd chased me and seen me fall into the harbour, it was Gotham winter and the water would kill in minutes. A week later an item of my clothing washed up to corroborate his story. Of course, there were many who didnât believe that I was dead, officers that believed he had conspired, but that didnât matter â the rumours of my death hit the news and to a corrupt police department that wanted no more noise on the issue, it was a fine enough outcome. A kid like me wouldnât survive the narrows even if I was alive, it wouldnât be for long.â
âYour father was consumed by guilt and disgust. It tortured him that the law and the justice weren't one in the same - he had to choose, and he choose justice. When he couldnât save me his way, he gave me a shot on my own. He couldnât have imagined the, ah, potential he was releasing.â
That self-satisfied smile lingered and he stretched his strong arms over the sofa backs, taking up space as though reliving his grandest moment.
âYouâll never understand what it feels like to be reborn, and to build yourself in the image of your own darkest imaginings.â
Hazel felt a stab of pain in her chest. Her insides churned with grief, and wild spikes of outrage. How dare they treat him that way: her father, and Miff, little Jack Napier and his mother. All the while pretending to be on the right side of justice. It made her angry. It made her sick.
Jack Napier had escaped the fate of prison; he had escaped an unpalatable journey in Gotham foster care or homes for boys. Yet, what had those years alone looked like? She couldnât imagine what transpired for that boy â fleeing the crime scene that used to be his home and becoming what he was now: The Joker.
What horror had filled those years?
A deep melancholy gripped her and a sense of protectiveness, maternal in its ferocity.
Hazel turned towards him on the couch where he sat. Her body flooded with painful emotions. He sat, calm and broad and tentatively she shuffled closer. She reached for him and her breath caught as her hand found his cheek.
Joker didnât react, chest rising and falling softly.
Gaining confidence, she curled closer and cupped his face gently, as though it was little Jack Napier receiving a tender touch so long overdue. She traced his jaw with her fingers feeling the light abrasion of a shaved face.
In a way, his fractures were beautiful.
His eyes turned to her and the depth struck her hard. For a moment they were just blue eyed and brown eyed kids trying to make sense of something far bigger than them.
Heart hammering wildly, Hazel leant forward and placed a small kiss on his scared cheek.
The scar was cool beneath the warmth of her lips. Smooth.
The world seemed to stop.
Hazel heard him breath, a short inhale.
There was a moment pause that stretched; all consuming, as she hovered beside him.
For a moment longer he absorbed the touch of her hands on his face and let her presence linger.
He raised his hand to hers and his calloused hand covered hers. Then he gently removed her.
It wasnât angry, it wasnât forceful.
He just created space.
He released her hand back and looked at her. Â
His face was more neutral, freer of character or emotion than she had seen it and Hazel wondered if it was actual sincerity peeking through⊠but she knew she shouldnât trust the mirror.
Joker reached out to Hazel and smooth a strand of hair back from her face.
âDonât be as naive as your Pa. hmm. Youâre smarter than that.â Jokers voice was quiet. âThe boy you want to comfort is long gone.â
The words hit with a twang of emotion â perhaps the boy in the doorway could have been saved, but not the man in front of her.
âIs Jack Napier buried alive?â The hush of her tone matched his as she remembered the clownâs advice to bury her own grief alive.
Joker laughed, softly.
âJack Napier was dead even before he put 32 knife holes in his fatherâs chest.â He licked his lip, thoughtful. âDoll, I stabbed my father even after the life was gone from his eyes, because it felt good. Donât confuse your emotions for mine, kid, it will be the end of you.â
Joker got up. Standing over Hazel.
âI need to be somewhere; a manâs got business and what notâ he straightened his shirt. âI canât shack up here with you all day playing house, even though I know you like it.â He smirked. âYouâll be okay a few hours, Doll. Just donât do anything rash without me.â
He reached into a pocket.
âI have something for you.â He added.
He withdrew a folded sheet of paper, softened and heavily discoloured from time.
âMy written testimony.â He announced. âIâve never showed anyone except your father the day he helped me write it. Itâs full of specific details youâll find interesting. Locations, dates, names. Everything your father wanted the world to know. Everything that got buried in lies.â
He folded it in Hazels hands and held her fist for a beat.
âI donât consider myself sentimental, but, ah, I kept it all these years. Itâs been a reminder that when I had the chance to beg my abuser for mercy, I didnât. Most importantly, itâs a reminder that this hell scape known as Gotham deserves The Joker.â
He let go. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
âI donât need the note to remember what I stand for. The information is yours now detective. As I said they never wanted you to have it because you'd be too powerful with the truth.â
Hazel gripped the paper silently.
He left her unceremoniously.
A few long strides and the clanking of locks, and Hazel was alone.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gothamâs haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Jokerâa man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she canât control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself heâs brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N:
Sorry for the wait on this one! I wrote it crazy fast, then spiraled a bit in edits until I couldnât tell what was working anymore. Letting it sit helped more than I expected.
I really love how it turned out. đ I hope you do too!
Not the empty kindâbut the charged, humming quiet that comes after something irrevocable has been said.
Alina didnât answer him.
She couldnât.
Her lungs refused to remember their purpose, breath caught somewhere high and useless in her chest. The rain battered the windows in relentless sheets, thunder rolling so close it felt like it vibrated through the bones of the building. The fan rattled overhead, uneven, protesting.
Jack didnât move.
He stayed where he wasâclose enough that she could feel the heat of him in the air, the subtle displacement of space his body made just by existing there. The bed dipped beneath his weight, a reminder she couldnât escape by closing her eyes.
Her fingers clenched in the blanket at her chest.
Not to pull it away.
Not to push him back.
Just to hold on.
His gaze stayed on her face nowâwatching. Reading. As if the answer he wanted wasnât in her mouth, but in the way her throat worked, the way her pulse jumped beneath her skin.
âYouâre shaking, sweetheartâ he said quietly.
Not an accusation.
An observation.
Her body betrayed her again, a faint tremor running through her limbs like a fault line giving way. She hated that he noticed. Hated that he always did.
âWhat are you doing here,â she managed, the words barely scraping out.
Something unreadable crossed his faceâtoo fast to name. Shame, maybe. Or something darker.
âI wanted to see you,â he said.
So simple.
So bare.
So infuriating.
The words landed like a blowâbecause of course he said it like that. Like it was obvious. Like wanting her now erased every way heâd ripped her apart to force her away.
Her chest burned. Her throat thickened.
You wanted to see me?
Then why did you aim a gun at my heart?
Why did you tell me to run?
Why did you watch me drown?
Her fingers curled tighter in the blanket.
âDon't,â she whispered, choking on the heat in her chest. âYou canât just... say that.â
He looked away, jaw tightâlike her words had brushed a nerve he thought he'd ripped out long ago. Then he leaned back just enough to give her spaceâan inch, maybe two. Not retreat. Just allowance. And still, everything in the room leaned toward him.
Outside, lightning flashedâwhiteâhot and briefâcatching his face in stark relief: the sharp line of his cheekbone, the hollow beneath it, the rain beading on his lashes⊠and the scars, raised and jagged, catching light like something raw and unfinished.
When darkness slid back in, he was still there.
Unchanged.
Unmoved.
He let the quiet settleâslow and heavyâlike ash after a fire.
Then finally, low:
âI know what an asshole I sound like. Believe me.â
He exhaled hard through his nose, almost a scoffâat himself, maybe. At the sheer stupidity of it all.
âI tried to leave things where I dropped them,â he said. âWalk away. Donât look back. Thatâs usually the trick.â
A small shrug.
âDidn't take.â
âThen I saw you on my TV...â
His voice went quieter, not softer.
âAnd staying gone stopped being an option.â
She bit the inside of her cheek, fingers knotting in the blanket until her knuckles went white.
Something warm slipped past her lipâshe only realized she was crying when she tasted salt.
No sobbing. No sound. Just a few tears she hadnât meant to give him.
Jack went very still. He didnât smile. Didnât mock. He only watched her quietly come apart, like he knew he had no right to touch it.
Then, slowlyâas if approaching something wild, something fragileâhe shifted closer.
The mattress dipped. His coat brushed her knee.
âDon't,â she whispered hoarsely. âJust... don't.â
He stilled instantly.
Her breath hitched hard, shuddering loose in her chest.
âYou donât get to do this,â she whispered. âYou donât get to just⊠show up⊠and say things like thatâafter everything you did.â
Lightning split the sky. Thunder devoured the next second.
Her voice sharpened.
âYou made me beg. You broke me on purpose. You walked me out like I was a problem to dispose of.â
A shaky breath.
âAnd then you justâyou watched Gotham tear me apart like I was some goddamn joke on a talk show. And now you come here? You come here likeâlike I should just⊠absorb it. Like I should be glad you remembered I exist.â
It hit in waves.
Anger. Grief. Heat.
Her voice cracked. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â
Silence. Heavy. Relentless.
Then he swallowedâhardâand when he finally spoke, there was nothing in his voice to hide behind.
âI know.â
Two small words. So painfully unornamented.
No trick or excuseâ
Just acceptance. Like a verdict heâd already sentenced himself with.
Her breath shook. âThatâs not enough.â
âI know,â he said again, softer.
Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders trembled.
âThen why are you here?â she demanded. âWhy didnât you just stay gone?â
His gaze skated away, posture tightening like he wanted to shrug it off, make it a joke, turn it into something easier than it was.
He didnât.
His fingers curled into the sheets instead, knuckles stark. His thumb pressed down into the mattressâslow, deliberateâas if he had to brace to say it.
âI tried, doll.â
Bare.
Human.
And the softness of it hurt more than anything cruel heâd ever said.
He looked back at herâreally lookedâand her chest caved beneath the weight of it.
âI really thought I could,â he said quietly. âThought if I cut you loose, Iâd remember who I wasâthat things would⊠settle.â
Thunder rolled slow and heavy outside, further off now than before.
âBut they didnât,â he finished, voice rough.
âEverything just got... worse.â
Silence spread between them, tender like a wound.
âI dreamt about you,â he said. âEvery damn night. Woke up pissed because you werenât there. Spent the day convincing myself it didnât matter andââ
A humorless breath.
ââthat didnât take either.â
He swallowed, jaw tight.
âIâm used to life being empty. Always have beenââ
A pause.
âBut without you?â
His eyes didnât blink.
âIt didnât feel empty anymore. It feltâunlivable.â
The words seeped into her. Slow. Inevitable. Like water finding every fracture sheâd tried to seal shut.
Something inside her pulled tightâthen tore open.
Her throat burned. Her vision blurred. Heat flooded her face and there was no stopping itâno discipline strong enough, no willpower vicious enough to hold it back.
Because he wasnât apologizing. Wasnât promising better. Wasnât pretending he deserved her.
He was just telling the truth.
And somehowâthat hurt worse.
Her breath stuttered out of her, sharp and shamed. Tears spilled fast, before she could stop themâsilent and furiousâtracking hot down her cheeks.
She pressed her hands over her face, as if she could stuff it all back in.
It didnât matter.
Her body folded. Not toward him. Not reaching. Just⊠collapsing. Shoulders curling inward, spine caving as if something vital had finally given out.
Jack didnât move.
Didnât speak.
Didnât dare.
If heâd smiled, she would have hit him. If heâd mocked, she would have screamed. If heâd said anything glib or playful or Jokerâ
She almost wished he would.
Instead he only watchedâquiet, steadyâas if even he understood there was nothing to laugh at here.
No victory. No power. Just ruin.
His fingers twitched in the sheets.
Slowlyâcarefullyâhe leaned in just a fraction.
Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again.
âHey,â he said softly.
Not quite comforting. Not quite coaxing.
Just⊠helpless.
She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in the air. That terrible, aching urge in him to do somethingâto wipe tears, to steady her, to take back every bruise heâd ever carved into her.
His fingers twitched again, then went still, like even his hands didnât trust themselves.
He stayed where he was.
Not because he didnât want to close the space.
But because he finally seemed to understand he had no right to.
And somehow, God, that broke her worse than anything else had.
Her shoulders trembled harder. A wet, broken sound slipped against her palms before she could swallow it back. She tried to steady herself, to pull everything in again, to be small, contained, untouchedâ
It didnât hold.
âI hate you,â she gasped into her hands, voice tearing raw through her throat. âI hate you so much.â
A truth and a lieâtwisted together so tightly she couldnât tell where one ended and the other began.
âI know,â he murmured.
Not offended.
Not wounded.
Just⊠accepting it like another scar heâd earned.
Lightning flickered again, gentler now. Rain softened against the glass. The storm outside was moving on.
The one inside her wasn't.
She dragged in a shaky breath, trying to force herself back together and failingâtears still sliding between her fingers no matter how tightly she pressed them there.
And finallyâ
finallyâ
that terrible stillness heâd been clinging to broke.
Jack leaned forward.
Slowly. Carefully.
His hand liftedâhovering beside her cheek like a question.
He hesitatedâ
And for one suspended heartbeat, she had a choice.
â
But she didn't push him away.
And when his fingers finally met her skinâknuckles gliding gently down her jaw, his thumb catching a tear he had no right toâ
Something inside her buckled.
She leaned into it.
Into him.
He exhaled like it hurt.
Then he drew her in.
Not aggressively. Not possessively.
Carefully.
Like the most dangerous thing in the room wasnât him.
It was her.
Her forehead hit his chest. A quiet, broken sound escaped her before she could smother it.
His coat was cold. His shirt was damp. He smelled like rain and smoke and something painfully familiar.
His arms wrapped more fully around herâtentative at first. Then tighter. He tucked his chin into her hair like a man who didnât trust his voice.
And they stayed like that for a whileâthe softening thunder breathing for both of them when they couldnât.
Eventually, he shifted. Slow. Careful.
âLie down,â he whisperedâtentative, as if he wasnât sure he deserved to ask.
She didnât have the strength to argue.
He leaned back slowly, taking her with himânot by force. Just a quiet insistence that left no room for thought.
She went.
Because she was so tired. Because her bones hurt. Because some pathetic, treacherous part of her had missed the way her body fit against his like memory.
She turned onto her side without thinking.
He followed.
An arm slipped beneath her neck.
Another settled at her waist.
He curved around her like heâd always been meant to live there.
No conquest. No claim.
Just quiet closeness. Just breath. Just warmth.
The storm was quieter now, gentledârain softened to a lulling hush against the glass, thunder fading into distant grumbles like the sky had finally worn itself out.
Her body betrayed her in increments.
Her breathing slowed first. Then her pulse. Her muscles softened against himâeach beat of calm a cruel contradiction.
Because the man who let her drown was now the one holding her above water.
And worseâshe didn't have the strength to care.
He shiftedâbarely.
Just enough for his chest to press more fully to her back.
Just enough for his breath to brush her earâgentle as a ghost, warm where he used to kiss her.
That old current hummed awake beneath her skin before she could even thinkâa deep, warm ache unfurling where she had sworn she would never feel him again.
Her hips tensed in reflexive denial, even as heat pulsed lowâstubborn and alive.
No.
God, no.
Not this.
Not now.
Not him.
Her eyes squeezed shut, breath catching as fury tangled helplessly with needâself-loathing and longing clawing against each other inside her ribs.
Her thighs pressed together on instinct, desperate and ashamed, as if she could cage the feeling thereâcrush it before it owned her.
She hated it.
Hated how easily her body gave him this.
Hated that some deep, ungovernable part of her still recognized him as safety. As gravity. As something dangerously close to home.
She swallowedâtight and trembling.
And then she felt itâ
The unmistakable press of him against her lower back.
Hard.
Undeniable.
Her heart lurched.
Oh God she thought, humiliation flooding hot beneath her skin.
She felt him go still.
Utterly.
Like an animal catching scent.
Like restraint tightening around bone.
He didnât move. Didnât make a sound. Didnât take.
He simply⊠stilled.
Understanding her.
Feeling her.
And for onceâchoosing not to touch what he clearly wanted.
It should have helped. It almost didâ
But fear rarely listens to logic.
âPlease,â she whispered, voice wrecked. âPlease donât⊠do anything.â
There was a beat of silence, thick enough to drown in.
Then his voiceâlow, steady, almost carefulâfor once not something sharp enough to bleed on.
âI wonât.â
His arm tightened around herânot dragging closer. Not grinding in.
Just anchoring.
His breath shook once against her hair.
But he did nothing.
Nothing but hold her.
Nothing but stay.
Thunder rolled far away. Rain softened. The heat relented, slipping away like a fever breaking in the dark.
Eventually, her breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rhythm against her spine.
She hated him.
She needed him.
She didnât know how to survive either truth.
But for the first time since he leftâ
She slept.
And he didnât let go.
Not once.
---
She woke alone.
Sheets warm, tangled. The air still heavy with storm-scent and sleep. Her pulse was slow, sluggish. For a moment, she didnât moveâbarely breathedâafraid it would all vanish if she did.
Her hand reached instinctively behind her.
Nothing.
Just cotton. Just empty space.
Her chest pulled tight.
She rolled slowly to her back, blinked up at the ceiling, the faint murmur of the rain now little more than background noise.
Her heart sank with each second that passed.
Of course, she thought.
Of course he was gone.
A dry, humorless sound scraped up her throat and died before it could become a laughâthat hollow ache returning like punishment.
This was what he did.
He came with storms and left with silence.
Cracked her open. Softened the parts sheâd fought like hell to harden.
Made her forget how to protect herself.
And then he vanished.
Again.
Her chest didnât break this time. It just⊠folded.
God, how could she be this fucking stupid.
How many times did he have to do this?
How many times would she let him?
She dragged her hands over her face, pressing until her vision pricked, as if sheer force could cage the grief before it found a way out.
But it did.
It always did.
She swallowed hard against the burn in her throat, ashamed at how deep it went.
Unlessâ
Her breath caught.
Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room.
What ifâŠ
What if he hadnât been here at all?
What if none of it had happened?
No restraint.
No warmth.
No breath against her hair.
No arms around her in the dark.
What if the one night since he left that she hadnât felt aloneâ
âhad been nothing but her brain lying to her so she could survive a little longer?
Her heart jolted, sharp and violent, like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted.
Because thatâ
That hurt worse.
Worse than betrayalâ
Worse than abandonmentâ
Worse than him leaving was the idea that he hadnât come at all.
That the comfort had been conjured.
That the tenderness had been imagined.
That there wasnât a version of him whoâd stayed, even for a single night.
Heat stung the back of her eyes. Her throat burned.
God.
What kind of pathetic creature grieved harder over losing a dream than losing the real man who ruined her?
She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth, swallowing down a sob that didnât make it past her chest.
It shouldnât hurt like this.
It shouldnât hurt more.
But it did.
Because at least if heâd held her and left⊠it meant it had existed.
At least then the tenderness had been real before it shattered.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Stupid. Stupid. STOP.
Her breath came sharp. Uneven.
She forced herself upright, hands trembling against the mattress. The room swayed in the quiet after-storm hush, heat still clinging to the air like breath on glass.
She dragged a shaky hand through her hairâ
And froze.
There.
On the floor.
A dark shape.
Crumpled. Heavy.
Hem soaked through.
Rain-wet.
His coat.
Her pulse stuttered like the world had shifted under her feet.
It hadnât been a dream.
Heâd been here.
Heâd touched her.
Heâd held her.
A sound broke the silence.
A soft clinkâmetal brushing ceramic. And beneath it⊠the low murmur of a television.
She blinked, heart thudding, suddenly breathless for an entirely different reason.
He was still here.
---
She crept toward the door, barefoot, heart hammering.
Every step felt fragile. Breakable. Like the floor might fall out from beneath her at any second.
Fingers trembling, she turned the knob.
The door gave with a soft creak.
She slipped into the hallway, breath shallow, pulse hammering as she crept toward the living room.
Turned the corner.
Andâ
There he was.
Sprawled sideways across the couch like it was a throne.
Legs kicked up over the armrest, boots on. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirtless. Just a pair of dark jeansâwrinkled, half-buttonedâas if heâd gotten bored halfway through the act of dressing.
Scars mapped his chest in sharp, unapologetic lines, catching the morning light. One hand dug absently through the Tupperware container of Emmaâs leftover muffins. The other cradled a mug, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
The television played quietly in front of him.
An old cartoon. Black-and-white. A little character with big eyes running in frantic circles while the background looped endlessly.
Alina stood frozen in the doorway.
He didnât look at her.
He just picked a crumb from his lip, then tilted the muffin container toward her like an offering.
âBlueberryâs decent,â he said around a mouthful. âBanana nutâs kinda shit.â
She said nothing.
Couldnât.
Her brain short-circuited trying to make it make sense. The storm. The warmth. The solid weight of his chest pressed to her spine. The way he stayed.
And nowâthis.
The Joker. In her living room. Watching cartoons and eating muffins like it was Saturday fucking morning.
âMorning, sweetheart,â he added after a beat, glancing at her over his shoulder with an infuriating, lazy grin. âYou sleep okay?â
Her mouth opened. Closed. Rage bloomed hot behind her ribs.
She stalked forward and clicked off the TV.
He blinked at her. âI was watching that...â
Alina stared at him, vibrating with disbelief.
âYou break into my apartmentâterrify meâturn my life inside out,â she said slowly, voice shaking with the sheer absurdity of it. âAnd now youâre just⊠eating muffins and watching cartoons?â
He nodded once, solemn. âI like cartoons.â
She stared at him.
For a heartbeat, there werenât even wordsâjust disbelief and fury flooding her veins in one unbearable rush.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â she hissed.
âDefine wrong,â he said, licking a bit of muffin from his thumb. âIn the moral sense, or more of a psychiatric framework?â
She stared.
He stared back.
Thenâshrugged.
âI was hungry. Thought you wouldnât mind.â
Alinaâs jaw clenched.
âIâm not talking about the fucking muffins!â
He blinked. Tilted his head. âYouâre not?â
âNo!â Her voice cracked. âIâm talking about youâbeing here! Sitting there like nothing ever happened. Like weâre just⊠like weâreââ
She couldnât say it.
She didnât even know what she was trying to say.
He waited.
Patient.
Silent.
Then slowly, almost gently:
âYeah.â Something flickered across his faceâ amusement, maybe. Or something darker. âThatâs the bit youâre stuck on, huh?â
Silence stretched. He set the mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink.
Thenâcalm as if discussing the weatherâ
âWell. Youâd better pack a bag.â
She blinked. âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â
He rose from the couch like he had all the time in the world. Unbothered. Certain. Dangerous in that quiet, maddening way that made the air feel too thin.
He tossed the muffin container onto the coffee table and stretchedâlong, slow, unhurried. Muscle rolled beneath pale skin in fluid, powerful lines; not posingâjust existing.
Which somehow made it worse.
That maddening calm never left his eyesâlike he owned the room.
Like he owned her.
Her gaze droppedâtraitorousâto the sharp line of his stomach, where his jeans clung low over his hips.
The stark cut of hip bone.
That arrowed groove disappearing beneath denimâa path she knew too well.
Heat flickered through her as her mind filled in the rest from memoryâshamefully, vividlyâbefore she could choke it down.
He smirked.
Fuck. Heâd seen her look.
Her heart skippedâ
Because he knew.
He stepped toward her.
One slow stride. Then another.
Not touching her.
He didnât need to. The air between them was already electric.
She hated how her pulse stumbled. How her body reacted like it remembered him better than she wanted to admit.
Then, he leaned inâjust enough to make her lungs forget how to work. His voice dropped low.
âWhy would you go anywhere with me?â he repeated her question back to her, like a joke.
Then, with that quiet, predatory confidence that made the room feel smaller:
âBecause I came back for you.â
A pause. His gaze dipped to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes.
âAnd you never stopped wanting me to.â
---
His eyes held hers for a beat longer.
Then they dragged down her bodyâslow, deliberate.
No shame. No hurry.
Like an artist studying a ruined canvas he still found beautiful.
When his gaze returned to hers, something dark flickered there. Not quite a smirk.
Just that same terrifying certainty.
And thenâ
He turned.
No parting glance.
No explanation.
Just an ending, like her voice had never mattered.
His footsteps receded down the hall, slow and maddeningly calm.
For a stretched, unbearable moment, Alina didnât move. She only stared at the hollow he left behind, rage and confusion twisting tight inside her⊠tangled with something she refused to name.
Then she followed.
Bare feet whispering over the floor.
Pulled by fury.
Pulled by gravity.
She reached Emma's bedroom and stopped in doorway.
He was already thereâlike he belonged.
He stood in front of Emmaâs dresser, shrugging lazily into his black shirt as if this were his room and this were his morning. He buttoned it one-handed with obscene ease, the collar left open, that pale line of throat and collarbone unapologetically visible.
Like this wasnât madness.
Like she wasnât burning.
ThenâEmmaâs comb.
He picked it up without pause, without thought.
Drew it through his damp curls in languid, practiced strokes. A tiny frown of concentration tugged at his brow as he smoothed back a rebellious strand. He looked absurdly domestic. Infuriatingly casual.
Violently intrusive.
Like he had a right to touch things hereâ
A right to anything.
To take breath.
To take space.
To take her.
Her fingers curled into fists.
She stood there in the doorway, still in nothing but her bralette and underwear, pulse hammering, limbs rigid with fury.
He caught her reflection casually in the mirror.
Glanced at her.
Unfazed.
âBetter put something on, sweetheart,â he drawled, casual as if he were stating something that had been decided hours ago. âCanât exactly take you home dressed like that.â
That did it.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
But something deep and buried and exhausted snapped inside her.
She stepped into the room.
Slow
Controlled.
Each step quiet but filled to the brim.
He didnât move or turn.
Just watched her from the mirror as she stopped behind him, fury simmering in her eyes like heat off asphalt.
âYou really must think Iâm pathetic,â she said softly.
Calm.
Precise.
The comb paused mid-stroke.
He met her gaze in the mirror againâeyes darker now,
Alert...
Interested.
âHmm,â he hummed softly, lowering the comb with deliberate slowness, setting it gently back on the dresser.
He turned to face her. No smirk. No mask. Just that quiet, coiled focus that always meant something was coming.
One step.
Then another.
Measured.
Soundless.
Like a man walking toward something he already owned.
Alina's bare shoulders rose and fell with the effort of holding herself together, but she didnât move. Didnât back away.
Her spine stayed straight. Chin high.
"You think Iâm pathetic,â she repeatedâlow, but stronger now. âBecause I let you come back. Because I let you touch me. Because I didnât throw you out. Because Iââ
Her voice cracked.
She swallowed hard.
âBecause every time you rip my life apart and leave me bleeding, I still⊠I still wantââ
She couldnât finish.
The truth lodged in her throat like glass.
She turned her face away, as if not facing him might undo it. As if silence could cauterize the wound.
But his gaze didnât waver. She felt itâanchored, merciless.
âAnd after everythingââ she whispered.
She looked up. Met his eyes.
âAfter you broke me. Aimed a gun at my chest. Told me I was just another game. Threw me away like trash...â
Her hands curled into fists. Her voice grew louder.
âAfter months of silence. After I had to crawl my way back into something like a life.â
Her brow furrowed. Her tone sharpened.
âAfter you humiliated me on live TV. Called in like you still had any right to speak to me.â
A breath. Trembling. Controlled.
âAnd then you show up here. Eat muffins. Watch cartoons. Stand in my best friendâs bedroom, combing your hair like you live here. Like Iâm yours. Like you didnât walk away and let me drown and only came back when it suited you again.â
Her jaw clenched.
âAnd you honestlyâhonestlyâthink Iâd just⊠go with you?â
Her chest rose and fell like sheâd run a mile.
He watched her.
Still.
Quiet.
Unbothered.
Like she was weather. Something to stand in. Something that would passâif he just waited.
Then he did the worst possible thing.
He smiled.
Soft. Confident. Certain.
Like he already knew how this ended.
âYeah,â he said simply.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Just certainty.
Because in his world, she would come. Because she always had. Because gravity didnât ask permissionâit pulled.
Something broke.
Not like before.
Not collapse. Not sobbing. Not begging.
Something detonated.
Her breath shudderedâ
Then she screamed.
âYOU SON OF A BITCH!â
Her hand grabbed the nearest thingâEmmaâs brushâand she hurled it across the room. It hit the wall, splintered plaster raining.
His brows flicked up, not in fear.
In interest.
She was already moving.
âYOU DONâT GET TO DO THIS!â she shouted, voice cracking open into something raw and feral.
âYou donât get to tear me apart and LEAVEâand then come back and act like none of it matteredâlike my feelings mean NOTHING.â
A frame on the dresser went next. Then a candle. Then a pillow she slammed into his chest hard enough that he actually staggered a half-step back.
He didnât laugh.
Didnât mock.
Just looked at her.
Like she was fury made flesh.
Like heâd waited his whole goddamn life for this momentâher voice sharp with fire, eyes wild, chest heaving with the weight of her own defiance.
He looked at her like a man seeing God.
And she hated it.
Hated the way his gaze shimmered with awe and something sick and tender. Like her rage was beautiful. Like it turned him on. Like it made her his all over again.
And worseâworseâwas the way her pulse kicked under her skin.
The way her spine buzzed with the twisted thrill of being seen like that.
Wanted like that.
Worshipped like that.
Her fists clenched. She wanted to scream. To claw the look off his face.
Because it made her feel powerfulâ
and powerlessâ
All at once.
His scars shifted with the faint curl of his mouth, eyes dragging over her like a tide pulling at the shoreâlike he couldnât stop even if he tried.
âJesus doll,â he said. Quiet. Like it was a compliment.
His pupils blew wide, swallowing the color of his eyes.
She stared, breath caught in her chest.
âI love you like this,â he murmured. âWhen you quit pretending. When you stop being good.â
A breath.
âWhen it finally breaks through⊠all that fire you keep bolted down.â
Something inside her recoiled.
Because he wasnât joking.
He wasnât trying to be cruel.
He meant it.
âYou donât know what you look like right now,â he whispered. âShaking. Burning. Ready to tear the world apart.â
He swallowed hard, like he could taste her fury on the airâlike it fed him.
âYouâreâGodâyouâre beautiful when you lose control.â
And that was it.
The moment the final thread tore loose.
Her hand moved before she could think.
âwithout planning, without mercyâ
She slapped him hard across his face.
It landed with a sound like splitting woodâraw and final.
His head snapped to the side. His eyes went wideânot angry.
Shocked.
He didnât speak.
Didnât move.
Just stood there. Breathing hard. Like the contact had rewired him.
ThenâGoddammitâthere it was.
That slow, crooked, reverent almost-smile trying to claw its way onto his face.
Admiring her.
Worshipping her.
But she didnât flinch.
Didnât regret it.
âYou think this is hot?â she hissed.
âYou think I'm doing this for you?â
He touched his cheek. That near-smirk hovered there, but faint now. Unsure.
âThis isnât foreplay,â she said. âIâm not awakening for you. I am not coming alive. Iâm just trying to fucking breatheâand youââ her voice broke, then sharpened, âyou think thatâs sexy?â
He stared at her.
The smile finally died, his face went blank.
âI am not your entertainment,â she said.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
Not fear. Not anger.
Maybe shame.
Maybe.
âYou think you can just snap your fingers and I'll just follow you like some loyal pet?â
His jaw twitched.
A flicker of expressionâmaybe regretâbut he didnât speak.
Didnât move.
Didnât deny it.
She shook her head, breath leaving her in a tremor she couldnât mask. God, she was so tired. Tired of bleeding for him. Tired of wanting something that didnât know how to stay. Tired of feeling like property around him instead of a person.
She stepped closer.
Close enough to see the exact point where his breath caught.
Close enough that if he reached for her, she wasnât sure sheâd survive it.
âDonât you get it?â she whispered
Her chest rose hard once. Then again. Tears burned and heldâsuspendedârefusing to fall because if they did, she wouldnât stop.
âIâm not yours anymore,â she said.
It wasnât a declaration.
It was grief.
A burial.
Something fragile and precious laid down and left to die between them.
Silence.
The room seemed to pause with her, as if even the air understood what it cost to say itâ
and then his gaze lowered.
Just for a heartbeat.
Down.
To the place above her hipbone.
Where his mark still lingered.
Her stomach twisted. She braced for itâfor the smirk, the cruel retort she knew he was capable of.
If youâre not mine⊠why is my name still on your skin?
But nothing came.
He didnât grin.
Didnât speak.
He just looked at her.
Not amused.
Not Joker.
Just Jack.
And for a suspended, fragile heartbeatâŠ
he looked wrecked.
Jaw tight. Breath unsteady. Like the world had tilted and he hadnât caught his balance yet.
Then it vanished.
All of it.
The tenderness. The hurt. The crack in the armor.
His face closed. His gaze emptied.
Clean. Efficient.
The way a light goes out.
He stepped forward.
Slow. Controlled.
And when he spoke, it wasnât a whisper. It was something lower.
Raw. Certain. Unshakable.
âYes,â he said.
No hesitation. No mercy.
âYou are.â
He reached for her wrist.
âCome onâwe're going home.â
She yanked away like heâd burned her.
âNO!â
Then she lunged.
Shoved himâhard. So hard he actually stumbled.
He caught himself against the wall.
Stared at her.
Like she was a bomb.
Because she was.
âDonât touch me,â she hissed. âDonât you fucking touch me!â
They stood thereâ
Him, like she was the only thing in the world that could hurt him.
Her, like he was the only thing sheâd ever wanted to erase from existence.
The air between them crackled.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Thenâ
His expression shifted.
Twisted.
Like this was the moment he realized he might actually lose her.
Like he felt it.
Like he knew he couldnât stop it.
When he spoke, his voice was quietâalmost desperate.
âYou think I donât know what Iâve done?â
The words scraped out of him, rough and splitting at the edges.
âYou think I like this part?â
He took a step forwardâbut it wasnât calculated.
It was helpless.
A hand lifted, then dropped.
âI came back for you. I didnât know what else to do.â
A breath. A tremor. His eyes searched hers like they might offer a way back.
âI came back, Alina. Iâfuck. I couldn't stop thinking about you.â
She didnât move. Didnât blink.
He swallowed hard.
Then murmuredâalmost to himself:
âYou said I broke you.â
He nodded once, slow.
âFine. Maybe I did.â
His jaw clenched.
âBut you broke me too, doll.â
She stared at him.
Her heart didnât soften.
It splintered.
And thenâit ignited.
âNo.âÂ
Her voice came lowâterribly calm, like something that had burned past screaming and found something colder.
No tremor.
Not fear.
A rage distilled down to something lethal.
âDonât you dare try to make this romantic.â
âItâs not romantic,â he growled. âItâs a curse. You live in me. Youâve infected me. I came back because not having you was killing me.â
âShut your fucking mouth,â she whispered.
Soft. Precise. Final.
And somehow the whisper landed worse than shouting.
âDonât you dare.â
He blinkedâstunned, like for a moment heâd glimpsed himself through her eyes and didnât recognize the thing he saw.
She stepped toward him, fists heavy at her sides.
âYou donât get to come back now,â she snarled.
âYou donât get to crawl into my life again because you were lonely. Because your head got loud. Because your bed felt cold. Becauseâsuddenlyâyou decided you couldnât live without me.â
Her hands shook.
Her entire body shook.
Not with fear.
With rage.
With grief.
With power.
He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. âAlright, youâre madââ
âMad?â She laughedâsharp, breathless, broken.
"You destroyed me in that courtyard, Jack. You told me I was nothing. Pathetic. A joke.â
His eyes flickeredâsharp, involuntaryâlike sheâd dragged him straight back there.
âYou aimed a gun at me and said it was all fake. That you used me. And I believed it. I still see it when I close my eyes.â
âI was lying Alina...just trying to get you toââ
âNo, see, thatâs the lie,â she hissed, stepping toward him now. âThe lie is that you let me go for me. Like you were doing me some goddamn favor.â
Her voice brokeâthen came back stronger.
âBut it wasnât mercy, was it?â
He went still.
âIt was cowardice.â
He said nothing. Just stood there, like the words had stripped him bare.
âYou were going to kill me,â she whispered. âDonât fucking lie.â
âAlinaââ
âDonât,â she snapped. âYou aimed that gun at me with full intention. But you couldnât pull the trigger, not because you caredâbut because it would make you feel something.â
He looked away, jaw flexing.
âYou couldnât live with that. With feeling something human for once. So you ran from it. Like a fucking coward.â
âDollââ
âNo. Donât try to rewrite it. You ran. Like you always do. The minute something cuts deeper than you planned, you vanish.â
She saw itâjust once. A glimmer of something ugly and wounded crossing his expression. As if her words had drawn to the surface the very thing he'd tried so hard to drown.
He moved toward her.
She flinchedârecoiled. Like the air between them had turned toxic. Like letting him near would split her open all over again.
He stopped mid step. Fists clenched, then flexedâas if he didnât know whether he needed to hit something or fall apart.
His voice came fast. Unsteady. Like the words had been building in his chest too long and finally broke loose.
âI know I fucked up. Jesus, doll, I know.â
She stared.
He dragged a hand down his face.
Took in a shallow breath.
âYouâre right, Alina. I ran. Like a coward. Like a goddamn idiot.â
He laughedâlow, bitter. The sound of someone who finally understood the joke was on him.
âIâve walked through kill zones without breaking a sweat. Rigged cities to blow and slept like a saint. Made mob bosses crawl. Outsmarted Gotham PD at every turn. Vanished from the goddamn world without leaving a shadow...â
He shook his headâslow, disbelieving.
âBut you?â
His voice dropped. Rough, low, real.
âYou walk into a room and I forget how doors work.â
A pause.
He met her eyes. Held them.
âYou make me stupid. You make meâhuman. And I couldnât fucking stand it. So I ran.â
He took in a shallow breath.
âIâm not built for this shit, Alina. I donât do feelings. I donât doâwhatever the hell this is.â
His eyes flicked to hersânaked and ashamed.
âBut I came back.â
His voice frayed at the edges.
"And for a guy like me⊠doll, you gotta know what that means.â
She said nothing.
Her chest tightened. Just barely.
A twitch of breath. A splinter of something old and aching. One awful heartbeat stutteredâwarm and stupid, flaring behind her ribs.
But she crushed it.
âYou came back because you couldnât sleep.â
Her gaze pinned him.
âBecause the silence got too loud. Because you missed the way I looked at youâlike you were something more than the wreck you are.â
He froze.
âAnd now you want what? Forgiveness? Redemption? Another hit?â
Silence stretched between themâuntil finally, he said it. Quiet. Unsteady.
Honest in a way that hurt.
âI want you.â
It landed like a wound.
She didnât speak.
Didnât look at him.
Her lashes fluttered once.
And thenâ
She felt them.
Tears gathering. Slow. Treacherous. Her body breaking ranks without permission.
He stepped forward.
She flinched.
He stopped.
âI hate that I need you,â he said quietly. âBut I do.â
She turned her face slightly away, swallowing hard.
It hurt. Because he meant it. Because sheâd wanted him to mean it.
And because it didnât matter anymore.
When her voice finally came, it was threadbare.
âSo what happens now?â
No fire. No fight left.
âYou put me back in your bed?â
Her eyes lifted to his. Tired. Hollow.
âOn a leash this time?â
He flinched.
His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his gazeâshame, hunger, grief.
Then, quiet. Ragged.
âNo leash.â
A pause.
âUnless you wanted one.â
His voice shookâjust a little.
âI wouldnât touch you unless you asked me to.â
Another breath. Almost a whisper now.
âBut God, Alina⊠Iâd wait forever, hoping you would.â
Her vision blurred, not from the tearsâbut from the sudden, brutal weight of it.
Like the floor had shifted beneath her.
Like his voice had cracked something loose sheâd barely kept buried.
He looked at her thenâreally lookedâand something broke in his eyes.
âI donât want your fear, Alina. Not anymore.â
A beat. Shame flickered.
âI just want⊠you. However youâll let me.â
And that was it.
The moment the wall gave outâand everything inside her surged to meet it.
Tears spilledâhot, unwantedâcutting down her cheeks like salt in an open wound.
But they didnât drown her.
They lit the fuse.
Grief and fury collidedâviolent, blindingâfusing beneath her ribs until her chest felt like it might split.
Because how dare he say it like that.
Like he was the wounded one.
Like she held the power now.
Like he hadnât already torn her open and called it devotion.
Her breath hitchedâbut not from tenderness.
Not from hope.
She shook her head, once. Slow.
Because where had this been?
Where had it been when she was on her knees in the dark, begging for scraps of warmth?
Where had it been when she wouldâve followed him into fire?
Her voice broke through the quiet.
Low. Furious.
âYou donât get to destroy my life and then make me comfort you about it.â
And his lookâGod, his lookâhe knew it. Knew heâd crossed every line that mattered.
But still, he dared.
âDoll, I didnât come for comfortâI came becauseââ He faltered. âFuckâI thought... maybe I could fix it. Us. Start over. No games this time. Justâ"
âSHUT UP!â
She snatched his coat from the floor and shoved it into his chest.
He didnât move.
She slammed it into him again, harder this time, until he finally caught itâlike reflex more than will.
Her face was soaked. Not the kind of crying that begged for comfort.
The kind that warned you not to touch.
âYou donât get to be here,â she said, each word a fracture.
âNot in this apartment. Not in my bed. Not in my FUCKING LIFEâNot after what you did in that courtyard.â
He swallowed.
She stepped closer.
Deadly calm now.
âAnd I swear to God, JackâIf you try to stayâIf you try to laugh it offâIf you try to reduce this to some kind of game againââ
Her voice dropped to a knife.
âI will make you bleed.â
Silence followedâthick, absolute.
Wind rattled the old windows. A siren screamed somewhere far away. The world seemed to tilt toward them and wait.
Something dark flickered in his eyesâinstinct, raw and violent and achingly familiar.
The kind that grabbed.
That pinned.
That took what it wanted and dealt with the fallout later.
His hand twitched at his sideâthen stilled, fingers curling into a fist like he was physically holding himself back from reaching for her.
She felt it in the airâlike a wire tightening.
He could force this. Heâd done worse. Heâd taken more.
For one awful, charged heartbeat, she truly believed he would.
Then she watched it hit him.
Watched something raw and jagged flare across his faceâthen burn out.
He exhaled slowly.
Painfully.
Like a man setting down a loaded gun aimed straight at his own heart.
âDammit,â he muttered, low and roughânot amused, not mocking. Just lost.
He looked down at the floor between them, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. When he lifted his gaze again, there was no Joker in it.
Just Jack.
Bare. Exposed.
He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff heâd never planned to fall fromâonly now realizing he already had.
Then something in his face shifted.
Acceptance.
Maybe respect.
Definitely pain.
He exhaled againâslow, steadyâlike folding a blade back into its sheath.
âYeah,â he murmured. âOkay.â
He shrugged into his coat with movements that were too carefulâlike he didnât trust his own body not to betray him. Adjusted the collar like it was armor.
He didnât touch her.
Didnât smirk.
Didnât play the clown.
He just looked at herâsoft, devastated.
âFor what itâs worth,â he said quietly, âyouâre right. You should hate me.â
He turned and walked toward the door.
Stopped onceâhand braced against the frame, knuckles white.
Oooof. Iâm so sorry for offering hope and then ripping it away so ruthlesslyâbut I couldnât live with myself unless I gave Alina the space to finally put this man in his place!
This was her Jane leaving Rochester momentâthe âI love you, but I wonât erase myself for youâ reckoning. And wow, did some of those lines hurt to write.
Our man is so catastrophically down bad and still utterly incapable of saying âI love youâ like a functional human being. Not that it would save him right now anywayâhe torched that possibility the day he pointed a gun at her and told her all those cruel lies. Sir really said âlet me emotionally self-sabotage in the most unforgivable way possible.â What a stupid, emotionally constipated wreck of a man...đ
As for where this goes nextâI do have several scenes planned and a loose concept of the ending, but Iâm very much flying by feel at the moment. Iâm just as excited (and maybe a little terrified) as you are to see how I manage to pull this all together đ
I'll also be fully honest and say this is actively driving me a little insane. I want them, back together desperately, but my need for everything to be psychologically honest will always come first. After everything Alinaâs been through, she deserves growth. She deserves agency. She deserves to choose him, not collapse back into him.
And that restraint is currently my personal hell. đ
Thank you all so much for the incredible comments on the last chapter! It genuinely means everything that you love these two as much as I do đ„č Iâm so glad youâre here with me on this feral, emotionally ruinous ride đ€đđđ€
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gothamâs haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Jokerâa man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she canât control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself heâs brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N:
â ïž Opening note:
Iâm honestly terrified this chapter is boring. Itâs quiet. Itâs slow. Itâs just her, and the air, and the acheâand a lot of weather.
But rest assured⊠by the end, something happens. Something very big.
This is also the chapter I broke myself writing. So I really, really hope it hits the way itâs meant to đ
If you make it to the endâthank you.
If you feel anythingâthank you.
I am, as always, hanging on by a thread and whispering into the void.
One arm beneath her pillow, the other curled to her chest. The pillow was damp. Sweat clung to her skin in a light sheen, and the airâGod, the airâfelt thick. Oppressive. Like something waiting.
Alina blinked slowly. Somewhere far off, a car honked. Closer, a pipe clicked in the wall, expanding with the strain of summer heat in early spring.
She rolled onto her back with a low groan, pressing her hand to her eyes.
Last night's dreams were already slipping awayâjust smudges of velvet and the weight of something she couldnât hold. But the feeling remained.
That ache behind her breastbone. That hollow throb of grief and longing, indistinguishable from one another in the murky air.
She didnât know what sheâd dreamedâonly that whatever it was had meant something.
And now it was gone.
She sat up slowly, rubbing the crick in her neck, skin prickling with sweat. The heatwave had somehow worsened overnight. Her room, windowless and airless, felt like a sealed box.
She opened the door. Warmth greeted herâheavy, but lighter than her room. The hallway was dim, only the pale wash of daylight spilling in from the living room windows.
The television murmured in the distance. She drifted toward it, drawn by the familiar rhythm of anchor voices.
When she rounded the corner, the studio lights of last nightâs broadcast lit up the screenârewind footage, familiar graphics, the looping headline: JOKER CALLS LIVEâTERROR RETURNS?
Emma scrambled for the remote.
Click. Silence.
The room felt louder in its absence.
Emma winced, guilt already in her eyes. âSorry,â she said quickly. âI didnât think you were up.â
Alina just stood there, the nausea rising slow and familiar. That cold twist in her stomach, her throat, her ribs.
âItâs fine,â she lied.
But Emma didnât turn it back on. She left the remote on the cushion beside her like it had bitten her.
âI made muffins,â she offered instead, softer now. âBlueberry, and banana walnut. Want one?â
Alina picked one up from the counter. Still warm. Still soft. She took a bite, but the taste didnât register.
âIs it really noon already?â
Emma smiled gently. âYou were out cold. Probably needed it.â
Alina nodded, swallowing crumbs that felt like sand.
A quiet settled. Gentle. Companionable.
And then:
âI can help you pack, if you want,â Alina said. âYour train leaves at four-thirty, right?â
Emma froze mid-sip of her tea. Then she set the mug down too carefully.
âIâm not going.â
Alina blinked. âWhat?â
âThereâs no way Iâm leaving you after what happened yesterday.â
Alina stared at her.
âEmmaââ
âNo. Thatâs final." Emma's voice sharpened. "You were ambushed on live television. He called you! You think Iâm just gonna hop on a train and go cuddle a newborn while you deal with this alone?â
Alina felt it hitâthat rising pressure behind her ribs, the kind that steals your breath before it breaks you.
Alina didnât mean for her voice to shakeâbut it did.
âThatâs⊠thatâs why I did it. The interview. The moneyâitâs for you, Em. For the train. So Eddie would back off and you wouldnât have toââ
She stopped, jaw tightening.
âPlease donât make me feel like I shouldnât have done it.â
Emma opened her mouth, but Alina was already moving.
âI got the advance. Early payout.â She disappeared into her room, returned with a folded stack of billsâsmall, but enoughâand held it out.
âThis should cover your ticket. Food. A gift for the babyâwhatever. Please... Just go.â
Emma looked down at the money. Then back at Alina.
âYou went on that show⊠for me?â
Alina gave a small nod.
Emma blinked, stunned. âButâI told you not to do it. I begged you not to go on.â
âI know,â Alina said softly. âBut you needed help.â
Emmaâs eyes filled instantly, her voice breaking. âI canât take that,â Emma said, âNot if it came at that cost.â
Alinaâs expression didnât change. She just stood there, steady, holding out the money.
âYou have to,â Alina said. âOtherwise it meant nothing.â
And the fire Emma always carried⊠flickered, then cracked.
âI donât want to leave you,â she said quietly.
âI know,â Alina said. âBut you have to.â
Emma stared at her, eyes glassy. âWhy?â
Alina exhaled, and for once, the truth came easily.
âBecause youâre the only good thing left that he hasnât touched.â
Something raw crossed Emmaâs faceâgrief, helplessness.
Her mouth parted, like she might say something. Anything. Then closed again.
Alinaâs expression didnât budge.
âYou worked so hard for this time off. Youâve waited so long to meet her.â She hesitatedâthen finished quietly, ââŠplease donât miss something beautiful because of me.â
Emma flinched like the words hit a bruise. Her face crumpledâsmall, involuntary. She looked down, then back up again, swallowing hard.
Finallyâafter a long, unbearable pauseâEmma exhaled. Shaky. Slow. Like it hurt to let go.
âOkay,â she murmured. âIâll go.â
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to something fierce and trembling.
âBut you have to promise me something. If anything even feels offâeven for a secondâyou call Gordon. Immediately. No waiting. No âmaybe itâs nothing.â You call him. Do you hear me?â
Alina nodded. âI will.â
It wasnât loud, but it was steady enough that Emma let out a breath.
Then, she pulled Alina into a hugâtight, sudden, full of the kind of fear she rarely voiced aloud.
Alina didnât move at first. But when she finally returned the embrace, she felt the faintest tremor in Emmaâs body⊠and the warm, damp press of tears against her skin.
Emma drew back gently, thumb brushing the corner of her eyes before she pretended nothing had happened.
âOkay,â she said quietly. âIâll⊠start packing.â
She tried for a smile. It wobbled.
âAnd heyâeat another muffin, okay? Theyâre better warm.â
Then she turned down the hallway before the tears could spill over, leaving Alina alone in the sweltering living room, the air thick and unmoving around her.
The quiet closed in again.
And somewhere far off, thunder murmured.
---
Hours later, Alina stood alone in the small apartment.
It felt even more suffocating without Emma in it.
It wasnât just the silence. It was the lack of tether, of someone elseâs gravity keeping her rooted.
Alina considered leavingâjust to get some air. A change of scenery. The press had thinned since the interview; just a few idling cars now, a rare flashbulb like a dying insect. Maybe she could walk around the block. Maybe she could remember how to feel like a person.
She dressed like she might.
A sundress, soft and loose. Her hair swept into a bun. A shaky hand dragged eyeliner across her lids, followed by mascara. It helped. A little. Enough to trick herself into thinking she was okay.
She stood at the door with her fingers wrapped around the knob.
Just turn it.
But she didnât.
She couldnât.
Sheâd only left the apartment once since the night he'd let her go. And that had been in a car from Kip's production teamâwith a driverâpicked up and dropped off like a fragile package.
The thought of stepping outsideâof seeing a neighbor, a stranger, or God forbid, someone she knewâmade her feel like her pulse might shatter her skin.
Like her throat might collapse in on itself.
She let go of the knob.
She tried to busy herself. Mundane things. Ordinary thingsâ
She watered Emmaâs plants. Cleaned the dishes. Put away the leftover muffins Emma hadnât taken for Joel and Becky.
It was so damn hot.
Sweat prickled her back and made the sundress stick to her spine. The tendrils that had escaped from her bun felt like a noose at the base of her neck.
She prayed it would just rain already.
When there was nothing left to do, she stood at the kitchen counter and stared at the chipped backsplash tilesâold green-and-ivory porcelain. Art deco, 1920's maybe. Probably original to the building.
She wondered what it looked like back then.
What the city sounded like. What kind of woman stood in this kitchen, hands on this same counter, breath caught in this same air.
Was she happy? Was she safe?
Did she keep secrets in silence too?
Alina shook herself hard. Like a dog shedding water.
Enough.
She turned toward her room.
There was a box in the corner she had never opened. A time capsule from a different life, carried here by Emma like a wound in storage.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened itâa battered watercolor set. A pad of heavy paper, pens worn to nubs, and rusted tubes of gouache.
She brought it all to the breakfast nookâwobbly chairs, old table stained with Emmaâs tea rings. Filled a chipped mug with water. Sat down.
Stared at the paper.
For a long moment, she didnât move.
And then something in her cracked openâsilent and inevitable.
Her hand moved. Brush to paint. Paint to page.
She didnât think. She didnât seeânot in the way she used to. She just bled. Quiet and fast and shaking.
When she looked up, the sun was gone.
The apartment glowed blue with the last light of dusk. The air was thick and swollen, the humidity high enough to blur the edges of the room.
Three sheets lay in front of her.
Three faces stared back.
The first was all redâraw, slashed, a mouth caught between a scream and a prayer. Blood that bloomed and bloomed but never dried.
The secondâbruised purple. Shadows gouged beneath the cheekbones. Dark circles under darker eyes. Fingers pressed into the throatânot in clear form, but in shape, in suggestion.
The thirdâcold blue. Hollow. Watching. The eyes too black to read. The jaw sharp enough to cut. The silhouette more suggestion than substance.
But she knew that face.
God help her, she knew it.
Her stomach turned.
The paint was still wet. She watched a bead of sweat drip from her temple, roll down her wrist, and fall onto the paperâmixing with the still-drying blue, distorting the pupil, making the face blur and weep.
The effect was worse. More haunted. More human.
A breath escaped her chest without permission.
Goya. Bosch. Munch.
They came to her mind, uninvited. Painters of nightmares. Of holy terrors. Of silent screams buried beneath the skin.
What was happening to her?
Outside, thunder rolledâlow, long, and close.
She looked up. The kitchen light flickered.
And for just one secondâ
It felt like she wasnât alone.
â
She stood very still, eyes scanning the apartment.
The flicker passed. The hum of the refrigerator resumed. Nothing moved. But the air had changedâjust slightly. As if someone had breathed in behind her.
She pressed the back of her wrist to her forehead, trying to will the sensation away.
Heat did strange things. Loneliness did stranger.
Another rumble shuddered through the sky.
---
She needed water.
A reset.
A shock.
Something.
She moved fast.
Down the hall. Into the bathroom. Flicked on the lightâit buzzed, dimmed, steadied.
Her motherâs voice surfaced without warning, old and gentle and superstitious:
âNever shower during a thunderstorm, honey. You could be electrocuted.â
Another rumble answered her before she could shove the memory away.
She turned the dial anyway.
Lukewarm water sputtered to life, fogging the mirror in patches. She stepped, scrubbing fastâlike she was washing something off, not away.
Sweat and paint and dread swirled down the drain in weak spirals.
The water shouldâve felt like relief. It didnât. Every distant growl of thunder knotted her stomach tighter.
She shut off the shower before it warmed. Toweled off fast.
Cotton clung to her damp skin as she dressedâa mauve bralette, soft and familiar, and white panties with the tiny blue flowers pressing coolly against her hips.
She clipped her wet hair up, stray drops sliding down her shoulders in the thick air, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.
---
The apartment was too quiet.
She couldnât name it, but something had shifted. In the air. In her blood. As if the world itself were leaning closer.
Alina opened the fridge. Ate cold pasta salad straight from the container. Tore off a piece of bread.
She ate standing up, the door ajar, cool air brushing her knees.
One last bite.
Then, she shut the door. Drifted to the living room.
Her hand hesitated over the remote.
House rule: no news.
But Emma wasnât home. Emma was on a train, headed away from all of this.
Away from the danger.
Alina pressed the button.
The news flickered on.
âStorm of the century expected to break sometime around midnightâŠâ
A round, harmless-looking weatherman gestured enthusiastically at thermal maps and swirling radar animations.
âMore updates at the top of the hour as the front moves in.â
Then the shift.
Batman. Mafia bust. Sirens.
The usual storm of Gothamâs chaos.
She watched without really watching, her mind already drifting.
Where there was Batman, there was usuallyâ
ââŠstill no word from the Joker since last nightâs unexpected live callââ
A freeze-frame appeared. Her face. Kipâs. The studio lights frozen mid-glare.
Her stomach shot upward.
Her thumb snapped down.
CLICK.
Next channel.
An infomercial for The Incredible Indestructible Knife! âCuts anything! Never dulls!â
CLICK.
Two figures in period clothing filled the screenâwind-tossed, wild-eyed. The moors stretched behind them, bleak and endless.
Wuthering Heights. The 1970 version.
Of course it was.
Cathyâs voice filled the roomâbreathless, frantic. Heathcliffâs followed, low and furious, the two of them circling each other like storm fronts ready to collide. Every line was soaked in longing and bitterness and that terrible, impossible need to be understood by the one person capable of destroying you.
Alina didnât move.
Heathcliffâs anger broke first. He grabbed her. Cathy shoved him back. They clung and fought and tore at each other in the same breath.
When he dragged her into the mud and smeared it across her faceâAlinaâs breath caught.
A claim.
A wound.
A kiss sharpened by fury.
Cathy gasped into him like she couldnât tell which one of them was hurting.
Alina felt something hot twist low in her chest.
She watched every second. Forced herself to.
The way Cathyâs hands fisted in Heathcliffâs clothes, the way he held her like he wanted to crush her against himâlove indistinguishable from violence; that deep, feral recognition:
If I am ruined, it is because of you.
If I am alive, it is also because of you.
Her head throbbed. A slow, pulsing ache behind her eyes.Â
Butâno tears.
The film moved on.
The separation.
The sickness.
The madness of grief that dragged Heathcliff half-feral across the years.
It shouldnât have hurt this much to watchâ
shouldnât have felt this familiar.
When Cathyâs ghost returnedâwhite, barefoot, wild-haired, beckoning through the moorâs fogâAlinaâs chest constricted. The wind on-screen screamed across the heather; the score swelled, haunting and mournfulâ
Heathcliff followed her into death like it was the only place he had ever meant to go.
Two figures alone on the moors.
Two shadows finally converging.
The music was devestating.
Alina's fingers curled against her chest on instinct. Something inside her wanted to crack openâlike her ribs were pushing outward, trying to let the ache escape.
But nothing broke.
Her eyes burned.
Her throat drew tight.
Every breath hurt.
And stillâno tears.
Just pressure.
And heat.
And that terrible, hollow pain in her chest that felt like longing wearing the mask of grief.
The credits rolled.
The music faded.
She sat in the silent blue glow of the television, pulse hammering behind her eyes.
Outside, the storm held its breath.
And somewhere deep in her bones, she felt itâ
When it finally broke, it wouldn't be the sky that split first.
It would be her.
---
She turned off the TV.
The apartment felt too quiet afterwardâthe buzz of static still ringing in her ears. She stood there for a moment, heavy-limbed, then did what she always did when her thoughts wouldnât slow.
She checked everything.
Door. Lock. Deadbolt. Chain. Then again.
The windows nextâEmmaâs makeshift security system, strips of scrap wood wedged tight like a prayer. Nothing moved. Nothing ever did.
Still, her hands were shaking.
She brushed her teeth, stared at her reflection without seeing it, then stepped into the darkened hall.
She couldnât sleep in her room tonight.
Too hot. Too dark. Too closed in.
Emma had told her to use her room if it got bad. More airflow, sheâd said.
So she crossed the hall and slipped into Emmaâs roomâlavender, fabric softener, a kind of safety her own room never quite managed.
She dragged the box fan from the corner, set it on the dresser, and clicked it on high before crawling into bed without turning on the light.
Her skin stuck to the sheets. The pillow was already warm. Above her, the ceiling fan creaked softly with each slow rotation.
She lay on her back, eyes wide open.
Donât think about Cathy and Heathcliff.
Donât think about Jack.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the thoughts kept clawing at the inside of her skull.
What a joke.
What a sick, twisted joke.
Heat crept along her neck, her thighs, her spine. She turned, kicked the covers away, pulled them back again.
Still no rain.
The pressure didnât lift. It settled.
Eventually, her body gave out before her mind, the edges of her thoughts softening until she slipped under.
---
She was on the moors.
The sky was grayâits edges bleeding violetâand the air felt unnaturally still, as if the wind itself were holding its breath.
The scent of heather drifted around her, sweet and ancient. Long grass brushed her shins as she walked, wildflowers opening and closing in soft pulses, reacting to her presence like they knew her name.
The ground beneath her feet felt strange. Soft. Almost freshly turned, as though something had been dug upâ
Or buried.
There was no sound. Only that impossible, suspended stillnessâthe kind that exists in the second before something monumental breaks.
She looked ahead.
A lone figure stood in the distance.
Black trench coat. Long, dark-blond curls stirring in a wind that did not exist.
Just a silhouette at firstâunmoving, unreal.
She walked toward him. The grass tickled her ankles; the flowers leaned toward her and folded shut behind her, sealing the path.
The closer she drew, the more the shape sharpened.
Jack.
Not the painted monster.
Not the nightmare that had haunted her.
Just Jack.
She knew the shape of him instantlyâthe way a body knows its shadow. The slope of his broad shoulders, the tilt of his head, the tension in his stillness.
He didnât move.
He simply waited.
She stepped forward.
The sky pulsed red behind him, turning his outline dark and bright at once. His coat clung to his frame like it had been soakedâheavy at the hem, dragging with some unseen weight.
Her throat tightened.
His scarsâ
They were gone.
His cheeks, his mouth, his jawlineâsmooth. As if nothing had ever been carved into him. As if the world had never dared to wound him.
But something glistened there instead.
Red.
Thin streaks of it along his skin where the scars once lived. As if the memory of the cuts had risen to the surfaceânot healed, not hidden, but bleeding through the dream.
Suddenly, a flash split the skyâwhite, searing, absolute.
It swallowed the moors whole.
Blinded her.
Burned the world down to a single color.
No thunder followedâ
No sound at all.
Just the electric hush of heat lightning, gathering its breath before the break.
Her vision reeled. For a second she was nowhereâor everywhereâ
Then the darkness rushed back in.
And he was right in front of her.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to breathe the same cold-thin air.
Close enough that she could see the shine in his eyes.
Exceptâ
They werenât brown.
They were black.
The same dark shade as the skyâstorm-heavy, endlessâbut still impossibly warm when they landed on her. Haunted, yes. But relieved too.
Like he'd been searching for her in every shadow, every night, every breath.
âYou look far from home,â he said softly.
âI think Iâm lost,â she answered.
His expression shiftedâa shadow moving beneath the surface, a flicker of hurt he didnât bother to hide.
âLost,â he repeated, almost gently. âThatâs how I found you.â
She opened her mouth to speak, but something warm slid down her wristâa slow trickle.
She looked down.
Her palm was covered.
Her forearm.
Red. Thick. Warm.
Not paint.
Not this time.
It clung to her pulse, slid between her fingers, dripped slow and heavy down her arm. It made a soft sound when it hit the grassâlike petals falling.
She stared as it soaked into the earth.
No fear.
No pain.
Only a strange, inevitable calm.
When she lifted her gaze, he was closer.
Close enough she could have reached him. Close enough his heat brushed her skin.
Her breath caught in her throat.
âI missed you,â he murmured.
Her brow knit, a trembling flutter rising in her chestâgrief and anger and relief braided together until she couldnât separate them.
âWhy did you leave me?â she whispered.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
He caught it with rough fingertips. His touch so gentle it hurt.
âI couldnât keep you,â he said, voice low, thick with a grief that felt ocean-deepâwide enough to drown her.
Her throat closed.
The air thickened around them, tightening like invisible hands.
Another flash split the skyâwhite, silent. And when darkness slid back in, his hand was at her spine.
She swayed toward him without meaning to.
He was gravity.
And she was so tired of pretending she wasnât falling.
âEverything hurts when youâre gone,â he said, voice fraying at the edges. âEven the silence.â
His forehead rested against hers.
His hands slid up her back, curling into her damp hair like heâd been waiting a lifetime to touch her again.
Alina's heart felt like it might split openâspill every terrible, tender thing sheâd been holding into the soil beneath them.
Her hand lifted before she realized she was moving.
She touched his cheekâlightly, desperatelyâfingertips grazing the red lines where his scars should have been.
The color smeared beneath her touch.
Warm.
Soft.
Bleeding across her palm like something alive.
He closed his eyes, as if the contact undid him.
âYouâre not real,â she breathed.
âNeither are you,â he whispered into her hair, pulling her closer still.
His lips found the place beneath her earâslow, lingering, right at the quiet place beneath her jaw where her pulse lived.
Warmth bloomed there.
Sticky.
Spreading.
Then she felt itâsomething tugging at her feet.
Soft at first.
Then heavier.
The ground turning to warm tar.
Or blood.
Drawing her down inch by inch.
But she didnât care.
Not with his hands in her hair.
Not with his breath on her throat.
Not with the sky trembling, waiting to break.
âDonât wake up yet,â he whispered.
Then the sky split open.
A flash of whiteâ
And water struck her skin so fast it felt like fire.
Searing. Cleansing. Real.
She gaspedâ
And everything went dark.
---
She woke with a sharp inhaleâchoking on heat.
Above her, the fan wheezed. Blades turning slow, useless in the airless dark.
But most disorienting of allârain slammed the roof in frantic, gasping torrents.
Finally.
Violently.
Lightning cracked across the ceiling.
A glimpse of movement in the mirrorâ
Her silhouette. Or something else.
Then thunder. Immediate. Brutal.
The kind that makes your teeth ache.
Her pillow was damp.
Not sweat.
She touched her cheek. Slow. Disbelieving.
Tears.
She hadnât even noticed them fall.
A breath shuddered out of her as she wiped her face and rolled onto her sideâ
âand froze.
Something was off.
Not just the storm. Not the pillow. Not the ache still blooming in her chest.
The air.
It felt different.
Not just hotâdisturbed.
Her skin prickled. Every fine hair on her arms stood upright.
She sat up slowly, heart thudding now in time with the rain, a rhythm too fast, too loud.
Her eyes searched the room.
Nothing.
Only the hush of shadows. The fan turning in slow, drowsy loops. The curtainsâwhite and weightlessâspilling from the tall, old windows like restless phantoms.
They breathed with the wind. Touched the floor like fingertips reaching.
The scent of rain curled inward. And something else.
Ash? Smoke?
A sudden bolt of lightning lit the room in a stark, colorless flare:
The dresser.
The armchair.
The doorâstill closed.
Then darkness, all at once.
But heavier now. Denser.
As if the air itself had thickenedâ
As if something had been disturbed.
Something that did not wish to be seen.
She held her breath.
Thunder cracked the silence wide open, so close it felt like the walls themselves recoiled.
She flinched.
Thenâ
Another bolt of lightning.
Brief and brutal.
And for a single, searing heartbeatâ
She saw it.
Not a memory. Not a shadow.
A figure.
A presence.
Rooted in the corner like it had always been there.
Still.
Unblinking.
Watching her.
Her pulse jumped to her throat.
But she didnât scream.
Didnât blink.
Just sat frozenâlungs locked tight, gaze welded to the silhouette that should not exist.
Her mind rushed in with the only mercy it could manage:
This isnât real. Iâm dreaming. Still dreaming.
But dreams shimmer at the edges. They ripple. Shift...
This thing did none of that. Didnât so much as sway with the storm winds battering the windows.
It stood like a fact.
Unwavering.
Undeniable.
Another flash of lightning lit the roomâ
Just for a moment. Just enough to seeâ
Eyes.
Dark and endless, fixed on her with a stillness that stopped her heart.
Not brown. Not glinting.
Black.
Consuming.
As if the storm itself had taken shapeâand chosen her.
Her breath left her in a jagged sound, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
No, this isn't real.
Itâs notâit canât beâ
A flash split the roomâwhite, vicious.
And when the light vanishedâ
The shadow in the corner was gone.
Her stomach dropped. Something inside her went utterly stillâlike prey recognizing the thing in the dark that had always been coming.
Another flash.
And thenâ
He was there.
At the foot of her bed.
As if the dark itself had exhaled and placed him before her.
She didnât move.
Didnât breatheâ
Wished she could scream, speakâdo something.
But something deeper had already surrendered.
Something primal. Cellular.
Because her body remembered what her mind refused:
The sharp cut of his jaw.
The wet strands of dark blond hair clinging to his face.
The absence of paint. Of mask. Of myth.
Just Jack.
Raw. Real. Impossible.
Beautiful in the way a storm is beautifulâright before it destroys everything you thought was solid.
He wore the same trench coat heâd had on the night heâd made her leave. Rain-soaked. Heavy. Clinging to him like a memory that refused to dry. Water slipped from the hem in slow, patient rivulets.
Underneath, his shirt was half-unbuttoned, plastered to his chestâevery breath outlined in soaked cotton, every shadow of muscle visible.
He looked like heâd walked straight out of a fever dreamâ
Like he hadn't slept in years.
Like he'd torn himself apart just to get to her.
His knuckles were redâscraped raw. His jaw, dark with unshaved stubble.
The way he stoodâtilted, unevenâlike something inside him had cracked and never healed right.
And stillâstillâthat gaze never wavered.
Deep. Dark. Alive with something old and aching.
She felt it drag like silk down her spineâa shiver beneath her skin, low and deep and helpless.
Her soul stuttered.
Her breath caught.
A hundred nights came crashing inâevery moment sheâd ached for him, hated him, needed himâ
And now? He was here. At the foot of her bed.
Real. Rain-drenched. Watching her breathe.
Blood roared in her ears; her vision tunneled, the room collapsing to a single pointâhim.
ââŠYouâre not real.â She whisperedâthin, raspy, terrified to believe.
The wind screamed through the windows.
Something cracked outsideâwood, or thunder, or bone.
And thenâhis voice.
Low. Soft. Almost gentle.
âArenât I?â
Her heart misfired.
Her lungs forgot what they were for.
He took a step forward.
Not rushed. Not threatening.
Just closing the distance heâd already claimed.
The storm outside broke fully thenâwind surging through the cracks of the windows, the curtains lifting and falling like something answering.
Alina couldnât breathe.
Couldnât think.
Every instinct in her body screamed two things at once:
Run
And
Donât you dare move.
He reached the side of the bed and stopped.
Like he was giving her a choice.
Like heâd let her shove him back into the dark if she wanted to.
But she didnât.
She couldnât.
His eyes moved over herâslow, intentâlike a man relearning the shape of something he thought the world had taken from him.
The damp hair clinging to her throat.
The faint shake in her fingers she couldnât hide.
The way her breath betrayed her when his gaze dippedâand stayed there, low.
She felt the exact second it went too far.
His jaw tightened.
His throat workedâonce, then againârough, unhidden.
But he didnât look away.
He stared.
Like he was memorizing the damage.
Like he was counting how many seconds he could allow himself before he broke.
When he finally dragged his eyes back up, it looked like it hurt.
Like pulling away cost him.
Outside, the pressure finally gave.
The heat surrendered.
Cool air slipped through the rattling panes, skimming her bare skinâher throat, her collarbone, the soft rise of her ribsâfollowing the path his eyes had already taken.
And suddenly she felt everything.
The silence.
The tension wound tight between them.
Her own bodyâachingly aware of itself.
She was barely dressed. A thin bra. Cotton underwear damp from heat, clinging in ways she couldnât pretend not to feel.
He had seen her like this beforeâso many times.
Touched her like this.
Taken her like this.
But nowâGod, nowâit felt different.
More naked than naked.
As if time had unraveledârewoundâand he was seeing her again for the very first time.
Her breath hitched.
She pulled the blankets to her chest and retreated until the headboard met her spineâcold and unforgiving.
He didnât follow.
Didnât move.
A muscle jumped in his jawâjust for a second.
His fingers curled, then releasedâlike heâd remembered something important.
Restraint.
He stayed where he was.
Watching.
As if heâd expected this.
As if he knew he was the ghost in the doorway, the storm in her bed.
And stillâhe stayed.
Like a man willing to be damned, if it meant he could look at her one second longer.
The fan groaned above them. The storm screamed outside.
Thenâ
he moved.
A single step closer.
Then another.
And slowlyâ
like he was afraid to break somethingâ
He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt him.
His heat.
His presence.
His breath in the air.
Her body didnât know which way to run. Toward him. Or away.
So it froze.
He leaned forwardâjust enough for his coat to ghost across the sheets.
Just enough for her to see it:
Hunger flashing through his eyes before he locked it down.
That look reached inside her before she could braceâheart racing, warmth pooling low, her thighs tightening in answerâa response that made her stomach turn with fury at herself.
Thenâ his hand moved.
Slow. Intentional.
Not demanding. Not rushed.
Like a question without words.
He reached for the edge of the blanket pooled at her legsâand took it between his fingers.
The fabric shifted.
And barelyâjust barelyâ
His fingers brushed beneath it.
Skin to skin. Just the faintest graze against the side of her thigh.
A whisper of contactâ
But it struck like lightning.
Her body went still, breath shallow. Dizzy with how little it took.
That handâthose fingersâhad once known every inch of her.
Had dragged moans from her throat, clawed truth from her hips.
But now, this sliver of contact felt cataclysmic.
Her heartbeat thundered in her earsâand outside, the sky answered.
His fingers tightened on the blanket, flexed once against her thighâthen stilled.
Not hard. But enough. Enough to say donât move. Enough to say I remember you. Enough to make her breath catch like it used to, right before he made her beg.
And in that single, patient squeeze, every lie sheâd told herself about being over him shattered in her bloodstream.Â
His eyes lifted to hers.
Dark. Steady. Unblinking.
Like a hand around her throat.
Every nerve in her body caught fire.
There it was.
That gravity.
That sick, holy pull she had prayed sheâd outgrow.
And thenâ
He spoke.
Low. Steady. Like gravel soaked in honey.
âYou really thought Iâd let you go, doll?â
â
She stared back at him, speechless. Her hands clutched the blanket tighter to her chest like armorâbut it didn't matter.
The part of her that still belonged to him had already answered.
Heat curled low. Her thighs pressed tight. Her breath forgot how to lie.
I am SO SORRY this took as long as it did, but I absolutely completely lost my mind over this chapter. I stared at it. I rewrote it. I doubted every sentence. I walked away. Came back. Screamed internally. Screamed externally. Had a crisis. Dramatically declared I could never write again. Then crawled back, rewrote it again, stared at walls, whispered to ghosts, questioned my existence, and THEN finally hit post.
This chapter needed to feel monumental and my brain said âokay but what if we ruined your life in the process?â đ
And to everyone who left comments on the last chapter: YOU LITERALLY KEPT THIS FIC Alive. Thank you, thank you, THANK You!!! You have no idea how much they meant to me. Just knowing that this story is resonating with actual human beings out there in the world?? What is life đ„č. You are keeping this cursed little fic alive with your kindness and enthusiasm.
Now listen to me very carefully:
I AM SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER I COULD SCREAM INTO A PILLOW.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
SCARS
"We knew he was going to kill the woman!â
Her dad had hushed his tone, but Hazelâs childhood ears were sharp, piqued by the unusual angst in her fatherâs tone. She hung fearfully on each word from where she listened in her bedroom.
"If victims donât play along with his demands he doesnât help them.â Her dad continued. Â âIf you had seen the sight of her - black and blue. And the boy who called it in... he was just Hazelâs age. He put his faith in GCPD and we let him down in the worst way possible.â
âThatâs enough.â Her motherâs voice was stoney, final. âWhy would anyone believe you? What happens if you report the so-called corruption and they donât believe you? If that happens, you lose your job. Police in this city - they donât go easy on whistle blowers. Besides, I donât know why you care so much. The boy is a criminal and after what he did, he is beyond salvation. He belongs in Black Gate Prison.â
âHe's still a child!â
âHe killed a man!â
Hazels mumâs expression morphed from judgement to a smile that was sickly sweet. Beautiful, but dangerous like a Venus fly trap.
âMrs Napier was pretty, wasnât she?â She baited. âWhen they showed her on the news, she looked pretty.â
Hazelâs father hesitated, aware of the set-up by his angry wife and unsure what to say. She didnât let the silence sit long, opting to push further.
âI just wonder if Mrs Napier were plain would her death have mattered to you so much?
Her father slumped at the table.
âI never noticed what she looked like.â He sighed. âI am fighting for a world where corruption is punishable, and crooked cops are held accountable! Donât you want a better Gotham for Hazel? Why shouldnât I tell the truth?â
âYou canât change this city â you will lose your career over it, and then you will lose us.â
Hazelâs mum stood, signalling the imminent closure of the conversation.
âIâve warned you already and you better listen.â She added curtly âIf you report this - and it turns on you, I am taking Hazel and we are leaving.
Where Hazel lay by joker sleeping her eyelids futtered and her hands twitched. Her sleep was fitful and she surfed the cusp of waking. The dream was changing. The cacophony of the Narrows seeped into her mind, her dreams were twists of memories and thoughts, triggered by the sound outside. Flashes of Miff, the fight between her parents, and mixed with something older and stranger.
"Don't tell your mother we missed gymnastics. And whatever you do, don't tell her I took you into the Narrows."
Hazelâs dad smiled as he said it, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. He held himself with a tension that made her uneasy. She was supposed to be at gymnastics, but without explanation he had brought her here. Now she was parked up in an alley in the Narrows, waiting.Â
Hazel watched her father disappear into a warehouse. He was carrying a box of take out and a medical box. A door opened at the warehouse and Hazel watched keenly from her fatherâs car. A shadow moved in the open door: just a shape she couldn't make out. Then stepping gingerly out of the shadow, she saw a boy.
Hazel stared. He was roughly her age, best she could tell. His face was covered in parts, as though gauze or bandages crossed his cheeks. Hazel wondered what he was covering. His eyes locked with hers for just a moment, even at a distance it struck her how unusually dark his eyes seemed to be, he held her stare for a moment before retreating into the warehouse.
Hazel sat in the car heart knocking uncomfortably in her chest. Just a child, locked in a squad car in one of the most dangerous places in all of Gotham. She couldnât wit for her dad to get back.
Why would he bring her here? Who was that boy?
Finally, her father emerged from the building. He smiled at her as he approached, so false, so paper thin. Â She studied his face seeking reassurance as he returned but found none. His expression was empty. Void of any of the vigour he had once had, depleted of the energy she loved him for. He got in the car beside her. His serious demeanour put her on edge and she fidgeted her hands, waiting for him to speak.
When a long silence followed Hazel blurted out nervously.
"Is that the missing boy from the news?"
Her father looked at her, the weight of his worry slowing his response.
âI must warn you Hazel, things are going to change for our family.â He said with eyes full of pain âI found Jack Napier, and I am going to help him.â
Hazel wanted to ask more; ask what he meant â but she felt the air leave her, that old familiar feeling that the dream would silence her no matter what, and that her dad would never explain. She couldnât speak. She couldnât breathe.
Hazel awoke heaving for breath like someone had been sitting on her chest. Sweat pooled at the base of her neck and she could feel the sheets clinging to her. She turned on the mattress.
Fuck!
That iteration of the dream was new.
What was that?
She was tired of the dreams and couldnât understand why her mind pick, pick, picked at the memory of her dad. Didnât her mind have more pressing things to worry about? He had let her down and she didnât care to think about it or relive the past.
As her heart rate slowed, Hazel got her baringâs. J's apartment. Asleep on Jâs Mattress.
The sun was up and she knew that she had slept the whole night, despite the dreams. Her body felt like shit, but slightly better. The pain in her ribs was dull and her head clearer.
"Ouch" there was a stab in her side as she sat up, searching for the clown.
He was there at the kitchenette again, cooking pancakes. Hazel let out a breath.
"Rise and Shine, Princessâ he nodded.
Joker cooking breakfast. Saving her life.
This was more than an episode of the twilight zone, it was an entire freakin season.
Hazel got up and shuffled herself to the table. Sacha left the spot by jokerâs feet and padded her way over to greet Hazel, her docked tail giving little stumpy wags. Then, she left and took Hazels spot at the mattress. She panted and her tongue lolled out in a grin - she seemed happy with the spot upgrade.
Joker dumped the plate of stacked pancakes in front of Hazel and then flicked on the television.
"Just in time for the 9am, I'd say. He scrolled through static until he got the news channel, and then he swapped the remote for bandages and sat down opposite Hazel.
âWe will redress your wound after breakfast.â
Hazel kept eating
"I'll lend ya another clean shirt too, and you can shower⊠the showering part is for my sake, detective.â
Laughter lite up his coal stare.
Hazel felt her lips pull into a smile â his broken smile was catching. Quickly, her expression flattened again.
He was being too helpful.
What was the clown really up to?
Before Hazel could ponder too deeply the jingle for the 9am news played and the jokers own face flashed across the television.
Hazel straightened, watching intently. Beside her the clownâs energy prickled as he watched himself on the screen.
âMan-hunt for Gothamâs most wanted. The notorious mass murderer, Gothamâs supervillain: The Joker, is at large and at it again.â The anchor announced.
Next, the Lieutenant came into view. He was being filmed on the steps of the GCPD, surrounded by reporters.
âWhat's he doing?â Hazel frowned.
âWe regret to confirm that the Joker is the number one suspect in the recent string of homicides." He looked sombre. "Agent Hazel Madden, one of our very own is feared hostage. When we find him, we will hit him with the full force of the GCPD. We urge anyone with information to come forward." He stared down the camera earnestly. "Hazel if you can hear us, hold on. We are coming to save you.â
Joker was grinning ear to ear.
Hazelâs brows were in a ball.
The anchor womanâs voice faded away under the knocking pulse in Hazels ears. She could feel the heat flaming up her neck and setting her cheeks on fire. She was furious. Hazels fists clenched.
"This lying prick will make me vomit. Ass-hole! What does he plan to do? Make me disappear and blame you?"
Joker rolled his neck letting out a series of cracks.
"Iâm going to enjoy hurting this guy - nearly as much as the bat.â
"No." Hazel flashed him a look. "He's mine. He's going to be convicted of multiple homicides and sent to Black Gate where he will live out his years miserably and die. Thatâs justice."
"Deals a deal cupcake â heâs only yours if you catch him first. I've been a ah, gentleman and let you recover some but itâs still best man wins. Besides, you should relax,â He slapped his knee with a grin. âHe's gonna save you from me."
"I'm glad it's funny to you," Hazel glared. "Iâm humiliated."
Jokers smile faded. Â
"I'm not laughing at you, doll face. I'm laughing with you. Taking you was his first and last mistake. Taking you will finish him, one way or the other. Think about it... why would he make a statement like this if he knew you were free? Hmm? This arrogant schmuck thinks you're still in his basement and everything is going to his plan. That gives you time and strategic advantage. The tables are turning in this little game."
Hazel was silent. The clown was right - not that she could trust the clown either.
Joker flicked off the television. The screen went black and Hazel found jokers reflection in the dark glass. From the TV screen to right here beside her. The garish red grin and the cracked white paint. Notorious Joker. It was surreal.
âEat.â Joker added bluntly. âYou need your strength if you want to win â you are only halfway through your breakfast.â
"I should call Jason. My partner." Hazel wasnât hungry anymore.
The clown cocked an eyebrow
"Is that your final answer? Ah, I think itâs above his pay grade, love."
"I trust him."
"Sure, you trust his intentions. But do you trust him to let you handle this your way? You let him know and he will be obliged to report. Due process as they say."
Hazel slumped in her seat. Again, J was right. She couldn't tell Jason yet. She needed evidence.
She thought about all the times Jason had tried to talk her out of her ideas because she bent rules. It was true. He would follow due process. He would report it right away and Hazel wasn't ready for that. As J had pointed out, she had to make sure her case was faultless, or the lieutenant would use his position to bury her.
"He's cunning. But he's not as smart as you."
It was as though the clown read her mind. Measured her doubt and countered it.
"How would you know." Hazel scoffed. "You don't know him. You don't know me. No need to blow wind up my ass."
As she said it, she regretted lashing out. He was her only friend.
Sort of.
âHe's getting sloppyâ joker curled his lip in disgust. âhe's going to get whatâs coming to him... either your way, or mine."
"Huh."
Despite her mistrust in the clown and her strong suspicion that he had a hidden agenda, she was comforted by his words. The lieutenant abducting her was sloppy. How did he think he could get away with what he had done?
He wasn't going to get away with it.
"Worst of all" the clown continued. "He is a man without a code. No moral code. No immoral code. No. code. at all." the clowns voice dropped an octave. "Entitled. Undisciplined, and not at all interesting."
There was a venom in his tone that caught Hazel off guard. Her eyes darted up to him. The light-hearted homicidal clown that flipped pancakes had been replaced by something much darker. A flash of his true, violent nature and a deep bitterness towards the world.
His street-weathered hands flexed at his sides and his posture tightened, a knot of tense muscle.
Hazel watched him. This was more than anger brought on by his stolen identity, and it certainly wasn't rage on her behalf. He didn't care about her; he was incapable of it. He was not angry that the lieutenant had abducted her and threatened her life.
What was it?
âJâ The name slipped from her before she realised how tender it sounded. âWhatâs bothering you?â
"You canât trust the system itâs full of slime, doll-face. Thatâs all Iâm saying.â
He let his shoulders drop and stretched out his fingers, actively releasing the tension.
âLetâs get you patched up.â He changed the topic.
The clown kneeled beside her.
âIâll need to see it, Doll.â
Hazel obliged, undoing the bottom several buttons of the shirt. A little hum through her body as she took back the layer.
Excitement?
She wasnât sure. Maybe it was a thrill to be tended to this way. Or just surreal. Or maybe it was because he was the worst iteration of exactly her type. The thrill she had always chased, but on steroids.
Stop it, Hazel.
It didnât make a lick of sense to feel that way around him. It wasnât in her personal interest, that was for sure.
The clown lifted the shirt gently to expose just where she had been hurt. She felt the brush of rough hands against her ribcage. The blood on the top was dry, and it stuck as it peeled it away from her skin.
âThere we go.â He said quietly
Hazel held the shirt in a bunch to free his hands. She watched the clown carefully peel back the dressing to reveal the laceration underneath, his movement gentle and precise.
"Shit!" she breathed.
The cut at her side was deeper and angrier than she expected - with several crude stitches pulling the skin together.
"Uh huh." He acknowledged. "Piece of glass went straight between your ribs. Perforated your lung. Collapsed it. Bled a lot. Would have killed you.â
âHoly fuck. Did you stitch me?â
âI had my guy look at you, heâs a licensed doctor, but does some less conventional work on the side. Luckily for you, it was something that could be managed with a needle aspiration technique and he got you breathing properly. Letâs face it - I was never going to carry you into ER."
"Really. You wouldn't blow your cover for me?"
The clown didn't answer. His eyes locked on the wound he was tending to. He dabbed round it with a cotton ball.
"He gave you an anti-biotic shot, but you'll want to get this checked in a real hospital. My guy can only do so much on a fold out table."
âYour guy?â
The clown looked up, his dark eyes meeting Hazelâs.
"Doll-face, when youâve been stabbed, shot and beat as many times as I have, it pays to have someone you trust take care of your medical, ah, off the records."
The clown returned his attention to the task at hand and Hazel watched him. Gently, he cleaned dried blood from Hazelâs skin, then reapplied antiseptic on the peripheral.
His hands were marred with scars, knuckles thickened from being busted more than once. Yet, he worked with a rugged elegance that mesmerised Hazel. They were versatile hands, violent yet skilled.
Hazel felt a calm wash over her â one that was entirely misplaced and she knew it.
âWhy did you save my life?â Hazel asked after a beat.
With steady fingers he placed the new adhesive over the top of the wound. He smoothed the corners of the adhesive nice and flat.
âMaybe I like your lil head where it is, on ya shoulders. Or maybe I want to knock it off myself.â He teased.
Then he stopped and looked at her. Really looked at her.
Hazel froze under his gaze.
âNeeded to save your life, doll. Wasnât your time.â
Hazel took a breath.
âAm I in your debt now? Is Rose?â
The clown took the adhesive rubbish and scrunched it as he stood. His dark stare stayed with Hazel.
âDoll, this is different. Something bigger than that. Our paths are inextricably intertwined, whether we like it or not, and your choice to come find me that night at the church, not random, but serendipitous.â
Hazel frowned.
âThatâs all sounding a little poetic for a man with your reputation.â Hazel let the shirt lower back over her side. She winced at a little sting of pain as the material brushed.
âItâs not poetry, cup-cake. Itâs about restoring the natural order of things⊠from order to chaos. The information you are working with has been doctored. Youâve been living and working under a false pretence and making the best of it. A neat little life with the neat little rules they fed you. Lies. Iâve decided you deserve the truth.â
âWhat is that supposed to mean?â Hazel felt her body tense, a natural resistance to being led somewhere she didnât understand.
The clown took a slow blink.
âGonna need you to stay calm on this one, kid. I knew ya dad, okay. He was a good cop - if there is such a thing. It was a long time ago, but I never forget a name, and I never forget a face.â
Hazel stomach lurched.
Her mouth opened but no words came. She felt her stomach churn. Her dad had been fired from GCPD for sloppy police work and cutting corners, a weak version of the man she once admired. He drank himself into a hole before leaving her forever and she had closed her heart on him for that. She felt a swell of anger. She built a career despite her dad, and she prided herself on being nothing like him. Not weak, like him.
He was anything but a good cop.
Being a good cop took spine.
Was the clown messing with her? Making things up?
âYou are a liarâ Hazel blurted, ripping up out of her chair and jabbing a finger in the clownâs direction. âYou needled me and you went through my apartment. You probably went through my information, my diaries, whatever you needed to so you could make this shit up and manipulate me! Do you think Iâm an idiot?â
The clown blinked calmly.
âI knew him, doll, and I know you too. When we crossed at the station all those years ago, I took one look at you and knew you were a Madden. Iâd recognise those eyes anywhere. I followed your career at a distance from then - donât get the wrong idea cup-cake, I am not fixated with you, just a healthy curiosity. What I didnât expect was to get a message from Rose that the detective Hazel Madden wanted to meet with little old me.â
He spread his hands in appeal.
âThatâs the best evidence I can give you that I am telling the truth. You requested to meet Gothamâs most wanted, and I granted your wish. If you arenât stupid detective, then consider this; it all went a little too smooth to be luck, donât you think?â
âYou anesthetised me and raided my apartment; you call that smooth?â
âDoes your department even have a figure on how many people Iâve killed? I know Iâve lost count.â The clown mused. âBut you are alive, arenât ya? So, yeah. Iâd call that smooth. Point is, I wanted to meet you, Detective. thatâs the only reason I let it happen.â
Hazel pressed her lips together processing the information. There is no way she could trust his word. She needed more evidence, more detail to the story, but she needed to be careful he didnât reel her further into a lie.
âOkay, so you knew my dad in some capacity. Why does that make me special? Why would you, of all people, want to help me? I donât believe the altruism.â
âMy father tried to kill me.â The clown stated matter of fact. âMy mother let herself die, despite of me. Your father tried to change the world for you.â
His expression was still, dark eyes ready to swallow the universe.
âI have always wondered what it would feel like to care for a person more than yourself, the way he must of cared for you. I have always wondered what it would be like to be the subject of such care â or what it took to be that specialâŠlike you were to him.â
The clown stepped forward closing into Hazelâs space, hovering a head above her. His hands ghosted to her neck and he dipped his head, breathing her in like a vampire ready to draw blood. His hands trembled with restrained violent energy.
âYour father wasnât wrong about you. You are special detective. Yet, youâre afraid youâll be like him, like your pa.â His breath was hot against her ear. âWell, I hate to break it too you kid, but youâre more like him than you could know, and it ainât a bad thing at all.â
âThatâs bullshitâ Hazel whispered. Keeping her eyes down, away from the intensity of the clown.
An ache that she despised was building in her throat â where was her anger that she trusted so completely? Where was the sass and the rage she was so comfortable swinging? Joker still hadnât proven anything, but his words tore at her, cracking open something she had tried to bury.
âMy dad didnât do anything for meâ Hazel stuttered. âHe was a coward and an embarrassment. He left me.â
A tear broke and rolled and the clown swept it aside with a calloused thumb.
âSure, thatâs what youâd believe after the lies youâve been told. They lied to clip your wings, detective.â He turned her chin up to catch her eyes. âThey lied because you would be too powerful with the truth.â
Joker ran his hands over the crest of her shoulders and swept down her arms. Hazel let him, limp and confused where she stood. The clownâs hands found hers and enclosed them; small hands lost in his.
âLook at you.â He studied her âYou are so fragile, but still, youâve got bite. Youâre like a fierce lil terrier, at war with the world. Ready to create justice. Your version of justice. Thatâs your power. Thatâs why you need the truth.â
Hazel looked up at him where he hovered. Her breath caught.
In the wash of light from the windows she caught a chocolate hue in his eyes and a sandy blond to his hair beneath the green rinse. Dimples marked his cheek, despite the scarring. There was a hint of something familiar, a boyish charm she almost recognised. She felt herself give in to it; submit, to the truth in his tone.
âTell me.â She said quietly. âTell me the truth.â
He let go of her hands and slowly circled her.
âYou want to know about your dad â but are you ready to hear it?â he tested âThereâs no going back. You canât just pull Alice back out of wonderland, ya know.â
Hazel stilled as he stopped behind her and the hair on her neck prickled. He wrapped a strong arm around her waist and drew her against him. Hazel froze like prey, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. He brought them flush together until his head nestled over her shoulder, his wild mane coarse on her cheek.
âRelax, Doll Face,â he hummed as he held her. âYouâve decided to trust me, havenât you?â
Hazel could feel his strong body pressed to her and the iron grip of his hold. She consciously softened into it, letting the back of her head rest into his chest.
âHmm.â The familiar sound rumbled in his chest. âThatâs better now, isnât it-t.â
Hazel nodded feebly against him, the ache in her heart had become something more â a burning at his touch. It was wrong, especially for someone like her â a Gotham detective, but the power of his grip intoxicated her.
There was a click in the silence that Hazel recognised as his switch blade. She didnât dare look down but she caught the glint in his grip as he raised it. Still, she felt grounded, even as he raised the knife ghosting her neckline and pausing at her cheek. His broken lips brushed her ear, sending a shiver through her. Her heart raced.
âThereâs a question I tend to ask people, right before they die.â his voice was low in her ear. Gravelly. âYou see, nobody wants to look at these scars. Even in the face of death, they are still horrified by the look of me. They certainly donât want to talk about them.â
Hazelâs breath shuddered through the silence as he paused.
âThatâs not how you feel though, is it detective? No. I can feel how your heart races for me, but you arenât afraid. Notas afraid as you should be. Why is that, hmm?â
âI donât know why.â Hazel whispered.
âI do.â
Ever so slowly, softly, he traced the shape of a Glasgow smile across her jaw line, in a mimic of his own.
âYa see dollâ he said quietly âI am every bit the monster on the outside, as I am on the inside, and it scares people. It titillates me to see the horror in my victimsâ eyes when I confront them with the question, because nobody wants to hear my story â but everybody who wants to be polite. Except you. You want to hear the truth, you hunger for it. You hunger for the chaos it will unleash because at least itâs real.â
He brushed a scarred cheek against her skin as he dipped his lips to her shoulder caressing her skin. Hazel drew a sharp breath.
âAre you ready for the question, Doll? Are you ready for the truth?â
the clown paused for effect.
"Tell me, detective - do you wanna know how I got these scars?"
**
Oh my goodness feels so good to get this chapter done. I really hope you enjoyed a little tease of Jack Napier story line and the developments between Joker and Hazel.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Safe House
Hazel woke to pain. Her eyes felt like they were glued shut and when she peeled them open, the light was like a knife straight into her skull.
She squinted as she tried to adjust, but her vision was blocked.
Something black hung too close to her face to make focus.
As she blinked the cloudiness from her eyes, the head of a huge dog sharpened in view. The rottweiler grinned at her with a lolling red tongue and chocolate brown eyes.
Startled, Hazel tried to sit up. The searing pain in her side knocked her back down onto the mattress where she lay.
âSacha! heel!â
A familiar, gravely, voice sounded.
Hazels eyes shot wide as she recognised the Jokers timbre and the big dog bounded away in the direction of his call.
Hazel felt a wash of relief at the sound of his voice and stifled a sob deep in her chest.
She might be relieved to be alive and free, but like hell would she let the clown see how close she was to losing it.
What kind of upside-down world was it that hearing his voice was a source of relief?
With her vision gradually clearing, Hazel recognised his form leaning in the doorway nearby.
His posture was relaxed - almost lazy as he watched her. His shirt was rolled to his elbows showing strong forearms and his vest open.
âAh, she stirs.â He held her in his dark gaze.
Hazel felt a flitter of butterflies under the intensity of his watch.
âQuit staring.â she mumbled.
âDonât flatter ya-self, love.â He said with a grin âYouâre cute, but youâve seen better days.â
Hazel looked around the room. She took a deeper breath, relieved to feel she was breathing freely. That horrible sense that she couldnât get air was gone, and her lungs felt like her own.
Was this where J resided? Would he have brought her, a cop, into his own space? Why?
Inspecting the space, she saw it wasnât as bad as she might have imagined. It was a single room, a budget hotel room of sorts. Not really what she had pictured. There was a bloom of peeled paint in one corner of the ceiling, and it was scarcely furnished, yet it was orderly and sunlight washed through big windows. There was a sofa, the double mattress she lay on, and a small table near the kitchenette.
"How did I get here?â Hazel asked
âRose came to me⊠told me you were in trouble. Lucky too. You knocked that pretty head of yours bad and you lost a lot of blood.â
Hazel thought of Roses wordsâŠ
"People donât mix with him unless they are absolutely desperate"
Hazel grimaced at the debt on favours - would this be Rose's debt, or hers?
âWhere am I?â
The clown spread his hands, and a boyish smile spread across his painted cheeks.
He ruffled the rottyâs shinny head and she whined with enthusiasm.
Hazel looked down at herself. The pyjamas she had been abducted in had been exchanged for one of the clownsâ teal shirts. She felt bare beneath, aside from her underwear.
J read her thoughts.
âIt was a necessary change, to treat your injuries Doll face. Your dignity was kept intact.â
Laughter lines creased beside his eyes
âYou werenât naked longâŠand I promise I didnât, ah, look much.â
âGood to know.â Hazel rolled her eyes.
Hazel stretched her bare legs out, ironing out the aches and fixing to stand.
âYou should eat something. Youâve been out a while.â
The clown moved to the kitchenette.
His broad shoulders hung over the cook top and hazel heard the hiss of a hot pan as he cracked eggs, and the smell of bacon which made her stomach rumble.
Whatever nausea she had felt had eased and Hazel hoped that was a sign that she had not been too severely concussed. She still felt shaky on her feet, and getting herself up was intensely painful, but she felt more alert.
Hazel watched the clown, bewildered. His hands seemed to work with the same ease with which he handled his knives.
Was this a domestic streak?
When he turned around, pan handle in his grip, and slid the load onto her plate, Hazel looked up at him eyebrows raised, and a dimple in her cheek.
âWha-t?" He asked
Hazel shook her head, her lips pursed and her eyes gleaming.
The clown rolled his eyes.
âAre you surprised to see the infamous Joker cooking?
His eyebrows pulled together in judgement.
âI need to eat food, just like everyone else. Ya know that, right?â
It was true enough, but an odd sight none the less.
Hazel took the plate and made her way to the small table and chair that sat beside an open window. Judging by the view they were in project housing area, deep in The Narrows. The clown put his own plate down and sat in the seat opposite her.
âThe GCPD would shit themselves if they knew you were here, practically living a normal life right under our noses."
âI think Iâve cleaned up enough of your bodily fluids for my liking, let's keep a little mystery between us, detective.â
Hazel ignored the comment.
âA lot of people in the building must know you are here?" Hazel continued. âArenât you concerned that someone might out you?â
The clown stopped chewing, dark brown eyes locked on Hazel before swallowing with a gulp. His expression straightened.
"I'm not worried, and here's why. It doesn't matter that they know where I am. What matters, Doll Face, is that they know that I know where they are. Do you follow me?"
He pointed his fork at Hazel.
âThey value their lives, so they mind their own business and stay well out of mine. Itâs a contract of sorts."
He thrust a mouthful of food into his mouth and chewed.
âThat level of, ah, cooperation from Gotham folk - that's the true value of my reputationâ
Joker gestured at her plate.
"Ya gonna eat?"
Hazelâs stomach grumbled audibly.
Come to think, she had never had her dinner the last night at her home. Interrupted, first because of J's visit, and then because of the Lieutenant.
The lieutenant.
It came flashing back to her. How he had come to her home. How he had attacked her.
Her heart picked up pace and Hazel felt anger ignite inside her.
That snively prick. He had always given her a bad feeling but the fact that he had gotten away with so much right under her nose... it made her blood boil.
"I won't be staying here long. I need to get that prick lieutenant James into custody."
Assuming the clown plans to let me leave...
Hazel let confidence lead. An announcement of her departure, no hesitation.
She shoved a forkful in her mouth letting the words settle casually.
Good. So good. She was famished.
"Oh yeah?"Â
The clown arched a brow from opposite her.
âYou are going to take him into custody?â
"Yeah." Hazel replied "He's the one who did all this. Not sure how much Rose told you." She chewed as she spoke.
A little smile pulled at the corner of the clownâs mouth as he watched her eat and talk.
"You're a class act, Detective Madden."
Hazel rolled her eyes and swallowed.
"So, I'll finish up eating and head to the GCPD."
"I guess thatâs good thinking.â The clown mused. âRush in there weak, bleeding, on the tail end of being drugged and with a concussion.â He circled his hand in the air theatrically as he expanded the list âNo plan. Guns blazing. Just walk right in and arrest the head of the GCPD..."
Hazel shovelled in another forkful.
"You think it's a bad plan?" She mumbled through her food "Lucky nobody asked you."
The clown clicked to himself.
"A stubborn minx like you asking for advice? I wouldn't expect it."
"Are you suggesting I hold off and let him do a runner? No fucking way!â Hazel paused, then frowned. âYou just want him for yourself."
"If I wanted him, heâd already be dead." the clown pointed out. "Our little competition is on a pause whilst you rest - I like a worthy opponent, or the game is no fun.â
Hazel eyed him suspiciously.
âThere is still the issue that the Lieutenant might run.â
The clown rolled his eyes.
âWho is he running from? You?"
the clown let out a short bark of laughter
"He didnât seem intimidated when he threw you around your apartment and locked you in a basement. The guy IS the GCPD.â
Hazel scowled but J continued.
âDo you even have hard evidence against him? He's gonna be good at covering tracks. He planned to take you. He premeditated it all."
"I was in his motherâs fucking basement. Rose saw it!"
"So, you have an X- crack-head as a witness? is that enough? You tell me, detective, you do this for a living."
He rested his hands on table and leaned back to look at Hazel in Ernest.
âNot to mention, Rose is friends with the last victim, Miff, whom rumour has it you knew intimately. Howâs the credibility holding up?"
 "The lieutenant was in my apartment.â Hazel stated fact. âThere would be evidence there."
"Did you find trace evidence at any of the other scenes. Hair, clothing fibre, DNA? Anything?"
What joker was saying was true. The slasher â aka Lieutenant James hadn't left a bread crumb. He knew the game too well. He knew exactly what they would sweep for and how.
"This is different.â Hazel said quietly. âHe's fucked with me and I'm going make him pay for it."
"Hey â I want to see that work out for you doll... I do. Just trying to present you with a little, ah, logic. Take your time."
"I never asked for your help"
"Actually, sweetheart, that's exactly what you did. You went to lengths to find me in the Narrows and ask me for help with your case. It was cute, actually. Then there was the whole 'damsel in distress' encore where you would have fucking died without me."
"Fuck you."
Hazel stood up from the table pushing her chair back.
The world spun.
A giant wave of nausea came over her and she felt her knees buckle.
The clown shot out an arm catching and holding her firm. He eased her back down to seated.
Hazelâs head thumped. Her ribs hurt. She felt dizzy and ill.
Fuck. That friggen knock on the head.
Hazel jerked her arm free as she sat and the clown relinquished his grip.
"All I'm saying doll face, is use that pretty lil head of yours. He's a powerful adversary. He's smart, he's patient, and he is well resourced. You are smarter than him â but you need some time to recover.â
The clown's dark eyes watched over her as she dipped her head, exhausted.
âI say this from experience," he continued, an edge of sincerity to his tone that Hazel wasn't familiar with "some of the slipperiest crooks are hiding in the GCPD. You canât trust the system to back you, and you canât rush.â
Hazel starred at her empty plate.
She felt too sick and too stupid to reply.
How did she get here - beat up by her boss and lectured by Gotham's most notorious villain? She'd be happier propped up and bleeding out against the garbage bin in the alley where Rose had left her.
âOf course, you could ask me to peel him alive for you doll-face. I would do that for you... happily." He smiled broadly "but if you want to deal with him your way... you got to wait till youâre a bit stronger, and until you have a plan.â
Hazel let out a whine. Pressing her palm to her aching head. She hated it but it made sense.
"He's not going to get the best of a Madden twice, detective. You're smarter than that.â
 What did he mean by that, exactly?
"Get a proper nightâs sleep and then work on a plan. When you have all the information"
Internally she scoffed. She had all the information she needed.
Still, she was tired. Too tired for this shit.
"That's my girl. Relax." the clown cooed, doing a terrible job of reading the room. His voice was low, calm but laced with agenda.
Then the clown was standing beside her. The lean muscles in his forearms flexed as he reached out for her. He took grip of her arms and lifted her to stand, keeping a steady hold.
Hazel obliged. She was too tired to care. To defeated to shake an arm free - and truthfully, she felt unsteady on her feet and was grateful for the assistance.
Sleep. Thatâs all she cared about.
Now that she was fed, she couldn't think about much else other than sleep.
It would be helpful. Restorative. Just like J said.
Then she would be ready to face the Lieutenant.
Her bare feet padded across the linoleum floor as the clown guided her back to the mattress.
He guided her back down to lay on the mattress, and she curled into a ball.
What happened when she slept? The thought flittered across her tired mind.
How could she trust Gothamâs most notorious criminal? A man who had needled her in the neck.
Yet she couldn't trust her own people. Not just yet.
This wasn't a choice. As topsy-turvy as it was, for now, the GCPD was the enemy, and Jokers apartment her safe house. Once she was well, things would be different.
âGet some rest kid. Tomorrow, we will change your dressings, get up to speed, and you can decide what to do about the Lieutenant.â
Hazel groaned.
"Perfect."
**
Hazel lay awake on Jâs mattress long after night fall.
Get some sleep. Come up with a plan of attack once rested.
Thatâs what they had decided, but it was easier said than done.
Sleep had come easily, but it didnât last. Despite her exhaustion she had fitful sleep, and then eventually wide awake.
Even high up in J's apartment, the Narrows was loud. Bins clattering. yelling. Sirens.
Instead of her own bed, she was resting an armâs length from a murderous psychopath. There was that.
The more she tried to settle, the more restless she felt. Laying awake in the dark, her thoughts were starting to churn, cycling up, gaining momentum.
Hazel kept a hand resting on her own chest and focused on steady breathing for relaxation. She did it to try to settle the turbulence she felt inside, and to resist the growing bindings of anxiety in her chest.
Hazel peeked at the sleeping killer, seeking distraction. Or maybe she desired company.
Ambient city light shone in J's window illuminating the mattress in a way that mimicked moonlight. A rectangle of cold light fell across the clown where he lay on the opposite side of the mattress.
The sheets tangled at his waist and the light illuminated the crests of him and the shadows pooled in the V of his hips, and the striations of his muscle.
Hazel drew a breath.
He was built like a fighter. Sleek. Lined abdominals, and fingers of muscles along his rib cage. His chest and shoulders gently curved in his relaxed pose.
He seemed completely surrendered to sleep â so confident his reputation was enough to keep the neighbours silent and his enemies at bay. Unlike Hazel, he could indulge in some decent shut-eye.
Hazel let her eyes trail upwards, exploring the sleeping man's bare face.
Before getting into bed, he had bent over the sink and washed his face like it was nothing. Routine. His bare skin was territory the world had never seen â yet here, he lived his habits like she didnât exist.
Hazel had pretended she was still asleep just to be safe. Perhaps his privacy meant more than he was letting on.
His face looked pale in the ghostly light. The damaged cheeks, free of greasepaint, mimicked the craters of the moon herself - crests and diverts along the scar line. Lines that carved the story that was Joker.
His lips were relaxed, gently closed, as he breathed through his nose in a deep steady rhythm. At peace.
The devil slept like a lamb.
For a moment Hazel felt compelled to touch his face, but she dismissed the urge, daring instead to shift a little closer.
Within proximity to his bare skin, she felt a buzz across her own, a biological call for connection. It wasnât logical, it didnât have meaning â just the chemistry of a man and a woman in proximity, exacerbated by a sense of loneliness she was struggling to swallow.
She was so close she could smell him. There was something sweet there, the hint of a cologne, perhaps.
He was a monster, but he smelt like a man.
Hazel felt a pang in her heart as she watched the man beside her. The anxious weight on her chest was growing.
Hazel could feel her breath becoming shallow despite her effort to be calm. Not the shortness of breath she had felt in the basement. That was different, physical. This feeling in her chest was a reflection of her mind. It was troubled, anxious, and tightening.
It was a feeling â like the night terrors - she had always run from.
Hazel pressed firmer on her chest and closed her eyes.
Breaths were shorter.
Less satisfying.
She couldnât sustain the calm.
She couldnât get air at all.
Itâs a panic attack.
She coached herself silently.
You are okay.
Breath inâŠ, 2, 3, 4, âŠÂ and out...easy
Yet, nothing could stop the sense of dread getting stronger.
Spreading.
Her guts ached deeply, and a throbbing pain bloomed inside her heart.
Not anxiety. It was different.
Something more...
Indigestion? Heart failure?
âMiff!â his name escaped her lips involuntarily.
Images of his lean tattooed fingers turned blue invaded her mind.
He didnât deserve what had happened.
Her stomach hurt.
Her mind hurt.
It was a job - and she a detective. She should be able to handle a body.
Get a grip, Hazel.
She tried to push the images away.
She had to get away from it. harness it, contain the rougue thoughts.
Perhaps she would get up and get a drink⊠but she didnât want to disturb the clown. For all she knew he would stab her in his sleep if she moved too much.
Hazel glanced again at the clown, at his eyelashes resting on those damaged cheeks.
This time, as she watched, she saw the roll beneath his closed eyelids as his eyes shifted, and slowly one eye peeled open to peek back at her.
Hazel's heart skipped, startled to be caught staring.
"Take a picture, Doll. It lasts longer." The clown rumbled sleepily, before rolling away.
His broad back now turned in her direction, cutting the sense of his presence and leaving her more alone.
The sound of his steady breathing resumed.
To Hazel's surprise, she felt heat prickling at the corners of her eyes.
She had to be quite - not wake him again.
In an attempt to suppress unwanted, bodily reactions, Hazel squeezed her eyes tightly shut
It didn't help.
Hazel felt the heat of tears welling at the rims of her eyes. A lone tear broke free and rolled off her cheek to the mattress. Soon tears fell freely, silently, and Hazel was all but powerless to stop it.
Hazel couldnât remember the last time she cried.
Not her parentâs divorce.
Not her dadâs funeral.
I'm loosing the fucking plot.Â
This was a job. Miff was an informant, nothing more. The lieutenant was a crook â and she dealt with crooks all the timeâŠshe was good at it.
It took all the control she had not to sob into the night air. She did not want the Joker to hear her where he lay with his back to her. She did not want him to know the state she was in. She didn't want to piss him off, either.
Inwardly, she cursed herself and told herself to get a grip, but the dam wall containing her emotions had ruptured and there was no going back.
Was the clown really asleep?
Hazel took a quivering breath and held it, trying to silently bring her body and mind into order. It didn't help. Her body trembled and her thoughts were no longer neatly contained the way she liked them. Instead, her thoughts were raw and spiralling beyond her control, gaining power by the moment.
The images that came to her were sharp and utterly haunting.
Her heart thumped.
If it was all in days work ⊠then why did it hurt so much?
"It's grief."
the clown pointed out flatly, as though reading her mind.
Hazel stilled.
He was awake. He heard her.
His back was still turned in a display of indifference as he spoke.
âNo point trying to tell yourself you are above feelings, pet. Thatâs just embarrassing at this point.â
Hazel could picture the roll of his eyes as the lecture expanded
âI know every useless emotion on the spectrum - never felt any of em mind you, but Iâve seen all the grotesque ways that emotion presents. You are grieving, Detective. Whether you like it or not, you cared for him. That's human nature and you aren't above it."
there was a pause
"You are shocked. You are frightened. You are hurt. You are human.â
He said the word human as though it was wrong.
As though it was a weakness, a defect. As though it made her less than him.
Hazel felt less than.
âYou play tough, sweetheart, and itâs endearing, but you arenât nearly as tough as you pretend. You arenât built to go through things like this and not feel them. You arenât built like me."
A hearty sob broke from her chest and then another.
Then, she was crying freely. Just like the flow of silent tears had been impossible to stop, the sobs racking through her body, aching her throat, where impossible.
Laying on her side facing the clown's back she buried her face in her hands and cried. Her crop of black hair matted on her damp cheeks and her nose ran.
There were more tears than Hazel knew she had. A full body catharsis. One that was unwanted and unbecoming.
It wasn't something she gave herself permission for, but it was something her body was taking, whether she liked it or not.
To her surprise she felt a shift in the mattress and the clown rolled to face her.
More unexpected still, he draped a heavy arm around her shoulder and gave her two brittle pats on her back.
"There, there cupcake.â He clicked mechanically. "Let. it. out."
Even though his attempts at sympathy seemed primitive and insincere, Hazel let herself drop her head into his chest. His arm stayed, encircling her.
It was warm, and his relaxed muscles felt soft and inviting. Even the dusting of chest hairs that brushed her cheeks felt like comfort. Her lips and cheeks felt hot as she buried against his cool skin.
He was everything she should find abhorrent, yet his body was a physical refuge from an internal storm that threatened to engulf her. A human life raft she shouldn't reach for. He was far more dangerous than the storm.
Slowly, Hazel felt her body start to settle.
Her breath began to sync with his, joining that slow, easy rhythm.
The tears stopped coming.
"Better?" he asked dryly when she was silent and still.
Hazel gave a feeble nod, still buried in him, but all she felt was empty.
She wasn't sure if it was better or worse. Just a void. and her cheeks itched from drying tears.
"How do you kill it?" Hazel whispered.
"Kill what, Doll?"
"This!" She gestured at herself â at the mess she was, âthe pain. The feeling. The weakness!â
The clown raised a hand to cup her cheek. His bare hand was rough and calloused, a match for his weathered cheeks. His thumb shifted softly across her skin as his coal eyes met her electric blue stare.
Hazel felt a swell roll through her body, a response to his touch. A soft sound fell from her lips.
His touch was a mirage of nurture, a roll play as required, but that didn't matter to her. It didn't matter there was no kindness in his eyes to match the gesture. Just a thrumming violent energy.
He held her gaze not with feeling but with measure.
"You can't kill your humanity, doll face. You can only bury it alive."
Another swell of emotion took over her.
She wanted it gone.
Lieutenant James had baited her like she was an idiot. She had brough Miff into it, all for nothing.
He had died for nothing. Because of her.
"I hate him" she whispered into the dark.
"mmm." The clown was nodding off again. half with her, half asleep.
With the clowns form beside her breathing steadily, she stared into the dark, feeling rage, feeling sorrow and feeling numb, all background noise now. She didn't know how all the conflicting things were possible at once, but she hated it. Hated the Lieutenant.
Hated herself.
The clown pulled her in a little.
âYa know what they say, doll face,â he mumbled. âdonât get mad, get even.â
Hazel closed her eyes and rested on the killer's chest.
She let out a breath.
That one thought gave her comfort.
She couldn't turn back time, but she would certainly get even. She would see to it that Lieutenant James was brought to justice.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gothamâs haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Jokerâa man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she canât control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself heâs brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N: HAPPY ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO THIS UNHINGED FIC đđ
To celebrate the moment I accidentally sold my soul to Joker/Alina dynamics exactly 365 days ago⊠you get an early update today!!!
And ohhhh boy... This chapter is a mess đ€
Emotional collapse? Check.
Public chaos? Check.
Longing so intense it physically hurts? Oh, absolutely.
A dream sequence that is basically emotional porn? Correct.
Thank you for being feral gremlins with me for a whole year. I adore you. And thank you SO much for all the comments on the last chapter. It really lit a fire under me.
Okay. Deep breath. Letâs go back into the flames. đ„đ€
The silence after the call was worse than anything he'd said.
For a moment, no one moved.
The cameras stopped rolling, the lights dimmedâbut the air didnât shift. It held, like breath locked in a collective throat.
Then the break.
Noise.
Voices.
A sudden rush of motion.
A producer barked orders from behind the glass.
Another voice overrode themâhigher, frantic.
The headset crew scattered into motion, too fast to track.
Joyce was the first to reach her.
Her face was pale, lips parted like she meant to speak but couldnât. Her hand hovered near Alinaâs arm, then dropped.
Across from her, Kip was already pulling off his mic with sharp, jerking motions.
âHow the hell did that call get through?â he barked to no one and everyone.
A stagehand flinched. A producer opened her mouth, then closed it again.
âFind out,â Kip snapped. âNow. Before the affiliates call.â
His suit still looked perfect. His hair hadnât moved. But the flush in his cheeks betrayed himâand the panic in his eyes.
He didnât look at her. Not once.
Security was already moving. Two men in suits flanked the side of the stage, talking rapidly into their earpieces. One gave Alina a single, assessing lookâthe kind meant for suspicious packages and perimeter breaches.
Then he looked away, lowered his voice, and murmured something into the other manâs ear.
Someone was yelling about lockdown protocol.
Someone else said the word police.
And then someone touched herâgently, at her elbow.
She turned to see Joyce.
âMiss Vale? Come with me.â
Her legs moved, but she didnât feel them. The studio blurred around herâmonitors, cables, faces turning away too fast.
Voices swelled and splintered like glass behind her.
ââŠconfirmed?â
ââŠshut it down nowââ
ââŠno one leavesââ
A man in a headset brushed past, nearly clipping her shoulder, but didnât stop. Someone else whispered urgently into a walkie-talkie, casting her a sideways glance like she might explode.
They were afraid.
Not of him.
Of her.
Of what it meant that he had called for her.
The corridor beyond the set felt even colder, somehow. Longer. Like she was being led away from somethingâherself, maybe. Or the version of herself theyâd all agreed on.
A victim. A survivor.
Not this.
Not the girl the Joker knew by name.
---
She sat on a black leather bench in a dim hallway behind the studio, eyes cast downward, hands folded in her lap like a child in trouble. The fluorescent light above her buzzed faintly.
Joyce's voice beside her said, âSomeone from the GCPD will be here soon, just routine, donât worry.â
Another voiceâlower, irritatedâmuttered something about liability.
A hand appeared in her line of sight, offering a cold bottle of water. She took it without looking.
Across the hall, Kip was pacing in tight, jerking lines. His jacket was gone, sleeves shoved up, face blotched red. He kept running his hand through his hair, then stopping to jab at the air. He was whisperingâbut hard, furious. Red-faced rage barely wrapped in restraint.
She couldnât hear the words.
Only the rhythm.
Only the sight of him losing his shit.
Alina looked down. Her hands were shaking again. The bottle trembled between her palms. She set it aside.
Then:
âAlina!â
Emmaâs voice cracked down the hallway like a whip.
She appeared in a blur of movementâmessy hair, wild eyes, clutching her bag too tightly. Her cheeks were flushed with panic.
Her gaze locked on Kip first. âWhat the hell did you do to her?â
He stopped pacing. âExcuse meââ
âShe trusted you!â she snapped, voice rising. âYour producers told her it was safe. You promised herââ
âShe was briefed on every segment,â Kip said quickly, trying for composure but still panting. âShe agreedââ
âYou ambushed her on live television!â Emma spat. âThen you act surprised when he calls in? Either youâre a liar, or youâre a moron.â
Kipâs jaw moved, but nothing came out.
Emma turned back to Alina, her face softeningâthen crumpling.
She dropped to a crouch in front of the bench. âHoney,â she whispered. âAre you okay? Are you hurt?â
Alina didnât answer. Couldnât. Her body was stiff, her eyes far off.
Emma reached up and gathered her into a hug, one hand cupping the back of her head like she was afraid she might break.
Alina didnât move.
Emma held on anyway.
Then, very softly, she said: âWeâre going home. Letâs go home right now.â
From down the hall, Joyce stepped forward, awkward. âIâm sorryâbut weâve just been told the police are on their way. They want to speak toââ
âI donât care,â Emma said flatly, standing. âThey can come to our door. Sheâs not sitting in some glass box like a suspect.â
âBut itâs protocolââ
âLet them try me!â Emmaâs voice had steel in it now. âI said weâre leaving.â
She touched Alinaâs shoulder like she was fastening armor that wasnât there, then pulled her gently to her feet.
They made it halfway down the hall before the sound hit them: shouting.
The paparazzi.
They were already outside.
Flashbulbs burst like fireworks. Cameras surged forward. Barricades meant nothing.
âALINA! WHATâS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM?â
âDID YOU KNOW HEâD CALL?â
âWHY DID HE SAY THAT TO YOU?â
âARE YOU IN CONTACT WITH HIM?â
Alina froze.
The words hit her like glass bottlesâloud, fast, breaking.
Emma shoved her way through.
âBACK OFF! MOVE!â
She kept an arm wrapped tight around Alina, shielding her from the lights, the questions, the speculation snapping like teeth.
Behind them, the studio loomed like a beast unsatisfied.
Ahead, a cab screeched to the curb. Emma threw up a hand. The driver barely had time to stop before she wrenched the door open and ushered Alina inside.
Cameras flashed. Voices barked. Feet pounded pavement in pursuit.
The door slammed shut.
The noise didnât follow.
Inside, it was dim and still, like the eye of a storm.
Alina barely felt the seat beneath her. Didnât register Emma giving the address. Couldnât remember how they got moving.
Because all she could hear was him.
Not the show.
Not the crowd.
Just his voice, smooth as silk and sharp as glass, echoing through the quiet:
Hi Doll.
---
The cab turned the corner to their street and immediately slowed.
âOh, God,â Emma breathed. âShitâshit.â
They hadnât even stopped yet, but Alina could already see the camera flashes. The crush of bodies. Dozens of people pressed up against the front steps of Emmaâs building.
Her building.
Home.
At least, it had been.
The cab pulled to the curb.
Thenâ
F L A S H.
F L A S H.
F L A S H.
The bulbs started popping before the door even opened.
Alinaâs breath hitched. Her fingers gripped the seat so hard her knuckles blanched.
Emma reached across her, slamming the lock down. âStay here a secondâdonât open it.â
But the shouting had already begun.
âALINAâALINA VALEâOVER HERE!â âWHATâS YOUR RELATIONSHIP TO THE JOKER?â âWHY DID HE CALL YOU DOLL?â âWHY DID HE LET YOU LIVE?â
Alinaâs vision blurred.
Too fast.
Too bright.
Too loud.
It felt like the warehouse again.
It felt like the chair.
Like the gun pointed at the old manâs head.
Like sweat rolling down her spine while her heart froze in place.
Then a new voice cut through it allâsharp, commanding, utterly still:
âGotham PD. Step aside.â
A dark figure moved through the crowd, parting it like a blade.
Gordon.
He didnât shout. He didnât need to.
Ruiz was close behind him, one hand raised, the other near her badge.
The crowd rippled uneasilyâbut cleared a narrow path.
The cab door opened. Emma stepped out first, shielding Alina with her body, her voice hard as steel:
âGet back. MOVE!â
Flashes kept going. Shutters clicked like machine guns. Someone tried to lunge closer and Gordon snapped, âYou want to get arrested tonight? Try it.â
Thenâhe was in front of them.
He didnât smile. Didnât blink. Just reached out a hand and said, calmly:
âCome with me. Weâll get you inside.â
Emma didnât wait. She grabbed Alinaâs hand and they ducked through the chaos, bodies pressing in from all sides.
Reporters screamed:
âWHAT HAPPENED IN THE WAREHOUSE?â
âDID YOU CARE ABOUT HIM?â
âWAS IT STOCKHOLM SYNDROME?â
Emma flung open the storm door and pulled Alina inside.
The hallway was narrowâjust a few steps from the world to homeâbut it didnât feel like sanctuary anymore.
It felt like a trap.
Gordon entered last and closed the door firmly, the sound echoing as the frame shook.
He pulled the blinds down, switched off the porch light, then pausedâa tired breath slipping from him before he turned back.
The flashes still seeped through the curtains, brief, pale flickers like heat lightning on a distant horizon.
Alina stood frozen, her dress clinging slightly with sweat, face white.
Emma wrapped her arms around her. âYouâre okay. Weâre home. Youâre okay, honey.â
But she wasnât.
She couldnât be.
Ruizâs voice broke the silence, gentle but pointed:
âMiss Vale⊠can we talk? Just a few minutes.â
Emma whirled. âSeriously? She just got ambushed on national television and then hunted through the streets like a criminal.â
Gordon didnât rise to the anger. He hesitated, the line of his mouth tightening with something like regret before he spoke.
âSheâs also the woman the Joker addressed by pet-name on live TV,â he said quietly. âThat makes her a target. We need to understand what that call meantâwhat he meant.â
No pressure. No accusation. Just reality.
Emma moved protectively in front of Alina.
âShe doesnât have to talk to anyone tonight. She doesnât owe you anything.â
Gordon nodded once. âI know. And Iâm sorry.â He hesitated. âBut the way he spoke to herâit matters. For her safety. For everyone's.â
His eyes moved to Alina.
Emma looked at her, heart breaking. âYou donât have to talk if you donât want to. You donât owe them anything. Not tonight.â
But Alinaânumb, exhausted, wreckedâfinally nodded.
One small, miserable nod.
Gordon exhaled. âLetâs sit down. Thatâs allâjust sit.â
But as they stepped further into the apartment, Alina had one thought looping behind her eyes like static:
I should be scared of him.
But all I feel is how much I miss him.
---
The table was cluttered with unopened mail and a half-eaten takeout container. Emma cleared it with one hand and set a glass of water in front of Alina.
Gordon and Ruiz sat opposite.
Alinaâs hands rested in her lap. She didnât touch the glass. She didnât lift her eyes.
Her body still felt borrowed, like she hadnât fully come back into it yet.
Ruiz flipped open a small notepad but didnât write.
Gordon didnât touch anything.
He just studied her for a moment, then said:
âWe watched the broadcast. Iâm going to ask a few thingsâcarefully. You can stop me at any time. But this is about keeping you safe. And keeping others safe too. Understood?â
Alina nodded again.
Gordon folded his hands on the table.
âDid you know he would call?â
âNo,â she whispered.
âYou didnât have any warning? No strange messages, no signs?â
âNo.â
Gordonâs voice remained level.
âHave you had any contact with him since your return?â
âNo.â
Ruiz spoke up, voice lower:
âHas anyone contacted you anonymously? Gifts? Letters? Flowers?â
âNo,â Alina said again. But it felt thinner this time. Less real.
âAlina,â Gordon said, softer now. âThe way he spoke to you tonight⊠it was familiar.â
She looked up, finally.
His expression didnât change.
âDoll,â he said. âThat wasnât a threat. That was⊠possession.â
Alina flinched.
But Gordon didnât look away.
âI need to know if heâs still influencing you. If thereâs something you didnât tell us... Something we missed.â
Silence.
Gordon watched her, waiting for something she didnât offer.
Ruiz glanced down at her notes.
âYou told us you never saw his face. Was that true?â
âYes.â
âNot once?â
âNo.â
âNot even a glimpse? Not evenââ
âNo.â
It came out fast. Too fast.
Ruiz looked at Gordon. Gordon didnât blink.
Ruiz shifted slightly, elbows on the table, leaning in just enough to soften her voice further.
âWhen you were with him⊠did he ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?â
Emma made a soundâlike she might cry or scream.
Alina's stomach dropped to the floor.
She didnât speak.
âYou donât have to describe it,â Gordon said quickly. âYou donât even have to say the word. Justâdid he cross a line?â
Alina stared at the table.
The wood was scratched and uneven, the kind of surface that caught light in strange, broken ways. Her eyes fixed on a groove that curved like a crescent moon, and she followed it with her gaze, as if it might lead her somewhere elseâanywhere else.
Her chest rose, then fell.
Too slow. Too carefully.
Ruizâs voice came softly, pulling her back:
âMiss Vale?â
A beat.
Then another.
Alina lifted her chin.
âNo,â she said. Not a whisper. Not a waver. Just a clean, perfect syllable.
Silence.
Ruiz didnât write it down.
Gordon didnât move.
Emmaâs breath hitched behind her.
The word sat between them like a dropped knifeâsharp, wrong, ringing with everything she wasnât saying.
Because nobody in the room believed it.
Not even her.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then Gordon exhaledâslow and heavyâthe kind of breath that came from too many years of asking people to relive the worst parts of their lives. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.
âMiss Vale,â he said evenly. âYouâre safe with us. Safe to tell us anything. We need the truth.â
Alina stiffened.
A tiny tremor ran up her spine.
âYou think Iâm not telling the truth?â
The silence that followed was sharp and immediate. Ruizâs eyes flicked up. Emmaâs mouth opened. Gordon sat back a fraction, as if bracing for exactly that reaction.
âAlina,â he said, tone steady, âI think youâre holding something back. Trying to protect yourselfâŠâ
A pause.
ââŠor him.â
Emma made a choked, outraged sound.
Gordon didnât look away.
âAnd I donât know why,â he finished quietly.
Alina stared at the scratched table. Her nails dug into her palms. When she finally spoke, her voice was thin:
âI told you everything.â
Gordon held her gaze. Not accusing. Not unkind.
Just precise.
Gordon didnât blink. Didnât press.
He just sat back, exhaled through his nose, and said quietly:
âOkay.â
A pause.
âThen thatâs what weâll write down.â
He didnât touch the notepad. Didnât move to pick it up. Just let the silence lingerâheavy, unfinished.
Ruiz glanced at him, her brow tightening.
Emma let out a shaky breath, still wound tight.
Then Gordon added, more gently now:
âIf anything changes⊠if thereâs anything you remember, or decide you want to tell us laterâŠyou know how to reach me.â
He stood slowly. No rush.
No sound except the dull pulse of the press beyond the window.
Ruiz clicked her pen shut. Closed the notebook. Nodded once at Alina with something like empathy in her expression.
âThanks for your time,â she said softly as she stood and followed Gordon to the door.
Gordon had already put his hand on the doorknob when he stopped.
Just a small pauseâthe weight of years settling across his shoulders.
He didnât turn fully toward her. Just enough for his voice to carry.
âOne last thing,â he said quietly.
Alina stilled.
âHeâs⊠good at reading people. Better than anyone Iâve dealt with.â
Her breath caughtâbut if Gordon noticed, he didnât show it.
âHe makes you feel like youâre the only person in the room. Like he understands something about you no one else ever bothered to see.â
His tone wasnât accusing. Just tired. Worn down by years of studying a mind that refused to make sense.
âIt isnât real,â he added. âIt feels realâthatâs the danger.â
A beat.
A breath.
The faintest strain of worry in his eyes.
âJustâwatch your thoughts, Alina. Thatâs where he likes to live.â
And before she could reactâbefore her stomach could finish droppingâthe moment shattered. Gordon yanked the door open, flooding the hallway with white light.
Reporters screaming her name.
Cameras snapping like teeth.
Flashes flickered against the walls like ghosts trying to claw their way inside.
Gordonâs voice rose above all of itâunshakeable, cutting clean through the chaos:
âClear a path! Move!â
Ruiz followed, matching his command.
And then both of them disappeared into the frenzy outside, the door slamming shut behind them.
A silence swelled in the wake of their absence, as if the room itself exhaled.
Alinaâs pulse rattled in her throat.
The shadows in the corners seemed too still. The quiet seemed wrong, like something had been let in by accident.
Emma locked the doorâdeadbolt, chain, another lockâeach metallic click echoing like the closing of a crypt.
When she finally turned, her figure was framed by the dim, flashing lights behind her, casting a flickering shadow across the floor.
Her eyes found Alinaâs and held them.
And the look thereâpity, uncertainty, something aching and unsureâmade Alina want to crawl out of her skin.
It was that look.
The one people gave a wounded animal in a cage.
Not sure if it would bite. Not sure if it could heal.
It said everything Emma wouldnât...
It saidâshe wondered, too.
ButâmercifullyâEmma shifted the air.
âWhy donât you get a shower and put on some comfy clothes?â Her voice was gentle, but firm. âIâll reheat the pizza from yesterday. You need to eat something.â
Alina didnât argue.
She moved toward the bathroom like it was a lifeline, not a door.
Stepped inside.
Shut it.
Locked it.
Let the water run until the mirror blurred and the tiles turned slick with steam.
Then stood under the spray, arms wrapped around herself, skin burning.
And all she could think wasâ
Three days ago, I stood in this same apartment. Called Eddie. Spoke calmly, firmly. Like I was finally done being afraid.
Like I was finally something solid. Something strongâ
But here I am again.
Shaking. Hiding. Letting Emma clean up the mess.
Her knees buckled.
She sank to the floor of the tub, hair plastered to her face, the water roaring like static.
And wonderedâ
How many times can a person break before thereâs nothing left worth putting back together?
---
Alina stepped out of the bathroom, smelling faintly of soap and steam, her hair clinging damply to the shoulders of her soft T-shirt. The tile had chilled her feet. Her body felt heavyâso heavy she barely understood how it was still moving.
She padded down the hall toward the spill of lamplight and flickering TV, then paused in the doorway of Emmaâs room.
Emma sat cross-legged on the bed, swallowed by an old hoodie. Her mascara was smudged. Her eyes were raw. A glass of wine sat sweating on the nightstand, untouched.
She looked up and gave a small, careful smile.
âCâmere,â she said gently.
Alina sat down. The mattress dipped under her weight. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.
A box of leftover pizza rested between them. Emma slid a plate toward her. âEat a little, okay? Just a bite.â
Alina nodded. She picked up a sliceâcheese and dough, warmth, familiarity. She tasted none of it, but she chewed anyway.
Emma did too. Small bites. Staring at her plate like it might offer an answer.
The TV played low in the background. A Golden Girls rerun flickered on the screen. Neither of them watched.
They ate in silence.
Not peaceful. Not easy.
It was thick.
Loaded.
Emma kept glancing at her. Then away. Then back again. Like she was orbiting something fragile. Something dangerous.
Her knee bounced. She smoothed the same crease on the pizza box, over and over and over.
The silence held.
Tightened.
Alina felt the dread before Emma even opened her mouth. It rose slow and cold, fingers crawling up the back of her neck.
âWhat?â she finally whisperedâalready regretting asking.
Emma froze.
Then shook her head too quickly. âNothing. I just⊠I just hate that they made you talk about him tonight. I hate that theyââ She cut herself off, exhaled through her nose. âItâs just been a long day.â
Another lie.
The room hummed with it.
Alina took another bite, though her stomach rolled. âYouâre acting weird.â
Emma flinched. âIâm notâ Iâm just worried about you.â
Alina stared at her slice. âI know.â
Another silence. Not long, but long enough.
Emmaâs next breath shook.
ââŠThe way he talked to you.â
Alina didnât move.
Emmaâs fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of her hoodie. âOn the call. I canât stop thinking about it.â
She glanced sideways. âIt wasnât just that he called. It was the way he said your name. Like⊠like it meant something. Like you meant something to him. I donât know.â She gave a quick shake of her head, biting back the rest. âIt justâstuck with me.â
Emmaâs gaze fell to the pizza box. She dragged her fingernail along a dent in the cardboard, then paused with her hand resting there. âI know we havenât really⊠talked about any of this. And if you donât want to, Iâll drop it. I promise. The last thing I want is to make it worse.â
Alinaâs pizza slice sagged, forgotten.
Emma hesitated. Then, quietly: âItâs just⊠you never talk about what happened while he had you. Not really. And I get it. I do. But after tonight, I justââ
She didnât finish.
Silence stretched.
For a moment, Alina almost believed the conversation would dissolve, mercifully, into nothing.
Thenâ
âAlinaâŠâ
The name was barely a breath.
âWhen Ruiz asked if he touched youââ
Her heart dropped so fast she felt it in her fingertips.
Emma pressed on, gentle, careful, like approaching something cornered.
âThe look on your face when she said it⊠I canât get it out of my head. You went somewhere else. Like you werenât even in the room.â
Alinaâs stomach twisted.
No. No, not this. Not now.
âBut after tonight⊠hearing him speak to you like thatâŠâ Emmaâs voice broke. âIâm scared, Lina. Iâm scared of what he mightâve done to you.â
Alina felt her throat clamp shut.
Emma went on, voice softer, apologetic, terrified:
âIâm not asking for details. God, Iâm not. I justâŠâ She took a shaky breath. âDid he⊠did he hurt you? Did heââ
Alina stared at the slice in her hands until the crust and cheese blurred into a soft, watery smear.
If she didnât blink, maybe the tears would stay where they were. Maybe she could hold them back by force alone.
But then Emma reached out, tentative, resting her hand on Alinaâs wrist.
âI just want to understand,â she whispered. âSo I can help you. So I know what Iâm dealing with. I need to know what he did to you. Because something happened. Something more thanâthan just captivity.â
Slowly, helplessly, Alina lifted her head.
And the moment her eyes met Emmaâs, the tears gave way.
Emmaâs face crumpled. âOh, honey⊠oh noââ She scooted closer, arms already lifting. âIâm sorry. Iâm so sorry. Please donât cryââ
But Alina was already breaking. Already shaking. The tears spilled fastâhot with shame, thick with grief, relentless in their betrayal of everything she was trying to hold together.
Emma gathered her in without hesitation, as if she could shield her from every memory at once.
âIâm here,â she murmured, over and over, brushing trembling fingers through Alinaâs hair. âYouâre safe now. Youâre safe. You donât have to talk about it. I shouldnât have pushedâIâm so sorry.â
Alina sobbed harderâbecause Emma thought she was crying from trauma.
From remembering.
The chloroform.
The panic.
The raw-boned terror of the first night he'd whispered mine like a curse and a prayer.
From the bruises.
The silence.
The fear.
And maybe some of it was that...
But that wasnât why she was crying now.
Not really.
It was because tonightâhearing his voice againâ
that low, rough warmth he used only with her,
that awful intimacy that made her feel chosen,
wanted,
knownâ
had shattered something inside her.
Because she missed him.
Because she loved him.
Because she hated herself for every piece of that truth.
Because she could never explain it to Emma.
Could never say it aloud.
Could never confess that she was crying not just from what heâd done to herâ
but from what heâd made her become.
Sheâd dragged Emma into this.
Let her offer kindness, shelter, safetyâwhen Emma didnât even know she was holding someone too far gone to save.
Someone ruined in a way that didnât look like blood or bruises, but something deeper.
Quieter.
Permanent.
Emma stroked her hair with a reverence that hurt.
As if Alina were still good.
Still whole.
âYou donât have to relive it,â she whispered. âYouâre not alone.â
Alina let herself be held.
And under Emmaâs armsâ
under the lie of safetyâ
one thought rose like a knife through her chest:
Iâm a monster.
Because I want him.
Because he hurt me.
Because I still want him anyway.
Her tears soaked Emmaâs shoulder.
Emma only held her tighter.
---
Laterâmuch laterâAlina lay curled on her air mattress, staring at the faint glow of the fairy lights above her, their batteries nearly gone. The room was dim, sheets clean. Quiet. Lavender-scented.
Safe.
But none of it touched her.
Everything hurt. Not the kind she could point to. Not the kind anyone could fix. Something deeper.
Something twisting beneath her ribs like bruises that hadnât bloomed yet.
She pulled the blanket higher. It didnât help.
Her eyes were raw from crying. Her cheeks stung with dried salt. Her skull throbbed with that sick, hollow ache that came after too much emotionâafter too much truth.
And now that the tears were goneâ
now that sorrow had burned itself outâ
something else rose to take its place.
Anger.
It came hot. Sharp. Wild.
Her jaw locked. Her fingers clenched the blanket until her knuckles went white.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
The thought echoed, low and rhythmic, like footsteps in an empty hall.
How dare he take her. Make her love him. Then force her to leave like it was mercy.
How dare he destroy her life and call it survival.
How dare he make her heart something he could pick up or set down as easily as a coin on a table.
He ruined her life with the simplest choices.
Turned her name into public currency, her fear into dinner conversation, her survival into spectacle.
Everyone knew her now, but no one saw her. No one saw what it cost.
And Emmaâdear, steady Emmaâhe'd dragged her into this orbit too, forced her to carry a weight she never asked for.
Bills missed. Shifts swapped.
Nights spent watching over someone who couldnât explain why she couldnât breathe.
How dare he do that.
How dare he make her walk onto a stage because they needed the money heâd taken from her life.
How dare he make her wear bravery like a costume.
How dare he let her believe she might get through the interview untouchedâ
only to appear.
To call.
To speak to her in that voice.
Hi, Doll.
So easy.
So familiar.
So fucking intimate.
Two words that slipped under her skin the way sunlight slips through curtainsâuninvited, inevitable.
And she hatedâHATEDâthe way something in her leaned toward them.
Toward him.
Like a flower toward sunlight.
Like a wound remembering the blade that made it.
She pressed her fist to her sternum, as if she could quiet the trembling there.
Because the truthâthe ugliest partâ
was that she missed him.
His voice.
His heat.
The way he softened only for her.
The way he would sigh in his sleep, pull her closer without even knowing it.
The way he smelled like smoke and rain and the night itself.
The way he looked at her like he saw straight into the parts she hid from everyone else.
And that wantâthat terrible, impossible wantâdidnât make her brave.
It made her ruined.
More ruined now than when he first stole her.
She wasnât just broken.
She was more broken than beforeâ
because now she knew what it meant to be held by someone who didnât believe in gentleness, and loved by someone who didnât believe in love.
And stillâ
stillâ
some part of her mourned the loss of his arms around her.
Some part of her longed for the danger of him, the warmth of himâ
the terrible rightness of belonging to someone she should never have touched.
The anger tightened in her throat, hot and helpless.
A prayer.
A curse.
A confession she would never speak aloud.
How dare you, she thought into the dark.
How dare you leave me wanting you.
---
Eventually, sleep came.
But it was not mercy.
It pulled her under like deep water, slow and strange.
And in the dream, he was there.
Not his face.
His hands.
They moved through a darkness too rich to be blackâsomething greener, deeper. Like moss in moonlight. Like breath held under velvet.
He was holding something.
Noâfolding something.
Her green dress.
The one from the studio. The one she had tried to feel powerful in.
The one heâd seen her in.
His hands moved slowly, reverently, smoothing the fabric as if it were sacred.
As if it were hers.
As if it were his.
He didnât crush it.
He didnât tear it.
He held it gently, fingertips grazing the curve of the collar, the line of the zipperâthe same path his hand had taken down her back once, in the dark.
Then his touch drifted lower, stroking downward. The fabric shiveredâ
âand for a moment, just a momentâ
she felt it.
A whisper across her hip.
A slow sweep over her waist.
A warmth that curled low and deep.
âeven though he wasnât touching her at all.
Even though it was only fabric in his hands.
Her body arched, seeking warmth, seeking him, seeking a hand that wasn't there.
But the sensation faded like breath on a mirror.
And the grief that followedâsmall, startlingâ
told the truth she wouldnât say aloud.
He went on smoothing the velvet as if he was remembering the heat of her skin,
turning it over like it was something heâd memorized. Something heâd missed.
Then he pressed it to his chest.
His fingers fanned over the velvet, like he needed the softness against him.
Clutched it.
Clung.
And when he exhaledâjust once, deep and quietâit wasnât a laugh or a growl or a threat.
It sounded like grief.
It sounded like longing.
A sound that might have warmed her neck if sheâd been standing before him.
A sound her body knew.
And that, more than anything, made her tremble.
In sleep, her body flinched. Her hands curled into fists beneath the blanketâas if reaching for something warm that wasnât there.
Because every part of her wanted to reach back.
To take the dress.
To feel those hands smoothing her instead of velvet.
To let him hold her like that.
To ask him why heâd let her goâif heâd ever meant to at all.
I hope you enjoyed Chapter 37, otherwise known as: âAlina Really Should Be In Therapy But Instead Sheâs In Love With The Joker.â
Thank you for reading, screaming, theorizing, crying, and enabling my madness for an entire year. This fic has grown into something huge and beautiful and broken because of YOU.
Chapter 38 is already in progress, and weâre about to enter a whole new level of emotional damage. Stay tuned, stay hydrated, and feel free to yell at me in the comments. đđ€đđ
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Murder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, coarse language, mentions of suicide.
Hopeless
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound of water was the first thing that seeped into Hazelâs awareness. Then, her nose burned with smell of bleach.
Hazel peeled her eyes open and let them adjust to the light. She noticed with a sense of panic a tightness in her chest, like she was breathing through a snorkel that had half submerged. There was something very wrong with how it felt. She focused on breathing easy, steady and full.
Hazel lay still and listened. Apart from the dripping that sounded like water in a pipe, there was silence. No footsteps. No breath. No feeling that another being was present.
Hazel turned her head a fraction taking in the space around her. A dim globe hung from the ceiling above her illuminating a white room. Clean. No furniture.
Quietly, Hazel tried to shift from where she lay on her side and realised, she was still bound. Her right arm was arm cardboard-numb from being folded beneath her own bodyweight. She rolled onto her back with a grunt. Her body hurt including a steady thumping in her skull, and a painful pressure in her chest.
Holy shit. The Lieutenant had attacked her.
It seemed like a bad dream â one of her nightmares.
The Lieutenant was the Gotham slasher?
How did she miss it?
Hazel focused on keeping her laboured breaths calm and steady. She didn't allow herself to panic and breath harder when the air didn't come. Just nice easy breaths.
Thatâs it, Hazel. Easy.
Squinting at her wrists she inspected the cable ties that bound her. One on each wrist, looped through each other and pulled tight enough that they couldn't be slipped off. The ties on her ankles were set up the same. She gave a futile yank at the ties on her wrists, testing their strength. It burned her skin, but the ties didn't yield.
With some exertion, Hazel leveraged herself upright. It was hard to manoeuvre with her bindings, but it was possible. Once seated she had a better view of the room.
Four walls and a low ceiling. Each white wall was clad in some sort of undulating spongy material that looked like sound proofing. In one corner an old pipe passed - the source of the dripping sound. The smell of bleach suggested that the room had undergone thorough cleaning. She was lying on a thin mattress - new.
She was in a purpose-built prison of sorts.
There was a staircase at the opposite side of the room that led to a door. This seemed to be the only obvious entry or exit point. Hazel assumed from the design of the stairs, and the general feel of the space, that she was in a basement.Â
It was logical to believe that the door at the top of the stairs was locked. She would try it, but not immediately. She did not know what or who, waited beyond its confines. If she started making noise, she might draw her assailant â the lieutenant - back to her.
She was better taking time to think, and to try and remove her bindings.
Law enforcement statistics crawled in her mind:
Secondary locations favour the assailant and increase control over victim.
Secondary locations significantly reduce odds of survival.
Victims should avoid relocation at all costs.
Hazel accepted the morbid truth of it: Finding herself bound in a cellar wasnât good. If she wanted to get away, she had to be smart.
Hazel continued her scan. Beside her bed was a bowl of water â a silver pet bowl placed on the ground. The sentiment that she should drink like a dog was not lost on her â but it also meant that he didnât necessarily intend for her to die before he returned.
The idea that he had plans for her more significant that her death was bone rattlingly terrifying.
One small section of the wall was boarded over, she noticed. It was also whitewashed so it blended in.
What lay beyond it?
If she was in a basement or cellar, then it might a storm door â an exit straight to the outside world. It felt like the place to start.
In a worm like action Hazel managed to stand herself up without the proper use of her hands. A wave of dizziness swept over her and her knees buckled and dropped her, hitting the ground with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.
Hazel lay foetal. Her whole body hurt. She was parched with thirst and struggling against the pressure in her chest. As she recovered, hugging her bound arms against her, she felt utterly hopeless.
Pull it together, Hazel.
With a groan, Hazel rolled onto her back and adjusted her arms to touch the pain at her ribs - the point where she had felt the stabbing pain when she was attacked in her apartment. With shock, she discovered a warm, wet feeling against her skin. The bleeding hadnât stopped and there was a large patch of red blood on her shirt. It was mostly bright fresh blood, darkened on the fringes of the stain.
This was a problem.
The pain in her ribs intensified after looking at it. Now that she knew how much she was bleeding it was harder to put the pain out of mind. Hazel raked at her shirt with her bound hands trying to get a view of the wound and idea of the damage, but it was useless.
One thing was sure; time was of the essence. She needed to get out fast, without over-exerting herself, and without drawing attention.
Hazel scanned the room, baren except for the mattress and the bowl. Her eyes settled on the globe hanging from the ceiling. If she smashed itâŠa shard of glass had the potential to sever the plastic cable tie â but she could easily cut herself, and it would be very difficult to use her bound hands effectively. Also, breaking glass would make noise, and breaking the globe would leave her in darkness. It wouldnât work.
The boarded section of wall had her interest.
Hazel made an ungainly roll back to seated, this time really pacing herself before standing. Her legs were trembling and numb and saliva pooled in her mouth. With tiny shifts of her bound ankles, she made her way to the boarded wall.
Hazel raised her hands up to the panels, the wood was thick and rough under the coating of paint. She pressed against it, testing for movement but the structure held solid. Hazel ran her hands along the edge, all the way to where the wood met the wall. Thick nails â like those of a nail gun â had the wood firmly embedded. Hazel examined the nails all the way along, all solidly embedded except for one which jutted out just a quarter inch. She tested the wood at that level â it didnât budge.
Hazel tried to get her fingers to grip underneath the lip of the first panel but the tight binding on her hands made it hard to apply much force. The wood was flush, and firm and she couldnât get a good angle. Hazelâs head started to spin from the effort. Knowing that she was bleeding and with the horrible sense that she wasnât getting enough air, she felt like she was racing the clock.
Nothing was budging. Hazel felt her hope wane.
Even if she got the panel off, the best she could hope would be to call for help to anyone who passed by on the street - assuming she was on a street. Getting enough panels free to climb out seemed ambitious. Too much noise would alert Lieutenant James that she was awake and trying to escape.
Where was the Lieutenant? How much time did she have before he came for her?
The Lieutenant would have to return to work at some point â she reasoned, but she had no reference on time in the white, sealed room.
No light entered the room from the outside. If freedom lay beyond the boards, there was no sign of light from there - only the artificial light of the globe.
Maybe he left the light on to disorient her.
Hazel tried to reason the time past.
The Lieutenant had turned up at around 11pm just after Joker left. How long had she been unconscious after that? How long would the anaesthetic effect from the chloroform have lasted?
Surely not all night.
She had to assume it was night and the Lieutenant was still in the building.
Hazel glanced at the door, a tempting illusion of escape - he could be guarding the top of the stairs.
Still, he had places he was expected to be and he couldnât wait all day. He was likely confident she was securely enclosed whilst he attended to his routines.
Hazel reasoned that if she could move a board just enough to monitor dawn break, she would be able to gauge when he would most likely be gone, reported back to work. Then she could try her luck with the door.
She needed try the boards again.
Maybe she would be able to get a proper grip on the boards if her hands were untied.
Getting her hands free was the first step.
Hazel swallowed back a wave of nausea. How would she get her hands free?
The raised nail head was an optionâŠrepetitive dragging against the plastic bindings would eventually fray the binding â probably.
She just needed to stay up right long enough to get it done.
There wasnât much time.
Her thirst was raging, and the intermittent dizzy spells were increasingly hard to contend with.
Hazel looked back at the dog bowl â too many steps away now, and besides she didnât trust it. Despite how desperately parched she was, she would go without.
She had to focus on her bindings.
Hazel found the raised corner of the nail. Her two hands pressed together she raised them above the nail head and dragged them down. As she hoped, the cable tie caught and then flicked over the nail head with a ping.
The sound made her heart swell with hope. Hazel was sure the friction over time would fray the band.
One.
She counted her first effort. Unsure how many tries it would take she set her goal at fifty.
At 50 flicks it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay up right. Hazelâs legs trembled and a cold sweat had drenched her pyjama top. She wished for a jumper.
Blackness started to encroach on her vision and she felt the world tip, barley catching herself. She didnât have the energy to keep standing.
Hazel raised her wrists to inspect the work. The plastic was stretching and had chink marks in it.
You need to yank it with all your weight and it will bust through.
Fixing her gaze on the nail head she aligned her hands flush on the wall.
1, 2, 3!
She slid her fists down the boards so flush they stung with friction, the nail caught and she dropped her body weight against the binding. The cable strained then snapped, dumping Hazel onto her knees with bruising force.
Hazel grunted with pain and rolled over to her butt, circling her free wrists until the pain started to subside.
As the feeling returned to her arms, she brought herself up. She found the edge of the board and started to pry. Her nails scraped. Splintered. The board didnât budge. Â
Her thirst was unbearable.
Blood loss.
Shock.
Potential concussion.
The giddy feeling was getting stronger. Her vision was blurring - growing dark at the edges.
She sat.
She had to sit.
For a moment she pressed her head into her hands. It was hopeless.
She just didnât have the strength or the stamina to persist with the boards. There was only one more option.
She needed to try her luck with the door at the top of the stairs. She couldn't delay any further - despite the risk.
Hazel turned her head in the direction of the stairs just as she heard the rattling of the lock.
The basement door swung open.
**
Hazel blinked up at the dark silhouette that had filled the door.
âRose?â
Roseâs lean figure hurried down the stairs, shushing her as she came.
âQuite! I watched him drive away, but he could be back anytime. I'm going to get you out of here.â
Hazel blinked up at Rose, bewildered. Against the new light cast from the stairs, Rose looked like she had a golden glow â a halo. To Hazel she was a street-wise, knee-high booted angel.
Next thing Rose was kneeling beside Hazel, with a quick flick of a pocket knife the bindings on Hazel's ankles were severed.
With Roseâs help, Hazel struggled to her feet. Little dots danced in front of her eyes and Rose stepped in to support her. Hazel linked an arm over Rose letting her weight hang on the womanâs wiry frame.
"Why are you here?" Hazel spluttered âGod, Iâm so glad that you are.â
Rose paused long enough to look Hazel in the eye.
"I Recognised him at the station when he barged into our interview. When I saw your bossesâ beady eyes it all came back to me: he was the man in the Van at Miffs house. He killed Miff. He killed all those others. I knew no one would believe me, except maybe you. I wanted to talk to you somewhere private, so, I followed you to your house and I waited.
Rose turned and started up the stairs, still speaking over her own shoulder.
âOf course, I never did you get a chance to talk to you. After you know who left â and the lieutenant turned up in that Van, I knew you were in a world of trouble. You've had a busy night, girl."
"Wow Rose. With those smarts you could work for GCPD"
"Huh!' her laugh was dry. 'You keep your eyes and ears open to survive the Narrows. No thank you all the same."
"Is that where we are? The Narrows?"
"You're in a basement on Gold Spur Street."
His dead mothers house.
It made sense.
Hazel remembered the three standalone houses next to the brewery â each with their own small block and a cellar.
Stupid!
Sheâd shoved one of her calling cards in the door frame just a couple days earlier. No wonder he was pissed she wasnât following his directions!
The stairs were hard work. Her feet were heavy, and she caught her foot as she climbed, jarring herself painfully. Conversation stopped as Hazel focused on getting enough air just to move.
Rose pulled at her and Hazel pressed on best she could.
The house above was quiet and dim. Hazel felt coarse carpet beneath her feet as they silently entered the hallway and then a living space.
Hazel did a visual sweep of the room making out a floral sofa covered in a clear protector. The furniture was dated, not as many years as the home, but old. The late Margaret's furniture, Hazel figured.
As they stepped cautiously out the front door, a swell of elation swept over Hazel.
Freedom.
Dawn was on its way. The sky was lighter, a haze, grey like the city. Sunrise was yet to bleed colour into the world.
The first car that came along the street still had headlights on. The stark beams pinned them with nowhere to hide. Hazel straightened her back as much as she could and walked a few strides with purpose. Sticky with blood and sweat, barefoot and hobbling in her sleep-ware â Hazel was worried about attracting the wrong kind of attention.
She breathed a sigh of relief as the vehicle passed. It wasn't Lieutenant James.
âWant me to call someone?â Rose asked.
âCall my partner!â Hazel gasped. âYou got a phone, Rose?â The few steps she had taken of her own accord had zapped her energy. She was dragging her feet now.
 âThere is a payphone at the end of the block.â Rose puffed and kept walking.
The movement was making Hazels side ache and every breath hurt.
Without warning, her knees buckled and Rose pitched with the effort to keep her from falling.
âJesus!â Rose was stern âStay on your feet. I canât carry you like that!âÂ
Rose was walking her in the wrong direction, away from the shops end of Gold Spur. Away from the civilised world, in the direction of The Narrows.
Hazel tried to speak but her mouth seemed to have disengaged, not responding to her brain.
She was just too tired.
How far was it to the phone?
Hazel forced another footstep. Her mouth was like cotton balls. All she could think about was water. She wished she had drunk the dog bowl dry â even if it was poisoned. She needed to stop for water.
âI need wat-â
Her words faded.
One minute she was standing. Next minute she felt like she was floating in a giant sea. Bobbing on a raft. In her delirium the sun was beating down, and she could taste the salty spray on her lips. Mouth too dry.
âHey! Hey!â
Hazels eyes reeled open as she hit the concrete, the impact jarring her awake.
âHey!â Rose shouted again, âYou have to use your feet! I canât drag you. You'll die here if you don't stand.â Rose pulled at her hard âGET UP!â
Hazel didnât move. She stayed on the ground and closed her eyes.
Next thing, Roseâs arms were tucked underneath her own underarms, and she was being dragged off the sidewalk. Rose pulled her in short shunts, cursing with effort. Hazel tried her best to cooperate as Rose pulled but she had lost control of her limbs and her will to try was slipping.
Hazel felt the air grow cooler and she smelt trash.
Rose had pulled her into an adjacent alley and was propping her against a dumpster.
The older woman crouched down taking her hand tightly. Hazel couldnât see her clearly, but she could feel her grip and hear her.
"Iâm sorry. I canât get you to the phone, girl. I don't have the strength. Iâll come back for you, I promise. Iâm gonna get help"
"Stay! " Hazel croaked. Her voice was too weak. Too quite. She wasnât even sure the plea had her left her throat.
**
Hazel Floated in the ether somewhere between here and gone. Like fingers trailing the surface of an ocean, unable to break free for air. Occasionally, she registered a glimmer of light, sound, or a coherent thought, but mostly she floated in darkness, unable to break free.
How long did Rose leave her that way? Hazel didnât know.
Minutes. Hours.
Eternity?
Hazel was beyond a fight for justice, or to fear for her life - too tired to fight for consciousness.
She wanted Rose back just so she wasnât alone.
Rose promised sheâd return with help⊠surely she wouldnât just leave.
At one point she dreamt about the clown.
A flicker of comfort in her heart at the familiarity.
First, she dreamed she smelt him: leather and matches. She imagined the weight of his booted strides approaching, and the way his coat would swing with each step.
She thought she heard voices in the background.
She dreamed of the touch of leather across her cheek.
The gloved touch was smooth, a stroke at first.
Calming. Welcome.
Eyelids pulled up, one side, then the other. Light in her eyes, blinding. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Then a gloved hand clapped her cheek. Two brittle slaps.
Small, but sharp.
It stung.
Maybe it hurt enough to be real.
"Hey! Can you hear me?"
The voice again... maybe it was real?
She couldn't tell. She couldn't wake...she was too tired and disoriented to even care.
...and then she was being lifted.
The world tilted.
A slog in the guts as she was thrown over a shoulder. A rag-doll across a broad back.
Then, the voice like gravel:
"I got you doll. No dying on me tonight.â
**
Hazel has been collected by an unlikely hero! Is she better off or worse??
Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or share if you have enjoyed.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gothamâs haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Jokerâa man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she canât control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself heâs brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
The green room smelled faintly of lemon water and stale makeup brushes.
Beyond the door, the studio moved like a machineâvoices barked orders, cords scraped across linoleum, shoes clicked too fast down hallways. Then: laughter. A phone rang. Someone swore.
Too loud.
Too alive.
It felt like the edge of something she wasnât ready to fall from.
Too much.
Alina sat perfectly still on the little red sofa, ankles crossed, back too straight. Her fingers picked at the hem of her dress, catching on the thin fabric of her tights. Her hands wouldnât stop moving. Couldnât.
Everyone had been so kind. Too kind. Like they were handling glass they fully expected to shatter.
Joyce, the woman in charge of hospitality, had said she could ask for anythingâcoffee, tea, sparkling water, kombuchaâand smiled like she meant it. The production assistant had handed her tissues without asking why she needed them. The makeup artist had worked with light, careful motions, patting concealer beneath her eyes like she was performing last rites.
They all told her she looked beautiful.
And she did.
Maybe too much.
She stared at the woman in the mirror as if through waterâan image warped by waves and distance. Black eyeliner flared like a blade. Her lashes curled, her lips held a breath of color, her skin blushed into life like a princess in a coffin.
It was the first time sheâd worn makeup since the day he took her.
The day her life split down the center.
And what stared back was a version of herself she didnât trust. A version that belonged to someone else.
Before the ruin.
Or somehow after it.
Theyâd all been so careful. So reassuring. When sheâd called to accept the offer, sheâd been explicitâno questions about anything invasive, or dehumanizing. Nothing about the things no one should ever have to say aloud on camera.
Theyâd agreed. Emailed it in writing. Even met her in person, all smiles and soft voices.
Your comfort is our top priority.
We just want to give you a voice.
Emma hadnât believed it for a second.
Sheâd stood in the kitchen just two nights ago, arms crossed tight against her chest. âAlina, you canât do this. Youâre not ready. You donât owe anyone this. Theyâre going to twist it. Traumatize you all over again.â
âIâll be fine,â Alina had saidâbecause admitting anything else wouldâve splintered her open.
Because the money would let Emma take that trip.
Because this was something she could give backâ
Even if it cost her something she didnât yet have words for.
She smoothed the hem of her dressâdeep green velvet, short hem and high at the neck with little cap sleeves and a black lace neckline. Sheâd chosen it because it reminded her of storiesâof witches and old forests and girls who knew things. She wore sheer black tights and soft boots with worn-down soles.
Her hair spilled down her back in long, careful wavesâgentle, composed. Nothing like how she felt inside.
Emma had curled it herself, standing behind her with shaking hands and too many bobby pins. âYou donât have to do this,â she said softly, even as Alina stepped into the dress.
But she did have to do this.
She needed the money.
Emma needed the break.
And some buried part of her needed this, tooâthis performance of composure, this armor made of velvet and eyeliner, this fragile idea that she still had a choice.
She just wished the air didnât feel like it was tightening around her throat.
Someone shouted outside the doorââThirty seconds to segment setup!ââand her pulse thudded once, hard enough to make her vision sway. A wave of nausea rose, but she forced it down. She had learned how to still her body in the worst places.
Her stomach clenched.
The lights outside the door shifted.
Joyce knocked once, then peeked in. âWeâre ready when you are.â
The air tasted sharp. Metallic.
Alina nodded. Her voice caught behind her ribs, refused to move.
She stood.
Her knees felt wrong. Not weakâjust not hers.
She walked.
Each step softer than the scream under her bones.
And somewhere deep behind her eyes, her mind whispered the only truth she still trusted:
Heâll be watching.
---
The hallway to the stage was cold.
Not physically. But in that clinical way that makes hospitals feel too clean, too white. The kind of cold that seeps behind your ribs and tells you nothing here is meant for comfort.
People passed her in blursâcrew in black shirts with headsets, someone wheeling in an extra chair, a man in khakis adjusting a boom mic. No one really looked at her. They all smiled like theyâd been trained to.
Smile gently at the trauma girl.
Donât make her flinch.
The stage manager greeted her with a clipboard and a whisper.
âWeâll start with soft questions. Youâll just be sitting with Kip, very conversational. Youâve seen the mock-ups.â
Alina nodded, though she couldnât remember anything from the packet. She could barely hear over the rush of her own blood.
Through the doorway, the studio light flared hot and artificial. Two cushioned chairs. A matte-black coffee table. A small, tasteful bouquet.
Everything looked expensive and calm.
Like a funeral.
âThree minutes,â someone said behind her.
Kip Farthington was already in his seatâhair perfectly slicked back, smiling with teeth too straight to be real. He wore a navy suit with a white shirt and no tie, his collar open just enough to suggest casual authority.
He looked like a news anchor designed by committeeâKen doll handsome. Inoffensive. Artificial.
He rose when she entered.
âAlina,â he said warmly, holding out a hand. âThank you for being here.â
She shook it. His hand was smooth, bloodless. Too light. Like touching paper.
She sat in her seat, crossing her ankles, folding her hands in her lap like a child in church.
The cameras werenât rolling yet, but she felt them.
Heavy. Watching. Waiting to feed.
Kip leaned toward her, eyes almost kind. âYou look lovely. That dress is going to look great on camera.â
Her mouth formed a thank-you, but her throat refused to give it breath.
The mic tech approachedâreached toward her shoulderâand she flinched before she could stop it. The woman apologized softly. âJust the wire,â she said, all gentleness.
As if the wire werenât another mouth waiting to swallow her words.
As if everything wasnât already too late.
âThirty seconds,â someone called.
The lights shifted. The air tightened.
Something in her chest locked into place like a loaded chamber.
The world contracted to a single spotlight, two chairs, and a man pretending to understand.
She wasnât ready.
She had never been ready.
But that had never mattered before.
The music swelled like a cue.
The red light blinked on.
And everything in her stilled.
â
Kip sat poised, hands folded. Suit crisp. The expression on his face walked the line between solemnity and intrigue.
His voice came low and smooth, practiced.
âGood evening. Iâm Kip Farthington. And this⊠is Gotham Evening Feature.â
A pause. His eyes found the lens.
âTonight, we bring you the story of a woman whose name became synonymous with sacrificeâa woman who stood face-to-face with Gothamâs most feared criminal, and survived.â
Her heart kicked, hard and fast.
The screen on set flickeredâcutting to the missing flyer. The one Emma had chosen. The smile that didnât quite reach her eyes. A face that didnât look like hers anymore.
Then: shaky footage. Sirens. The bank steps. A blur of screaming faces.
Kip's voice pressed on:
âOn October 16th, during what police described as the most psychologically manipulative hostage event in Gothamâs history, twenty-eight-year-old waitress Alina Vale made a choiceâShe offered herself in place of a stranger.â
Alinaâs hands clenched in her lap. Her nails bit into skin.
âShe survived the unthinkable. Walked free. And seventeen days later⊠vanished without a trace.â
A beat.
âFor nearly four months, the city searched. Wondered. Feared the worst.â
She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldnât work.
âAnd thenâshe came back.â
The camera angled toward her. The heat of the lights flared again.
âAnd tonight, for the first time⊠Alina Vale is ready to speak.â
She sat up straighter. It felt like stepping to a ledge.
Kip turned toward her, voice softened just slightly.
âAlina, thank you for being here.â
She parted her lips. The words snagged on her tongue.
Then finally, quietly:
ââŠThank you. For having me.â
Kipâs smile was gentle, rehearsed.
He leaned back slightly, giving her spaceâor the appearance of it.
âAlina,â he began, âyouâve said very little since returning home. People have wonderedâŠâ His voice softened like he was tending a wound ââŠhow youâre holding up.â
A safe question. One she could answer without betraying anything.
âIâm⊠adjusting,â she managed. Her voice sounded wrong in her own earsâthin, almost borrowed. âItâs been a lot to process.â
Kip nodded sympathetically, as if he knew what âa lotâ meant.
He didnât.
Kip folded his hands over his knee, expression solemn in a way that read more rehearsed than respectful.
âLetâs start at the beginning, Alina. Back at the bank.â He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he already believed heâd solved.
âHow did it feelâŠthe moment the Joker walked into that room?â
A lump rose in her throat.
Of course he had to take her back there.
Why would she expect anything else?
âI felt⊠terrified,â she said quietly. âLike everyone else. Everyone knows who he isâwhat heâs capable of...â
âIâm sure you were,â Kip replied, voice dripping sympathy. âI canât imagine what that must have been like for you all.â
The way he said sure made her skin prickleâ
He leaned in slightly.
âNow, something people still talk about⊠You had the chance to choose someone else. To save yourself. But you didnât.â
A slow beat.
âYou stayed in the chair. Offered up your life in exchange for a room full of strangers... Why?â
Another sharp pain bloomed under her ribs.
She still couldnât believe she was dragging these thoughts into the openâinto cameras and lights and millions of strangersâ living rooms.
âWell⊠honestly, KipâŠâ She swallowed. âI just wanted the suffering to end. There were so many people thereâchildren, elderly folks, mothers, fathersâŠ.â
Her voice cracked.
âI donâtâ I didnât have anyone like that. My parents died when I was twelve and my only other relativeâmy auntâshe passed away too. I guess I thought my life wouldnât⊠leave the same kind of hole.â
She took a shaky breath.
âAnd I couldnât just sit there and watch everyone die, one after another.â
âOh, Alina⊠What a burden to carry. What a noble choice you made.â
She had the sudden, vivid urge to stand up and walk out.
Instead she looked at her hands.
âAnd then,â Kip continued, smoothing his papers as if easing her gently forward, âthe moment he broke the rules of his own game and decided not to take your life. What was that like?â
âIt was a relief, of course.â She tried a small smile, but it felt wrong on her face.
âIâm sure.â
Kipâs eyes narrowedânot unkind, but curious in a way that set her nerves on edge.
âHereâs the question on everyoneâs mind.â
A pause.
âWhy? Why do you think he let you live, Alina?â
She froze.
Sheâd known this was coming, but it still hit like cold water.
âI donât know,â she said, too quickly.
Then softer: âI genuinely donât.â
Kip nodded as if he believed herâbut the sharpened glint in his eye suggested he didnât.
Heat crawled up her neck.
She looked down again.
The questions kept comingâdetails about the graveyard, her capture, the warehouse. She repeated what sheâd told the detectives. Nothing new. Nothing she hadnât already rehearsed.
Until Kip set his pen down.
Straightened.
Lifted his gaze to hers with a different kind of interestâsharper. Hungrier.
âAlina⊠you were isolated with him for nearly four months.â
She stiffened.
âThat kind of prolonged captivity⊠it changes the brain. It changes how we relate to the only person near us. Even when that person is dangerous.â
Her pulse throbbed beneath her skin.
No.
This wasnât in the contract. He wasnât supposed to go anywhere near this.
âI think what our viewers want to understand,â he said, voice warm, coaxing, âis⊠what was that like for you? How did it feel?â
She swallowed. It scraped all the way down.
âI⊠I'm not sure,â she whispered. It was barely a sound.
Kip nodded with sympathetic gravity, eyes soft, head tilted just so.
To the viewers at home, he probably looked compassionate.
To her, he looked like a man testing the strength of thin ice.
âItâs important to understand the emotional landscape,â he continued. âWhen a survivor forms⊠dependencies. Attachments. Even involuntary ones.â
Her stomach lurched.
She couldnât believe he'd said the word âattachments.â
It felt like being stripped in front of millions.
She wanted to speak. To set a boundary.
Nothing came out. Her voice was goneâtrapped somewhere behind her ribs with all the other things she refused to remember.
Kip offered a sympathetic frown.
âAnd considering the unusual length of time he kept you aliveâŠâ Kip leaned in slightly. âSome people have wondered ifââ
He stopped.
A smile.
A boundary deliberately skirted.
ââŠif there was ever a moment when you saw him as something other than the monster people believe he is.â
Her heartbeat stuttered hard, painful.
No. No, noâthat wasnât allowed, that wasnât in the agreementâ
âIâŠâ she managed, barely.
He tapped his papers lightly, as if embarrassed on her behalf.
âI just wanted to go home,â she whispered.
âOf course. Of course.â
He held up a hand, as if protecting her from misunderstanding.
âBut online, thereâs been some⊠speculation.â
Her breath stalled.
âA theory that the Joker hasnât come after you since you escaped becauseâŠâ
He hesitatedâthe kind of hesitation meant to look respectful.
ââŠbecause perhaps he cares for you... In some way.â
Her pulse thundered.
He leaned in, voice lowering, intimate in a way that made her skin crawl.
âWhere there were moments,â he said softly, âwhen the⊠boundary between fear and something else became unclear?â
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Kip waited.
Just a second too long.
The silence pressed inâhungry, expectant.
Then, soft as silk drawn tight around a throat:
âAlina⊠did you ever feel he wanted something from you that you couldnât refuse?â
Her entire body went still.
There it was.
The drop.
The line he wasnât supposed to crossâobliterated.
A cold rush washed down her spine. Her ears rang.
She couldnât breathe. She couldnât move.
She couldnât believe heâd just said thatâon live televisionâafter he'd promised.
Her mind screamed:Â Get up. Walk out. Now.
But she sat motionless, heart hammering, the lights burning into her.
Kip sat perfectly still, watching her as she stared at the floor, unable to speak.
Thenâ
Kip cleared his throat lightly, shifting his earpiece.
âAhâjust a moment,â he said with a small smile. âMy producer is telling me we have a live caller.â
Her stomach plummeted.
Live caller? No. No, no, noâthis wasnâtâshe hadnâtâ
Kip turned toward the camera with professional ease.
âYouâre on Gotham Evening Feature,â Kip said brightly. âWho am I speaking with tonight?â
A beat of silence.
Thenâ
A low, amused hum crackled through the speakers. Not a word. Just that sound. Like someone very pleased with himself.
Alinaâs breath stalled.
Kipâs smile waveredânot enough to register with the audience, but Alina caught it. His eyes darted toward her, then back to the camera. Still smooth. Still smiling. But something in him clicked to attentionâ
Like a dog catching the scent of fresh meat.
âCaller?â he prompted. âYouâve got the floor.â
Another pause. Then a voiceâlow, casual, rasping. Like a joke waiting to happen.
âJust wanted to sayâŠâ
A drag of breath, stretched out for effect.
âNot lovinâ the tone, Kip.â
The world stopped.
Light. Breath. Thought.
Gone.
Recognition slammed into herâso fast it hurt.
Pure. Blinding. Brutal.
It was him.
No mistaking itâthat lilt, that sardonic warmth, smudged with ash and gunpowder.
The voice that had lived under her skin for four months and carved itself into her dreams.
Her body remembered him before her mind could even form the thought.
Kip didnât move, but his pupils sharpenedâpinpricks widening in recognition.
He knew.
She watched it flicker across his face: shock, disbelief, awe. Then a flash of something sharperâhunger. Pure, ravenous opportunity.
The interview wasnât derailedâ
It had ascended.
He angled his chin just slightly toward the camera. Like heâd practiced it a thousand times.
âA strong opinion,â he said smoothly. âCare to introduce yourself to the audience?â
A low laugh filtered through the speakerânot loud, but heavy with lazy satisfaction.
âNah. I think theyâll figure it out.â
Joker let the silence hang for a beat too longâjust long enough to make the crew twitch and the air feel thinner.
Then, lightly:
âBig fan of the show, by the way.â
Alinaâs stomach turned.
His voice was so casual, so amusedâit was almost gentle. But she knew better. Knew that tone. That practiced softness. The way he let people feel safe just long enough to lean in.
âWell,â Kip said, still smiling, still polished. âThatâs always good to hear.â
He adjusted his notes with smooth precision, gaze fixed calmly on the camera.
Jokerâs voice slid in, soft and cutting.
âGood to hear, huh? Does it feel just as good watching her squirm while you peel her open for Gotham?â
Kip blinked, his head tilting a fraction before he steadied it. âExcuse meâ?â
Joker sighed, long and theatrical.
âOh, drop the act, Kip. I hear it. That little tremble in your voice⊠that hitch in your breath when you ask her to remember.â
Kip shoulders tightened, irritation flickering behind the smile.
âThis is a sensitive interview,â he said, voice cooling. âSo if thereâs something youâd like to add, letâs keep it respectful.â
Joker hissed between his teeth.
âRespectful,â he echoed, savoring it.
âRight. Because asking if she got cozy in the dark with meâthat was just good journalism, huh?â
Heat crawled up Alinaâs neck.
Her pulse thrashed, trapped.
She wanted to disappear into the chair, into the floor, out of the reach of the cameras and the wires and him...
The color drained from Kipâs face. Just for a moment. Enough to make the makeup sit wrong on his skin.
Then, swiftlyâtoo swiftlyâhe rallied.
âPublic interest is undeniable,â he said, tone turning grand. âGotham has questions. Iâm simply offering Miss Vale the chance to clear the rumors.â
A low, pleased chuckle unfurled through the line.
âSure, sure. All in the name of transparency, right?â
âAbsolutely,â Kip replied, noble on cue. âTonight is about giving Miss Vale ownership of her story againâsomething that was taken from her.â
Joker let out a small, weary sigh.
âYâknow, Kip⊠this is why I donât like you.â
Kipâs brow furrowed. âPardon?â
âI said I donât like you. Wanna know why?â
Kip straightened. âWith all due respectââ
Joker cut him off, voice smooth and amused:
âIf youâre gonna be a creep, be a creep. Watch her fall apart. Lap it up. But spare us the performance. This isnât about dignityâitâs about ratings. Youâre not a journalist, Kip. Youâre a voyeur in a suit. So own it.â
A pause.
âBecause that?â Joker purred. âThat, I could respect.â
He let the silence thicken.
âBut youâŠâ A soft tsk. âYou wrap it up in empathy. Call it âgiving her a voice.â Like itâs noble.â
Kipâs lips partedâready to defend himselfâ
âbut Joker cut in before a single word could form.
His voice dropped, slow and intimate.
âTell me, Kip⊠when you rehearsed your questions⊠did you imagine her crying for you?â
A strangled sound came from one of the crewâsomeone who hadnât meant to react out loud.
Kip inhaled sharply.
Joker laughedâquiet, delighted.
âThatâs the part I canât stand,â he murmured. âYou pretending this is about her healing.â
A pauseâ
A breathâ
A knife sliding inâ
ââŠwhen we both know itâs about you getting your little thrill⊠watching her relive things only I ever got to see.â
Kip froze.
The entire studio went perfectly still.
Thenâhis recovery. A tight chuckle. A polished shake of the head.
âYou abducted her. She escaped. And now youâre calling into my show to monitor her. It makes you lookââ
âCareful,â Joker whispered.
Kip didnât pause.
ââobsessed.â
A razor slice of silence.
Long enough for the breath to stall in Alinaâs throat.
Long enough to remember what had happened the last time Kip tossed out a word he thought was harmless.
Soft.
And now?
Obsessed was worse.
That word had teeth.
She felt the shiftâhow the stillness in the room sharpened.
Joker didnât laugh. Didnât breathe.
Then:
ââŠIs that right?â
âIt is,â Kip pressed, sensing leverage. âYouâre watching her. Following her. Calling in the moment you donât like a questionââ
âKip,â Joker cut in, voice smiling. âDeep breath now.â
âIâm simply pointing out,â Kip said, tone measured to the point of patronizing, âthat youâre revealing more about yourself tonight than she ever did.â
Another long silence.
Then Joker let out a soft, almost sympathetic laugh.
âOh, Kip,â he crooned. âYou poor little man.â
Kipâs jaw tensed.
âYou think this moment is about you showing Gotham how brave you are,â Joker said. âHow fearless you sound on camera.â
Kip inhaledâready to counterâbut Joker sliced through him:
âFunny thing, though. You havenât looked at her once.â
Kip stiffened and turned.
Alina sat small and tight in her chair, hands trembling faintly in her lap.
Jokerâs laugh was low, delighted.
âSee, thatâs what kills me,â he said. âYouâre so wrapped up in your heroic little monologue you didnât even notice her cracking right in front of you. Some advocate you are... You sure this is about her healingâand not your ratings reel?â
Kipâs mask crackedâa bead of sweat pooling at his hairline. Panic flashed, then vanished as he straightened, restoring his tone.
âYou donât get to talk about her wellbeing!â Kip snapped, riding the high of his own moral outrage. âNot after what you did to her.â
Joker inhaled sharply through his teeth.
âOh, buddy⊠if youâre gonna poke the bear, poking with your eyes open works better.â
Kip pressed forward, emboldened.
âYou kept her for months,â he said. âWhy? Why spare her? Why let her go? Whyââ
âOk, champ,â Joker interrupted softly. âYou want my motives? My psychology? My deepest, darkest reasons?â
Kip leaned in.
âYes. Thatâs exactlyââ
âNo.â
A clean slice.
A dead stop.
Kipâs mouth shut.
âI didnât call in for you.â
A hush swept the room.
Alina lifted her eyes.
Not to Kipâ
To the camera.
To the voice that had filled her world.
âI calledâ,â Joker murmured, soft and possessive, âfor her.â
Alinaâs heart stuttered.
The silence was absolute.
Then, slow as a caress:
âHi, doll,â he breathed. âI missed your voice.â
Something inside her broke open.
Not painâsomething worseâ
Recognition.
Relief.
A pull so immediate her breath cut off in her throat.
It didnât matter what he wasâ
What heâd doneâ
What heâd left her to surviveâ
Her stupid heart still knew him.
Still wanted him.
Still surged toward that voice like it was a lifeline.
Like muscle memory. Like instinct.
âAnd you look real good tonight,â he added. âThat dress suits you.â
She flinchedâbarelyâher knees pressed together, fingers curled into her palms so hard her nails bit skin.
No. No, no, no.
She hated this.
Hated herself.
Hated that a single compliment from him felt like oxygen after months of drowning.
But Godâ
Sheâd missed him.
Missed the sound of him.
Missed the way his voice reached right into the hollow places in her, filling them with that familiar ache she could never outrun.
Her skin tingled as if he were standing behind her, mouth at her ear, smiling when she shiveredâ
and the worst part, the part that made her stomach twistâ
was that she felt this all on camera.
In front of millions.
She could feel her face reacting. Feel the heat rise to her cheeks, the softness in her eyes she couldnât stop.
She was betraying herself.
Betraying every reason she should hate him for abandoning her.
For breaking her.
For letting her crawl home alone.
And stillâ
stillâ
her body reached for the sound of him like a starving thing.
A low, dizzy ache unfurled inside herâquiet, inevitableâ
An ache that felt too much like longing. Too much like home.
Thenâ
âThis conversation is inappropriateââ
Kipâs voice crashed into her like cold water, ripping her out of the moment with brutal clarity.
A low, irritated huff crackled through the speakersâquiet, but sharp enough to silence the room.
âKip,â Joker said calmly, voice slow and deliberate, like the breath before a guillotine drops. âLast warning.â
Kip lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, forcing steadiness into his voice.
âThis is my interview,â he said. âI wonât beââ
âShh.â
Joker didnât raise his voiceâjust sliced clean through him.
Heat flared on Kipâs face, but beneath it, Alina caught a flicker of something elseâfear. That quiet shh had shaken him more than any threat could.
His fingers twitchedâjust onceâagainst his thigh, then stilled.
âNow,â Joker murmured, âkeep her name clean. Keep her story straight. And keep your questions⊠outta places they donât belong.â
A pause.
âBecause if you donât?â
Silence swallowed the studio.
Jokerâs voice came quiet, final:
âIâll sew that little career of yours shut.â
Kip didnât speak.
The edges of the professional smile heâd held all night loosened and fell away.
A/N: Phew. That was intense, huh? This scene has been living in my head for months, so finally getting to write it felt absolutely surreal. I can't wait to hear what you guys think! âșïž
When I started this fic, I had no clue it would grow into what it is now. Almost a year later and Iâm still fully, hopelessly obsessed with these two beautiful disasters, and Iâm so committed to giving them the ending they deserve đđ€
Thank you for screaming, theorizing, and spiraling with me. Your support and comments mean the world!! đ
Next chapter is fully in the works. Shit's about to get real đđđ
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gothamâs haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Jokerâa man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she canât control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself heâs brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
A/N: Soooo⊠remember last chapter when I confidently announced ânext oneâs the big oneâ?
Yeah. About that...
Turns out Past Me is a liar and Present Me had to drag her by the ankle back to the keyboard because I accidentally forgot a whole chunk of setup đ€ŠđŒââïž
The apartment was still dark when she sat down at the table with a piece of toast she wasnât hungry for.
She wrapped her sweater tighter around herself, waiting for the radiator to wake. The windows were fogged with the first hints of morning, the whole room muted and cold in the half-light.
It had been a week since that difficult interview. The detectives came by less often now. Emma tried to force normalcy into the cracks. And Alina kept one lie on repeat:
He kept me in the warehouse. Just the warehouse. I never saw anywhere else.
She told herself she didnât know why...
But she did.
Because if she told them about the tunnelsâthe underground lake, the generator, the damp stone wallsâ
They might find him.
And she couldnât stand the thought of them finding him.
She took a bite of toast just to give her hands something to do. It tasted like cardboard. Her jaw ached from the effort.
She hadnât slept. Not really. Every time her eyes closed, her mind dragged her back to the same momentâthe same wordsâreplaying with the precision of a blade:
You think it meant something when I touched you?
I fucked you because it was easy. Because you were there.
Warm.
Willing.
Pathetic enough to mistake being used for being adored.
The words struck harder now than the night heâd said themâlike her brain had saved them for when she wasn't defenseless.
At the time, she had been shaking, unable to reconcile the man whoâd made her feel more wantedâmore knownâthan anyone ever hadâwith the one spitting those words at her.
She hadnât had room to feel it. Not fully.
But nowâwith warm toast in her hands and Emma asleep just down the hallâshe felt every syllable like a fracture in the bone.
She stared at the table. At the quiet. At the steam lifting from the mug.
Had he meant it?
Had she really just been⊠convenient?
A body he used because she was close at hand?
Because she let him?
Had she invented all the rest in her own desperate mind?
Outside, the city was starting to wake. Ice scrapers. Car doors. The faint beep of someone unlocking their car.
She tried to focus on those soundsâtried to let them ground her.
But it was no use.
Her mind kept circling back. She needed to know the truth:
What had she meant to him?
For days now, she hadnât been thinking about the gun, or the tunnels, or the escapeâ
Just the possibility that everything she clung to:
the warmth,
the way he held her at night,
the way his voice changed when he said her nameâ
Had never been real.
Just bait.
A performance she mistook for devotion.
A game she lost the second she forgot it was one.
She sat there, motionless, staring at nothing. Heat rose under her skin like something rotten, shame prickling at the base of her neck until it felt like her body wanted to crawl away from itself.
She blinkedâonce, slowlyâand swallowed hard.
It felt like choking on nothing.
How could she have been so easily fooled?
He had told her, hadnât he? That first night in the warehouseâlong before she ever crawled into his arms willingly.
From the very beginning, he hadnât hidden a thing. Heâd told her plainly:
This was a game.
He would push.
She would break.
Then beg...
And she had gone along like a foolâ
Let herself feel something when he touched her. Let herself build meaning out of desperation. Let herself hopeâlike a child begging for a bedtime story.
Worst of all, sheâd let herself need him.
Like a drug that shredded her veins and still left her aching for more.
And now all she could hear was his voice again, soft, precise and cutting through her skull:
Warm. Willing. Pathetic.
Her stomach turned. A low twist of nausea under her ribs.
She shifted in her seat, trying to breathe through itâbut the shame stayed lodged beneath her skin, hot, sick and inescapable.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, eyes closed, willing the thoughtsâthe shameâto scatter.
Took a breath.
Then another.
She picked up the now-cold toast and forced a bite. It scratched down her throat like paper. Dry. Heavy. Tasteless.
Fine.
Maybe none of it had meant a damn thing.
And maybe that was better.
Because if it was just a gameâ
If she was only convenient, compliant, forgettableâ
Every moment, a calculation in disguiseâ
Then maybe she could learn to live with it.
Hate him.
Hate herself.
Heal.
Then, at least, it would make sense.
She waited for the thought to settle. For it to feel true.
It didnât.
Because she couldnât stop seeing his face when she'd said it:
I love you.
That single flicker in his eyesâ
Not amusement. Not cruelty.
Something else.
Pain.
Shock.
Like sheâd split him open from the inside.
-
A man playing a game doesnât falter.
A man using someone doesnât look back.
No.
He'd told her to run.
Not like a monster enjoying the final move of a gameâbut like a man afraid of what he might do next.
That pleading, desperate edge in his voice.
The panic.
He wasnât warning her.
He was begging her.
And the gunshotâGod. That gunshot.
It still lived in her bones.
She rubbed her arms, as if she could shake it loose.
She didnât know if it was meant for herâor at the part of himself that cracked.
If it was meant to drive her out the doorâor stop himself from dragging her back.
Maybe he believed heâd kill her if she stayed.
Maybe he didnât want to.
And maybe that was what shattered her.
Because if it wasnât a gameâif any of it was realâ
Then what the hell was she supposed to do with that?
How do you forgive someone for breaking you when part of you still aches for the hands that did it?
How do you live with that?
How do you live with yourself?
She sighed and let her head sink into her hands, elbows braced on the table.
She stayed like that for a long while, letting the tick-tick-tick of the googly-eyed cat clock Emma brought home from a flea market wash over herâeyes rolling, tail flicking, mocking the silenceâuntil her mind finally went quiet.
Eventually, her shoulders snagged. She let out a long, uneven exhale and rubbed at her eyes, the heels of her palms pressing hard until stars flickered behind her lids.
When she finally lifted her head, the room felt a little too bright, a little too sharp.
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Her gaze slipped across the table.
A pile of mail sat untouchedâgrocery ads, bills, a glossy charity envelope Emma kept meaning to recycle.
And on top of itâsomething new.
A clean white envelope, untouched and too official-looking. Her name printed in bold black letters stared back at her.
She reached for the envelope slowlyâreluctantlyâlike it might detonate if she touched it too fast.
The paper was smooth. Too smooth. Heavy stock. Expensive. Intentional.
She flipped it over, and her stomach went cold.
Farthington Media Group. Gotham Evening Feature Division.
Her pulse stuttered.
Kip Farthington.
The man who had sat under studio lights and smirked while speculating about her life like she was a chess piece.
The man whose commentary had pierced her lover like a knife, striking some hidden place inside him.
The man who had dared to sayâon airâthat she mattered to The Joker.
He had no idea how close heâd been to the truth. No idea how deep that truth ran.
No idea what his words had cost her.
She slid a thumb under the flap, the paper tearing with a soft rip that felt too loud. Inside was a single page of thick, glossy letterhead.
She took a deep breath, unfolded it, and there it was:
Miss Vale,
You are invited to appear in an exclusive televised interview with Kip Farthington, airing live on Gotham Evening Featureâour highest-viewership segment.
Her throat tightened.
We want to begin by acknowledging your incredible courage. Your resilience has inspired countless people, and we feel privileged to offer you a safe, compassionate space to share your journey.
Her eyes rolled before she could stop it.
Safe.
Compassionate.
From Kip Farthington. The man who'd spent years turning other peopleâs pain into prime-time entertainment.
She kept reading.
We deeply understand how overwhelming the past few weeks must have been. We are committed to surrounding you with support, sensitivity, and care during your time with us.
Her stomach flipped.
They didnât understand. They didnât know anything.
Her eyes moved lower.
In recognition of the emotional vulnerability and time involved, we are offering an honorarium of $12,000 USD. We hope this will ease any burden and allow you to focus on healing and reclaiming your story.
Twelve thousand.
Her breath hitched.
We believe your voice is essential to Gothamâs understanding of recent events.
Your bravery is inspiring.
Your story matters.
Each line felt worse than the lastâslick with false empathy, dripping with performance.
It wasnât for her.
It wasnât for survivors.
It was for ratings.
And the thought of facing Kip live on camera made her feel like her insides were bracing to make a run from her body.
She could already picture itâhis practiced sympathy, the polished concern, the meaningful pauses.
She could see the headline graphic:
THE GIRL THE JOKER LET GO.
They'd make her a prop.
A symbol.
AÂ thing.
And worseâ
God, worseâ
She could picture him seeing it.
Not in the dark. Not in the quiet. Not the way he looked at her when no one else existedâbut through a screen.
Dissected.
Packaged.
Consumed.
Her breath caught.
Her grip crushed the letter, the edges biting into her palm.
Kip Farthington. Smug bastard with a talk-show smile. A man who had spoken one sentence too close to the truth and cracked Gothamâs most feared criminal open like a fault line.
And he hadnât even known.
Still didnât.
She scanned the final lines again, each one landing like a physical blow:
We would be honored. Your strength. Your story. Your healing.
LIES.
Every word.
They didnât want her story.
They wanted to feed on it. Twist it. Sell it.
She put the letter down because she needed her hand back, needed her fingers to stop shaking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The cat clock clicked in the silence like a countdown.
Her pulse thudded, hard enough she felt it in her teeth.
The world waited.
And thenâ
She folded the letter with a brutal, unforgiving crease and shoved it into the envelope like she was stuffing a wound closed.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not a chance in hell.
She wasnât walking into that spotlight.
She wasnât giving Kip or Gotham or anyone the right to strip her open again.
She wasnât letting Jack see her on a stage like some broken little exhibit.
If exposure was the costâ
She would burn the whole invitation before she paid a single cent.
---
Footsteps padded toward the kitchenâslow, draggingâand then Emma appeared in the doorway, wearing her rumpled powder-blue waitress dress. One collar point stuck up crookedly. Her sweater buttoned uneven. Her hair was half-pinned, half-falling.
She blinked hard at Alina, like she couldnât quite focus on her.
She reached for the coffee potâand missed the handle entirely. The pot wobbled on its base, clattering once before she caught it with a sharp inhale.
âEmma,â Alina said, the question tumbling out. âWhy are you dressed for work? You just got home a few hours ago.â
Emma grimaced, pouring coffee with shaky hands.
âEddie needs me back in,â she said. âApparently Iâm the only one who can keep the breakfast rush from rioting.â
âHe told you that?â Alina asked.
âMore or less.â Emma shrugged. âHe said the dinerâs been falling apart without meâregulars asking where I am, new hires screwing things up, customers getting cranky. Soââ She swallowed another gulp of coffee. âIâm going in.â
Alinaâs gaze swept over herâthe smudged makeup, the rumpled uniform, the limp posture trying to straighten itself.
âYouâre exhausted,â Alina whispered.
Emma tried to smile. âNothing a little caffeine and mascara canât fix.â
It didnât land.
She leaned against the counter, one hand pressed to her forehead like she could physically push the headache away.
âYou donât have to go,â Alina said softly.
Emma shook her head fast, too fast. âI do. Eddieâs already pissed. He told me if I miss another shift, heâll have to cut my hours, and I canâtââ
Alinaâs stomach twisted.
The silence stretched.
Then, suddenlyâtoo brightlyââAnyway! Joel called last night.â
Alina blinked at the abrupt change. âOh?â
âYeah.â Emma tried for a smile. âTheyâre inducing Becky early. Likeâthree weeks early. So Iâm gonna be an aunt sooner than anyone expected!â
For a moment her eyes softenedâjust a flicker of joy breaking through the exhaustion.
Then it dimmed.
âWhich means,â she said quietly, âI need to make sure I donât screw anything up at work right now. Eddieâs definitely not giving me a weekend off to visit if I fall behind. So... I just need to go in.â
Emma forced her voice brighter, sunnier.
âIâll be fine. The breakfast rush is easier anyway. People are too hungry to ask questions.â
She finished her coffee in three quick swallows and set the mug down with a dull clink. She crossed the room and rested a warm hand on Alinaâs shoulderâgentle, but trembling faintly.
âWeâll get through this,â Emma said, quiet but determined. âOkay?â
Alina nodded, though the words felt like thin ice.
Emma gave a small, brave smile and stepped back. She grabbed her faded tote bag and slung it over her shoulder. She tugged her boots on while standing, wobbling once as she jammed her heel down.
âIf I look like Iâm sleepwalking later, just pretend you didnât notice,â she said with a tired laugh.
âI notice,â Alina said softly.
Emma paused, just for a heartbeat. Something pained flickered across her face. Then she shook it away.
âText me if you need anything,â she saidâhabit, automatic, still sincere.
She opened the door.
Cold air gusted in.
Then she left, the door snapping shut behind her.
The apartment seemed to sag with her absence. Too big. Too quiet.
Like the warmth had walked out the door with her.
---
The week stretched.
Gray mornings. Pale afternoons. Nights that seemed to vanish the moment she blinked.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, the cold began to break.
A strange, early warmth slid inâdays hovering above what early spring had any right to be. The radiators clicked less often. The windows fogged for different reasons: humidity, breath, the city thawing.
Emma worked. Too much.
Alina watched. Too closely.
She noticed the little things first.
The way Emma winced when she bent down to grab a takeout container from the bottom cupboard.
The way her laughter, once easy and bright, came out thinner, stretched.
The way she forgot her keys twice in one week.
It built slowly, like steam behind a closed door.
Emma waved it all off, called herself tired, clumsy, distracted. Said the diner was just understaffed, not a crisis. But the dark circles under her eyes told a different story. So did the stack of unpaid envelopes growing on the counter.
Alina kept offering to helpâshe could go out, find work, take some weight off.
But Emma cut her off fast.
âAre you kidding? Itâs been, what, a month since you escaped that psycho? Iâm not sending you out there to dodge creeps and news vans.â
She tossed it off like a joke, but her voice cracked a little.
âYouâve been through hell. Just⊠let me protect you a little longer, okay?â
Alina nodded, gratefulâbut something knotted in her stomach.
That psycho.
That shouldâve been the end of itâ
But he was still the first thing she thought of when she opened her eyes.
Still the last breath in her lungs before sleep.
She didnât understand it. Didnât want to.
But there he wasâburned into the quiet, no matter how loudly the world called him a monster.
And sitting here, being looked after so gently by the same friend who was risking her sanity to save herâwithout ever knowing the truthâ
It was unbearable.
Because the girl she saved had chosen the wolf.
Had stepped forward and whispered:Â take me.
And sometimesâstillâsome small, broken part of her wished heâd never let her go.
---
Weeks passed in a strange, dragging blur. The frost retreated from the windows. The crocuses faded as tulips started poking their heads through the dead grass near the curb. One day, Alina opened the window and the air felt differentâthick, warm, and wrong for early April.
A heatwave, the news said. A record-breaking one. Temperatures were climbing into the high 70s by the end of the week. âUnseasonable,â the anchors called it. âA fluke.â
Alina didnât care. It was just another thing that didnât feel real.
One evening, Emma came home with her apron still knotted tight around her waist, hair coming loose from its pins, a smear of somethingâketchup?âon her cheek.
She dropped her bag and stood in the doorway, breathing like sheâd outrun a storm.
âLong day?â Alina asked.
Emma let out a tired huff that wasnât quite a laugh.
âLong week. Long everything.â She kicked her shoes off with a dull thud. âWe were slammed. Eddie wonât hire anyone new âbecause the press scares off good workers.â And the ones he hasââ She shook her head. âWell. Theyâre kids. Itâs not their fault.â
Alina listened.
Emma rubbed her face, palms dragging down.
âAlso,â she added softly, reluctantly, âmy brother called. The baby came. Didn't even have to induce after all.â
Alina straightened. âOh. Thatâs wonderful!â
Emma nodded, eyes glassy with pride and longing.
âIt is. They want me to visit. Just for a weekend. Help out. You know how Joel isâlost but pretending heâs not.â
âYou should go.â
Emmaâs smile tilted, fragile. âI canât. There's just no way Eddie would let me leave right now.â
The words landed heavy. Alina felt them lodge somewhere deep.
Emma reached for a glass of water and leaned her hip against the counter while she drank. She blinked too long between gulps, as if her body was catching up to her fatigue.
âMaybe next month,â Emma murmured. âMaybe when things settle down.â
But they werenât settling. Not really.
The reporters outside the diner didnât thinâthey adapted. The customers didnât calmâthey complained.
And EmmaâEmma kept moving through all of it like a thread barely holding fabric together.
---
One night, Alina found Emma asleep on the couch, uniform still on, shoes kicked under the coffee table, her phone buzzing harmlessly on her chest with another text from her brother:
Wish you were here. Baby would love you.
Emma didnât stir.
Alina covered her with a blanket and tucked it around her shoulders. She stood there a long timeâtoo longâfeeling something grow painfully tight under her sternum.
---
By the next morning, the warmth outside had climbed further. Unseasonably high. The cityâs air felt heavy with itâdamp, thick, electric, like a storm was brewing behind the sky even if no clouds showed yet.
It pressed against her skin in a way that felt almost intentional, like the heat itself was watching her.
Emma came in from her shift with her hair sticking to her forehead, her skin flushed from heat and stress. She tossed her bag onto a chair and sank down next to it.
âThis weather,â she muttered. âFeels like August.â
âItâs April,â Alina said quietly.
Emma let out a humorless laugh.
âExactly.â
She rubbed her eyes hardâtoo hardâand for a moment, the defeated slump of her shoulders made something inside Alina lock up.
The next night, Emma didnât come home until nearly 4 a.m.
When she did, she stood in the kitchen in the dark, silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of her trying not to cry.
Alina didnât say anything.
She just went to her. Slowly. Gently. And wrapped her arms around her.
Emma didnât resist.
Didnât say anything.
Just let her forehead fall to Alinaâs shoulder and stood there, shaking. Her tears soaked through Alina's sweater.
âI canât go,â Emma whispered after a long time. âJoel and Becky need help so bad, and I canât even buy a goddamn train ticket.â
Alinaâs arms tightened around her.
âI told Eddie Iâd work double shifts this week so I could get next weekend off,â Emma went on. âHe said if I wanted time off, I could make it permanent.â
Alinaâs stomach clenched.
Emma pulled back, wiping at her face with the heel of her hand. âI hate saying anything. I donât want to add to everything youâre already carrying. Or make you feel like you owe me.â
But Alina did.
She owed her for everythingâfor all the moments she had allowed while drowning in her own ruin:
Emmaâs late shifts.
Emmaâs shaking hands over the coffee pot.
The way sheâd said we'll get through this like it was a promise to both of them.
Emma was breaking.
And Alina had done nothing but let her.
A pulse of shame and anger pushed up through her chestânot at Emma. At herself.
She wasnât going to let her carry this alone anymore.
She moved before she could talk herself out of it.
âI do,â Alina said.
Emma tried to wave her off, but Alina caught her wrist. âI owe you everything. And I'm going to fix this.â
Emma looked at her, startled. âWhat?â
âI'll take care of this,â Alina repeated. âAnd youâre not working tomorrow. You need to rest.â
âI canât justââ
Alina was already walking to the phone.
âAlinaââ
âIâm serious.â She picked up the receiver and dialed, her hands oddly steady.
Emma stood frozen.
It rang once. Twice.
Then: âYeah?â
Silence. Then static. Faint, like someone breathing through the line.
Alina pictured him in that boothâapron stained, smirk ready, surrounded by cracked linoleum and greaseâbut all she could hear was the echo of her own heartbeat, sharp and stuttering, like ice cracking in a glass.
Alina swallowed. âHi. Eddie? Itâs Alina.â
A pause. Then a slow, amused tone:
âWell, look who it is. Gothamâs very own miracle girl.â
She said nothing.
âDidnât think Iâd be hearing from you. Thought you were off the grid, recovering somewhere fancy.â
âEmmaâs not coming in tomorrow,â Alina said.
âIs that right?â he said, dragging the words. âAnd here I was thinking she liked having a job.â
âSheâs sick.â
A pause. âUh-huh. You sound pretty healthy yourself. Should I be expecting you to stroll through the diner to cover her shift?â
Alina closed her eyes and drew a steadying breath. âSheâs not coming in,â she repeated. âAnd next weekend, sheâs going to visit her family. Youâll need to find someone else for those days too.â
âWould you look at that,â he murmured. âAll bold and bossy. Didnât know surviving the Joker came with a personality upgrade.â
Alinaâs jaw tightened. It took everything not to snapânot to let him win.
He chuckled, low and thick. Then his voice dropped, dragging slow over the syllables like a hand sliding somewhere it didnât belong.
âI gotta say⊠your voice sounds different, too. Guess being someoneâs little playthingâll do that to a girl.â
Alinaâs fingers gripped the phone tighter as his words crawled under her skin, the same old nausea risingâthe familiar sting of being reduced to a thing.
Her throat burned. But her voice didnât waver. âThis conversationâs over.â
âYou sure?â he said softly. âCause I could think of a fewââ
She hung up.
The silence rang louder than the dial tone.
Her hand stayed on the receiver. Her heart pounded, but she didnât let it show.
Emma just stared at her.
Alina didnât look up. She just said, quietly, âItâs done.â
âAlina. Oh my god. Eddieâs going toâheâs going to cut me down to one shift a week, I swear to god, I canâtââ
Alina reached for her hands. âNo, heâs not.â
Emma laughed once, breathless and panicked. âYou donât get itââ
âI do get it,â Alina said. âAnd Iâm not letting you carry it alone anymore.â
Emma tried to pull her hands away, overwhelmed, but Alina held firm.
âI mean it,â she said. âYouâre not going in tomorrow. You need to rest. Whatever he does, whatever comes of itâweâll deal with it. I have a plan.â
âA plan,â Emma echoed, still reeling. âAlina, what kind of planâwhat are you evenââ
âJust trust me,â Alina said gently, but with a force that stopped Emma cold. âPlease.â
Emma stared at her. Searching. Like she wanted to argue. Like she couldnât quite believe it.
But something in Alinaâs face mustâve landedâbecause Emmaâs shoulders dropped. Her breath hitched.
ââŠYouâre serious.â
âYes.â
A beat passed.
Then Alina added, softer, âYouâve been holding me up since the day I got back. Let me take care of you now... please.â
Emma blinked quickly, eyes suddenly glassy.
âGo take a nice bath,â Alina said, voice warm but firm. âThen get some real sleep. And next weekend? Youâre getting on that train. Youâre going to meet your niece.â
Emma let out a shaky exhale.
And then, without a word, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Alinaâtight, fierce, like something inside her had just given out.
For a second, Alina froze.
It caught her off guard, being needed.
But then her arms came upâslow, then strongerâuntil she was holding Emma just as tightly. Solid. Steady.
The anchor this time, not the one adrift.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, she understood:
She could be someone elseâs strength.
Even after everything.
Maybe because of it.
---
Later that night, when the apartment was finally quiet again, Alina slipped into her room and closed the door.
She knelt beside the nightstand and pulled the drawer open.
The envelope was still there.
Waiting.
Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
She thought of Emma, hunched over the kitchen counter earlier, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist like a child.
She thought of the bills stacking up.
Of Eddieâs anger.
Of the reporters blocking the entrance.
Of the strain pulling Emma thinner and thinner.
She thought of twelve thousand dollars.
Her hand closed around the envelope.
Hard.
She took a breath.
Then another.
If this was the price of Emma getting on that train, sheâd pay it.
Her fingers fumbled for her phone.
She dialed the number at the bottom of the letterâthe line for Kip Farthingtonâs production office.
Each ring echoed through her chest like a heartbeat.
One ring. Two. Three.
She almost hung upâ
Then someone answered.
âFarthington Media Group. How may we assist you?â
Her throat closed.
She forced the words out anyway.
âThis is Alina Vale.â
A pause.
A sharp intake of breath on the other end.
âOh,â the voice saidâbrightening instantly, professionally, hungrily.
âMiss Vale. Weâve been expecting your call.â
A/N: Eeeee!!! I cannot wait for you to read the next chapter. I was so hyped about it, I basically blacked out and wrote the whole thing in one sitting. đ”âđ«
Just gotta edit it so it doesnât look like I typed it mid-possession.
But yeah. Itâs coming. And itâs so good. Stay tuned. đ€
P.S. GIMME ALL YOUR PREDICTIONS!!! Or just lemme know youâre still here.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Trigger Warning This chapter has themes of sexual harassment and violence
Gotham Slasher
Stillness engulfed the space where the joker had been moments earlier, Hazelâs shaky breath sounded in the empty room.
Hazel rubbed her neck, sore where he had jerked it. Her scalp stung. Hazel took a deep breath. Held it. Counted slowly down. Repeated. Her breathing steadied.
He stole her spare key and believed he could come and go - she would have her locks changed.
Asshole.Â
Why was her life so full of jerks?
Hazel needed to distract herself from Joker. She needed to focus on the case. She was taking the night off officially, but this was a chance to do her best work, alone.
On the surface it felt like none of the pieces fit, but Hazel felt she was close to something â like a string about to pull.
This was the way her caseâs often broke open. First a nagging feeling that something wasnât right. Then, seeming fragments quickly coming together to form a picture. Usually it was a new idea, or a new piece of evidence that made it all click. As hopeless as the case seemed, this night to herself was a chance to let intuition lead. She was free of the constraints of her partner, her jerk boss, and most of all the fucking Joker.
Hazel closed her eyes and visualised Joker as the perpetrator. She pictured him killing Miff. The body was found so close to his old church and the whole Narrows was his playground. He certainly had proximity, and one could argue he had motive.
Jokersâ dark eyes burned into her mindâs eyes â the disgust heâd worn when she suggested he was the slasher â when he grabbed her and told her he could show her the difference. She believed him. He was more than this. Despite everything, she didnât pick him as the killer.
What else was she missing?
Relax. Donât over think it.
Hazel visualised Hammond and all the pieces of evidence that linked to him. His contact with two of the victims. His large space at the brewery and suspected ownership of power tools. His anger at what he called riff raff spilling from the Narrows. Yet, her gut didnât pull her towards Hammond.
By now Jason would have released Hammond because they didnât have enough to hold him.
Even if Hazel had been convinced, holding Hammond wouldnât have impressed the lieutenant.
Hazel sighed at the thought. She didnât know why Lieutenant Jame was bothering her as much as he was. He had always been a thorn in her ass â but lately it was more. He had micro-managed her case for months.
Maybe all this shit with his motherâs ailing health was adding stress to his life that he couldnât handle.
Everyone had stress â it was not an excuse.
Hazel visualised the meeting in the lieutenantâs office. He had showed the news clip about Joker and then given her and Jason a spray for not being further ahead with the case. The lieutenant had thrown his empty drink in the trash, and the bottle had smashed, but before he did, Hazel had noticed a Daveyâs Drop logo on it, and she suspected he had attempted to cover it from her.
It struck her as an odd coincidence since the drinks were not widely distributed. It was possible he had been to Gold-spur. Of course, the bottle could have come from elsewhere, but her first thought was that he was micro-managing more deeply than she had suspected â maybe tracking locations and checking her work. So, she had clammed up about Hammond.
Jasonâs phone had rung then, and they had learned of another body which had taken her mind elsewhere, then she had discovered the victim was Miff, and dealt with Joker. Now that things were quiet, the smashed bottle bothered her again.
She still did not know what to make of it burner felt it needed to be explained.
Hazel cracked cases by pulling at threads. Little kinks in the fabric that seemed out of place. Sometimes those kinks just flattened, a loose bit of fluff that meant nothing. Other times the thread was connected to the whole, and when she pulled, everything started to unravel. The point was, she never ignored an anomaly, or something that stood out as unusual. No matter how irrelevant a detail seemed, anomalyâs always needed to be explained before they could be dismissed.
Hazel pulled out her laptop. As though on autopilot she opened the GCPD data base.
She needed to stop grappling with the facts and let instinct guide.
Hazels fingers paused above the keys for a beat, and then she typed.
Cameron Edward James.
She punched Lieutenant Jamesâs full name into the search bar.
His file came up. At the top of the page were his birth details. Her eyes settled on the section that described ancestry.
Biological Mother: Margaret Ann James.
Fingers relaxed on the keys and mind in an empty autonomous kind of flow; Hazel copied the mothers name and placed it back into the search bar. She hit enter and instantaneously Margaretâs file was in front of her.
Hazel froze in confusion.
What she read could not be right.
Deceased.
The text screamed from the top of the file.
No.
The Lieutenant had been taking time off to tend to his mother - she had dementia and was in a home on the mainland. At one point, the office had made a care package for him to take to herâŠtheyâd signed a card.
Yet, the red print at the top of the file was clear.
Margaret Ann James wasnât at Woodlands Garden Home on the mainland. Margaret Ann James was dead.
Hazel sat completely still.
Even though it didnât make a lick of sense she knew: this information mattered. When one anomaly lead straight to another, that was a sign to keep pulling the thread.
Hazel opened a new browser and searched again, this time for obituaryâs.
Margaret Ann James died of natural causes in her home on Gold Spur Street. Maragret was survived by her only son: Cameron Edward James.
Gold-Spur street.
Hazelâs mind whirred. That was three strikes.
Assuming he still owned his mothers property, that would make it possible he did get that bottle from Gold-spur Street. It seemed profoundly relevant now that she knew his mothers illness was a lie.
Hazel sat and starred at the words, a stone in her gut. Everything felt deeply, gut wrenchingly off.
There was a loud rap at her door and Hazel closed the laptop.
The prick of a clown was back, and she didnât feel like sharing what she had just learned. In fact, she was done with him and would tell him so in no short words.
The so called prince of crime, had added nothing to the case except mind games.
Hazel grabbed the door and ripped it open.
She drew a sharp breath.
What she expected was the clowns petulant face. What she got was the beady stare of Lieutenant James.
Hazelâs face arranged itself in an expression of polite surprise, and then a smile.
The lieutenant didnât hesitate, stepping around her to enter the small room. He surveyed her apartment then gestured at the couch.
âMind if I sit?â
Hazel minded.                                                                                                          Â
She waved a hand and nodded.
âSure. Have a seat. What can I help you with, Lieutenantâ
âItâs me that can help youâ the lieutenant answered âI would like to start with an apology. Things got heated back there. I donât like to make excuses, but there is a lot of pressure on me from above on this one.â
He smiled like a used car salesman.
Hazel nodded.
âI understand.â She said.
She didnât understand, or care. He was giving her the creeps. The information she had learned hadnât time to land and here he was in front of her.
She just needed to play it cool and move him on.
The false smile plastered across her cheeks tasted fucking bitter. Where was the clown now, anyway?
This was all too close for comfort.
"Not just thatâ His grey eyes channelled on her. âI wanted to check on you. You seemed off at the scene. I Donât think I have ever seen you like that. Rattled."
âI had a Bad burrito.â
âThat it?â The Lieutenant drew his brows âcould have sworn it was about the corpse. You took one look and just paled.â
Hazel raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
âWhat is it that you want, Lieutenant. Youâve come to my home, at night, feigning sympathy. Would you buy that line if you were me? Letâs cut to the chase.â
Ok, maybe she wasnât keeping it cool.
"There it is again. That hostility towards me. Iâve come here to be nice. To check on you. But you give me the cold shoulder - just like you always do."
Hazel shifted, uncomfortable with the strange tone of the comment and unsure where the conversation was heading.
âI donât think I give you any shoulder, I just try to do my job. Results. Thatâs what I care about. Sometimes you get in the way. Like this Joker thing. It's not the angle we should be chasing. It's a waste of time.â
If he was going to be in her apartment, she would at least push him a little. Maybe she would learn something from his reactions.
She stood up, making her way over to her kitchenette, creating space between herself and the lieutenant. Creating a distraction.
 He stood and followed her across the room towards the kitchenette.
Hazel watched him approach in the glass of the cabinetry. Â
âWant a coffee?â She asked.
She didnât want him to stay long enough to drink one, but she did want to change the topic and to pick him a little.
âSureâ
Hazel gripped the handle to the overhead cupboard and pulled it open, losing her view of him for a moment.
âAs I said earlier today. Iâve always tried to help you. I would still like to help you.â
He had moved closer.
Hazel started to pull out mugs and the coffee paraphernalia.
âI donât need your help.â Hazel answered.
âSee, why do you do that?â
âDo what?â
âAct so cold with me. I came all the way over here just to apologise and what do I get in return?â
Even though he was speaking calmly there was a quiver of emotion in his voice.
âYou arenât cold with everybodyâ the Lieutenant continued from behind her.
He was too close. Hazel felt his presence like cobwebs on her skin. Â
Hazel closed the cabinet and found his face in the reflection again.
âSo, how are you doing with your mum? That must be stressful?â she deflected, then âcreamer?â
She took the instant coffee lid off. A scoop for each of them. Jug boiling. Click. She filled each cup.
âIâm not here to talk about my fucking mum, Hazel.â The irritation leaked âIâm here to talk about you and me. The fact that I give orders and you ignore them. The fact that you treat me like Iâm less than, when in fact, I am your superior.â
He sighed. Â
âI didnât want it to come to this, but youâve left me no choice: I know the last victim was one of your informants. I know you were close with him.âÂ
Hazel froze. Just a glitch before she caught herself and continued stirring the coffee.
"I suspected it, but your reaction today confirmed everything I wanted to know." The lieutenant inched closer. A breath away and a head taller.
Hazel laid down the spoon gently and wrapped her hand around the mug.
 "You were upset because you fucked him."
Hazelâs words stuck in her throat. She needed to fire a response, something to prove she wasn't rattled, but nothing came.
âThatâs right. I know what youâve been up to.â His voice was syrup. âIf this got out, it could be career ending for you. So, from now on things are going to roll a little differently between us. Youâre going to show me some long overdue respect. Youâre going to be a little warmer, too."
A hand touched her waist, fingers spreading broad.
âIf you are willing to lay with dogs like him to get information - well, imagine what you might do for me to keep your reputation and your fucking job.â
The lieutenants hand ran over the curve of her stomach, and he eased his body flush against her back.
Hazelâs stomach tightened, ill. Her heart hammered wildly. She had more information coming at her than she could possibly process and it froze her tight.
When his fingers breezed the waist band of her pyjama bottoms the freeze shattered instantly.
Hazel spun and flung the cup of coffee in his face. Hot drink washed across his chest and neck.
His hands left her for his face â a fraction of reprieve before he swung at her.
"Bitch!"
Hazel dropped under his reach, loosing balance and hitting the floor. She heard the glass above her shatter where he had swung and missed.
Hazel rolled and he lunged at her again.
Hazel felt lightning strike into her rib cage.
Something sharp had struck her.
The pain was crippling. Hazel doubled over, hugging herself, all the wind in her lungs gone. Her shirt was instantly tacky beneath her fingers and that familiar metallic smell filled her nostrils: she was bleeding.
Hazel flipped on her back as he loomed over her. Labouring for breath, she kicked his hands away and kicked at his shins. She thumped hard against him with her heels.
Still struggling for air, she tired quickly. He weathered her strikes and threw his weight against her, forcing his way past her shield.
Hazel heaved for breath, and bit into his arm so hard she shook. Â
The lieutenant responded with a tight grip to her collar and lifted her. With a vicious slam he knocked her head back against the floor. Hazels ears rung. He slammed her down, once, twice, and then everything went black.
**
The next thing that Hazel saw was the underside of her own coffee table, blurred.
Her head thumped and she could feel pain at her side. She felt like she was breathing through a tight straw.
A sudden tug at her legs sent pain searing through her â zip ties ripping tight around her ankles.
Hazel tried to roll.
Her hands were already bound.
âGet these the fuck of me!â
Her voice betrayed her, coming out hoarse and weak.
And then she was pulled out from under the table, the rug burning her back.
âWhat does it take to actually shut you up?â He asked playfully. âYou know, this is your fault? I tried to steer you where I wanted you â I really did. My instructions were clear - find the fucking Joker. But you canât follow orders. You are an obnoxious pain in my ass - must run in the family.â
Then he was upon her, cloth stuffed across her mouth and nose. The sweet aroma of chloroform invaded her nostrils.
Hazel wriggled her body ferociously and tried to hold her breath.
He bore down harder across her mouth.
âI even tried to offer you a second way out â an agreement of silence. Honestly, I anticipated your rejection. Now we do it my way. As a results driven modern woman, I am sure you understand - If you wonât cooperate with my vision, then I need you out of the picture, for good.â
Hazel blinked feverishly trying to stay awake. She felt herself slipping.
Semi-dream-state the familiar vision of jokerâs break-out from GCPD police station flashed in her mind.
She would never forget the night the Joker broke out of the GPCD using a cell phone as a detonator and a human as a bomb. It was the night she learned how much she revered him. Not for his violence, but for his skill. For his art.
This time what she really noticed in the memory was the debris. She remembered how it had rained down around her. How debris circled around him as he walked. He was a mortal prisoner self-resurrected as God, claiming his power.
Falling around her⊠rubble, ash⊠and hundreds of Joker cards, some shredded, some whole.
 Iâm not the only one with the cards.
It was true. GCPD evidence room had plenty of them.
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Close to Home
The sun bled a deep, smoggy red as it set over the water. Swooping gulls filled the air with an ark-ark call, backed by the sound of waves lapping on the pier. The dying light hit the city so that the western fronts of the glass giants glowed golden.
They were at the southern docks, in the Narrows. Not far from where Hazel had met Rose that first night. Nothing good happened in these parts and the ocean water that stretched ahead was a grave to many whoâd met an unfortunate end.
Hazel clicked central lock on the vehicle and walked along the concrete pavement. Already there was a crowd of people on location: the police and several reporters.
Hazel ducked under the tape. Opposite her she saw her boss.
Someone didnât waste time.
The bastard couldnât get out of her hair for so much as a minute so that she might do her job.
Jason walked at her peripheral and one of the beat cops approached to meet them. The cop stuck out his hand and exchanged an introduction.
âMan, itâs nasty â I never seen anything like it.â his pale, clammy complexion spoke louder than his words.
Seven headless bodies in, Hazel was sure it wasnât anything she hadnât seen before.
âBodies that way.â He pointed âDown the alley between the two warehouses. Heads clean off â no sign of it.â
âThank you.â Hazel was short.
Hazel wanted to get to the body before the Lieutenant did. She was aware of her boss not far away. She could feel his glances towards her, even as he artfully deflected questions from the media. The more time she got to investigate the scene with-out his interference, the better. She sped up her feet and smiled as he was stopped again by a second throng of reporters.
The air felt cooler as she entered the space between the two buildings, and the light was dim, as though the chill of impending dusk had settled there first. She could see her forensic team up ahead. She greeted the team briefly.
âWe are just setting set upâ
âSee you over there.â Hazel answered, leaving Jason to linger in discussion.
She could now see the lump on the ground which was the victim. Despite the strange angles that corpses often rested, a human body grabbed the eye a mile away.
The cold intensified as she approached, wind blowing from behind carrying the conversation had by Jason and the team she had passed. The wind penetrated her jacket and leached into her bones. Night was coming. They would need flood lights over the scene.
Hazel approached the body, slumped on his back and limbs sprawled like rags.
Her foot steps slowed to a stop several feet short.
It couldnât be.
The wind at her back fell away and the voices at the end of the alley faded to nothing.Â
Hazel took two empty steps and knelt beside the body.
Her eyes washed over the length of him. Washed out Metallica shirt â black with dry blood. Baggy jeans.
Plenty of people wear clothes like that.
Hazel reached out and touched her fingers to the corpses palm. The hand was cold, but soft - rigor mortis had been and gone which made time of death over 24 hours prior, maybe longer, considering the cold. Early decomposition gave a sponginess to the flesh that might have mimicked life if it werenât for the cold and the colour. Hazel gently traced her fingers over the paled flesh, then hesitated.
A pang gnawed in her gut. When she turned the hand she would know â there would be no going back.
Hazel slipped her hand into his and gently turned his wrist so that the back of his palm was raised to her vision.
Her eyes roamed silently over the roman numerals on the ashen knuckles. The scorpion. Long fingers, intimately familiar. Â
âJesus. Miff.â Hazel drew a sharp breath. "What happened to you."
Her words fell away, unanswered. Gulls. Wind. Voices. All silent.
âWhat did you say?â The harsh voice of her boss broke the moment, and in an instant the noise of the outside world slammed back.
Hazel dropped the corpseâs hand and stood up, brushing herself off.
âEverything okay, detective?â Lieutenant James asked.
âWhy wouldnât it be,â Hazel answered with the same wry tone she normally would.
âYou donât look good, Detective â white as a sheet.â
Hazel shook her head and scoffed.
She ignored the pooling of saliva in her mouth and the twist in her guts. The way her breath felt high and tight in her chest.
In fact, those bodily sensations made her angry. This was a job. Same as all the rest.
Her boss cocked his head waiting for her to answer.
Arrogant, nosy, prick.
Hazel was sure he couldnât give two shits if she was okay, or not. Why the fuck was he up her ass all the time.
Hazel felt the familiar heat of rage growing and the blood pump more forcefully around her body. Her breathing deepened.
Maybe this was his fault!
If he was not always meddling with the way she did her job, pushing her to follow empty leads, then maybe she would have caught the slasher by now! He was the one who forced her to pursue Joker. Maybe, Miff was dead because of the favours she pulled â and it was the lieutenant that forced the angle!
Hazels lips pinched together, gunning the lieutenant with her eyes.
âWhat is this?â she spat. âMental health week? Fucking Are You Okay Day? Of course Iâm okay, why the fuck not! â itâs another day on the job, Sir!
The lieutenant put his hands to his hips
âDonât forget who it is you are talking to Detective. I give you some rope because your dad and I were buddies, and Iâve always been sorry how things ended for him â I know it was hard on you when he lost it. but there is a limit.â
"Yeah â well I am tired of putting energy into false leads. Youâre out of touch â caught up in your personal problemsâ
Hazel paused, even in the moment she knew that taking a dig at his ailing mother was too far. Her frontal lobe was screaming at her to stop and compose herself - but the breaks were off now.
âWith all due respect, Sir, maybe we wouldnât be here â another body in, if you just let me do my fucking job!â
The lieutenant moved closer. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed even further.
âYou think Iâm complacent? My ass is on the line â itâs me scrutinised in the media. They show my face to this. The city looks to me for protection form that lunatic terrorist, Joker.â
His face grew red.
âYou try living up to that squeaky prick Jim Gordan! We may not have batman, but Iâll be dammed if Iâm made a fool in front of this city!â He jabbed a finger at Hazel âListen to me carefully Detectiveâ you do what the fuck I tell you to do or when it all goes to shit - itâs gonna be your ass fried long before itâs mine!â
âYour joker hunch is bullshit, and we are wasting time!â Hazel yelled. Â
âThat's it!â The Lieutenant roared over her. âI have had enough of your denial of your subordinance - take the god dam evening to cool off, Hazel. Come back with a better attitude or youâre off the fucking case!â
**
Hazel walked into her apartment and silenced her phone and stashed it in a drawer. For what short time she could get away with, she had had enough of everyone. Hazel trudged to the couch and dropped onto it. The familiar cushions offered zero relief to her mood. She elevated her feet to her coffee table.
With irritation, she thought of how the clown had done the same thing. It was alright for her, not him.
It was dark out: the sun had set hours ago, as had her argument with the Lieutenant. She had swung by the gym, thrown some weights around and punched a bag. She didnât feel much better for it. Dejected she had bought some noodles on the way home â but she had no appetite. They sat cooling on the table.
No sign of Rose now, right when she wanted her. She went over Roses words in her head. The fact that she knew Miff had been missing and had such fear â she said he had wanted to go to Joker. The visitor at his house, the van. If Miff had wanted to find Joker, would he have known where to find him? Hazel had so many questions for Rose.
Hazel ran her fingers through her sweaty hair and rested her palms against her eye lids. Her palms felt cool against a cracking headache. The pieces of information from the case swirled around in her head.
There was Hammond who had proximity and cause; so far nothing of interest had come up on his surveillance tapes. Hammond had a connection to Lucy and Gabriel. He was angry - he had space. It was possible.
But now Miff made no sense in the context of Hammond.
How did Miff fit into this?
Hazel knew at least one link between Miff and the case: Joker.
Hazel groaned.
She was too close to it all. She couldnât see any pieces that fit together. She needed to clear her head and look at it from a fresh perspective.
A shower would help switch the noise off.
The hot water hit her skin leaving it pink and the glass fogged quickly. Hazel dropped her chin and let the water run over the back of her head, neck and shoulders.
I give you some rope because your dad and I were buddies
That prick Lieutenant Jamesâs words replayed through her mind with a swell of anger that off-set the calming effect of the water on her skin. The hide of him, suggesting that he had ever been helpful â if anything, she had climbed the ladder despite his complete lack of support.
Asshole.
Her dad lost his will, his professional edge. He gave up on himself. He drank. He got fired by the GCPD.
Being her dadâs friend was no feather in the cap. Hazel had had no help from either of them.
Fuck them.
With a frustrated sigh, Hazel realised that the shower wasnât helping.
With a twist of her wrist, the flow of water closed, and hazel pulled a towel from where it hung on the glass panel, dabbed herself unceremoniously then wrapped herself.
She froze as she heard her bathroom door shift.
She held still and listened. She had locked the door behind her â yet there was someone in the apartment â she could feel it.
âEvening, ah, Detective.â Came the familiar voice, then without pause the clowns coated frame sauntered in.
Fists tight on the towel she scowled at the intruder.
 He cocked his head, tongue poked into his cheek, as he looked her up and down in her towel.
He flashed a smile. âAh doll-face! You look cute all wet â like, hmm, a half drowned chihuahua."
âWhat are you doing here? Are you fucking insane?" She regretted the word choice even as she said it. âI mean, do you know how tense things are right now?"
The clown clicked his cheek âPretty little lips, but such nasty things come out.â
Hazel glared at him as she stepped out of the shower cubicle.
"A little privacy please...â
The clown rolled his eyes
"I wasnât planning on watching. You got an ego on you for a half drowned chihuahua.â
He spun on his heel and headed to the living room.
 Hazel pulled on her pyjamas with sharp yanks her body still wet and followed him.
âHonestly â the media are all over this, you could easily be seen coming here and besides - I didnât invite you.â
The clown sat and leant back on the sofa. He spread his arms across the back rest.
He eyed her unblinking.
âOh, is that so? Well, if you donât like me coming and going, why give me a key, hmm? You give a man the impression you want him around with gestures like that.
Now Hazel rolled her eyes. he looked too comfortable. He looked at-home in her apartment: knees broad, arms wide. The top button relaxed todayâŠthick, strong neck and a glimpse of chest...
stop it!
âI didnât give you a fucking key!â
She glanced at the door. It was shut, dead bolted. No forced entry. She knew she had locked it.
âLet me remind you, cupcake. You came to find me in the Narrows...I let you. You turned your back to get a needle in the neck... you rode home in a trunk and slept while I turned your apartment over and took everything that I wanted⊠including the spare key.â
Hazel felt blood drain away from her face. She had a spare key in her safe. If he had it, then he had been through everything in her apartment, even deeper than she realised.
The clown knocked himself twice on the head firmly with a gloved fist then lowered his voice for effect.
âYou see. You gave me the key by being stupid, Detective Madden. So, as it happens, Iâll come and go as I please.âÂ
Hazel felt anger lapping flames up her neck and the excruciating conflict to storm away or physically attack him.
She couldnât take another moment of these arrogant men.
At least the rage was a distraction from Miff and her prick of a boss.
He watched her intently, seemingly feasting on her response and his lips split in a cruel laugh.
âOh. You think you are tough, detective? Is that what you think? Look at you. That petulant display of anger - you think itâs impactful, or even convincing, to me?â
He stood. He stepped closer.
âYou arenât built as hard as you like to pretend, detective. You play tough. I let you. But youâre like one of those packages with stickers all over it â screaming FRAGILE.â
The clownâs eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he mocked.
âYouâre not hardâ He continued âYouâre as pure as bleached sheets.â His eyes wandered down her shamelessly, and back up. He circled her, close. âI have never wanted to ruin something, so completelyâŠâ
âFuck you!â hazel gritted.
The clown leaned in. Smokey.
He had the calm expression of a house cat watching a goldfish in a bowl: patient, amused - the predatory tendencies masked away.
âDoll, I like it when you talk dirty.â
Why the fuck was he here? Bothering her at this time of night. And on this day of all days - after everything that had happened.
âWhy the fuck are you here?â Hazel blurted out
The clown huffed impatiently.
âEnunciate, sweetheart. I donât know what you are saying when you get all emotional.â
"You know what I'm talking about!â
"I don't. Doll-face. I think I sense hostility?"
"There was another headless body today â and now, here you are.â
âOh that. Is that what you have your knickers in a twist about. An informant? His death is not worth losing sleep about Iâd have thought.â
J blinked his dark eyes. His breath was slow and steady. Bored.
âHow do you know that? How could you possibly know who the victim was? That information has not been released.â
âI know everything that happens in my city, cupcake. I already told you that. And okay, I admit, I know you were fond of him. That's what's got you all riled up.
Iâm not riled up!
Admit it - you're blushing right now, Doll face.
Hazel swallowed her rage. She ignored the allegation.
âDid Miff come and talk to you? Did you see him? This all seems like a lot of coincidence, and you told me there is no such thing.â
âWhat are you insinuating, detective?â
âThat you killed him! I have reason to believe you might have met with him, then you turn up here practically gloating. I am not just insinuating - I am directly asking - did you fucking kill him?â
âWhy would I kill him?â the clowns tone lifted.
âBecause he was a fucking informant! He led me to you. Maybe, you are the god dam Gotham Slasher. Why else would you be here, right now? What are the chances that you saunter in right now?â
Lazy amusement crossed his face.
âYou are dumb for a smart little thing, arenât you? What would I gain through keeping quite about any of my crimes? I run this city based on my reputation â the more kills, the better. I have nothing to hide, Detective. You sought me out because you were sure of that."
"Well, maybe it isnât a flashy enough crime for you to lay claim publicly. You can admit that you would benefit from his death? If only to punish him for informing on you. Or maybe it was to punish me!"
"Thatâs better detective. Youâre asking yourself the right question. Who benefits? Now look closer to home. Who stands to benefit if there are fewer crooks on the street? Who stands to benefit if they can draw the infamous clown prince out of so called 'hiding'? Hmm? The GCPD does. You do.
âMe!â Hazelâs voice shot up.
âYes you.â The clown hissed. âI thought you knew right from the start. That planted card was nothing more than an invitation to enter into a game. Iâm here because I like to play; not to solve your case for you.â
âFunny you mention the card! You are the only one in the dam city with access to your trademark Joker playing cards! Itâs your hall mark. Your signature at every crime. Forensics have determined it authentic. You want to know how? All the cards youâve left previously are covered with the same shit. Traces of gun powder and microscopic lint from your fucking purple pocket!â
âOh, the cards legit you say? And that means I did it?â
âYes! You leave that same egotistical stamp on every crime you commit! Why am I looking for a more complicated solution than what's right in front of me? You said it yourself â when something makes sense â stop asking questions. Your card; your crime!â
The clown moved around Hazel with the ease of a serpent.
âThat card is the only interesting piece of evidence you have in your whole case file. The fact that it has my gun powder on it â and my pocket lint, only makes it more interesting. Arguably your most important clue. Only you canât work out what it means.â
He ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it back.
Hazel watched the way he moved. There was tension under the suit, almost concealed by his aloof demeanour; but not quite.
The calm was a thin veil to hide his building frustration. Hazel could see it in the narrowing of his eyes, and the raised vein in his broad neck.
âYou handed me the card that first night, like it was worth nothing. I knew right then you were no threat to me, detective. Just a cute toy to be played with."Â a wicked smile twitched at his gnarled lip. "I agreed to work with you, detective, because I knew that if you were to get anywhere in this little game of yours... you would need me.â
Smug prick!
Hazel wanted to respond with aggression. Venom. To reject what he was saying. but no... it was a taunt. Bait. Designed to get in her head.
The clown wasn't as calm and cool as he pretended to be. He couldnât be. He had nothing. Just like her. Needy for answers. Just like her.Â
She would call him on it.
âOh yeah? What does the card mean?â
âThe answer is much closer to home than you think, Detective. Close and personal, even." he paused.
Tongue darted out to lick the small scar on the base of his lip, the way he did so often.
"I'm not going to spell it out for you, Detective. Thatâs cheating. What fun would that be?â
What the fuck did he mean, close and personal? Was this another dig at Miff?
The Clowns theatrics were getting annoying. Hazel was tired. Her headache was thumping, and she needed time to rest and think. To do some actual work. She had delt with one-too-many assholes for one day.
âIf you are going to be painfully cryptic all the time, just get the fuck out of my apartment.â
The clown grinned and his eyes gleamed with unhinged delight.
 âOoo... She loves me⊠she loves me not⊠she wants my information⊠she doesnât. You can keep a man on his toes, canât you, cup-cakeâ The clown laughed, a snort through his nose. "You are bouncing all over the place Detective, and itâs not a good look on you. Not becoming at all.â
âIf you had information, youâd have spilled it by now.â Hazel was bored. Done.
âYou say I'm the only one with the cards... but that isn't true, is it? The clown probed. âI could help you solve that riddle. Honestly, Iâm disappointed you havenât seen it by now.â
His eyes were wild like he might lash out, but instead he cracked his neck.
âBut I wonât help you, because you forget who you are talking to Det. You forget your manners. Youâre going to have to work it out yourself.â
'You forget who you're talking to' His words reverberated.
What was it with the egos on these men? First her boss pulled that line, now this dirt bag criminal. It didn't warrant a response.
She was done with the clownsâ games.
At worst, he was the killer responsible for Miffs death and potentially the 6 others, at best, he was offering nothing towards solving the case and taking delight in messing with her.
âNo comment?â His expression flattened suddenly, his eyes growing cold and dark. Like the lack of her response was far worse than her protests.
He couldnât control silence. Couldnât manipulate an empty space.
She held the silence. A little rush went through her as she saw his neck muscles flex.
He had buttons she could push, and she was finding them. The power to annoy him thrilled her.
 âLike I said, you are plenty dumb, for a smart broad.â he spat the words.
The heat of anger in Hazel reshaped into something cold. Sharp. Fuelled by the little tells in his body language that he was losing composure.
"You are!" her retort was almost infantile, but she enjoyed it. "Formidable Joker. Ha! You've got nothing for me. To think I admired your work... but you are smoke and fucking mirrors. Just a man with nothing, hiding behind a mask. You think that your crimes make you different from the common folk? You pretend youâre better than us. But if you are better than the people of this city, why do you perform for them?
Hazel raised her chin for the finisher. Â
âYou don't teach Gotham lessons. You dance for us. All in the hopes we might notice you and give a fuck!"
Something snapped in the clown.
She saw it like a flash behind his eyes.
His arm shot up. his gloved hand grabbed a fist of her hair, yanking her head back. Barred teeth in her face. Words slithering through his teeth.
"That pretty mouth is going to get you in a world of trouble, detective." He bent to her, his lips grazing her ear. Hot puffs of his breath against her cheek. "I let you play cute a little â but enough is enough.â He shook her. âI don't need a weapon to break a pretty little thing like you."
His other hand swept up her torso and nestled softly around her throat, all the while controlling her with the fist of hair. Her scalp burned like it might tear.
Hazel was locked in.
"I could do it with my bare hands." He mused.
He gave her throat a slow firm squeeze cutting air with measure, so Hazel spluttered. Not tight enough to choke her out but a hint towards the force he could apply if he decided to.
Sweat ran down Hazels body.
"I could teach you first-hand how to properly respect my work - how to tell it apart from these common place murders.â
He squeezed again causing a fit of coughing in his grip.
âDid you know that if you cut a person just right, you can actually unpack their insides, right in front of them?"
He changed his grip from her neck to her jaw, yanking her head around until her blue stare met black soulless eyes.
He searched her features, as though looking for something.
âIâm not a common criminal, Hazel. Iâm something much worse.â
With an angry thrust he pushed her back. Hazel stumbled.
An undignified mess of hair and spit.
"I'm disappointed by you, Detective Madden."
His voice was flat, distant. Like the search was over and he had not found the thing he wanted.
Then he turned on his heel and left the apartment.
The anger had left him â at least on the surface. Replaced with disgust.
His strides were long, slow. Bored.
 Only now, Hazel knew how tight sheâd wound him. Â
Genre: Thriller crime fiction set in Gotham starring TDK Joker and Original Characters.
Summary: Set in post-batman era, Hazel is a Gotham-hardened detective working a multiple homicide investigation. Hazel pursues a serial killer coined the Gotham Slasher when a new clue sends her on the hunt for the Joker.
Hazel's unconventional connections to the underworld and a wayward moral compass, get her closer to Joker than law enforcement ever has been before. Professional lines are blurred, and trust is shaken.
Is the Clown Prince the perpetrator in her case? the game maker? Or perhaps her only ally?
Warnings: 18+ Graphic depictions of violence, Descriptions of dead bodies, Muder, Sex work, murder of sex work, crimes against women, attempted grape, eventual smut, sex scenes, course language, mentions of suicide.
Authors notes: Jâs a little quite this chapter whilst the story builds but hang tight heâll be back in a big way.
The story is just starting to heat up!! đ«đđ€Ą
Rose
The fog was lifting from the streets as Hazel got down the quieter end of the Old Town. The newly rising sun was already spilling light into the world. Hazelâs head had cleared, and the remnant fragments of the dream and unwelcome memories of her father were faded to the background. Maybe there would be a bakery open near Gold-spur where she could grab a coffee and take a wander around after her run. See where her instinct took her.
Coming onto Gold- Spur Hazel stopped, rather struck by a rustic beauty she hadnât noticed the first few times around.
How could this historical pocket exist in a bleak, modern city like Gotham? A city where all the other buildings reached ominously towards the sky as though it was a competition. She held up her hand to block the new apartments from her view. With those intrusive buildings removed, Hazel felt as though she had taken a step back in time.
The old shop fronts on the wide, steep guttered streets, the old-style homes and of course the brewery right up then end on the edge of her view. Structurally the building remained exactly how it was in the old photo behind the bar at Davies Drop.
Hazel walked hands on hips slowly catching her breath. The air was still cool enough to cause a plume in front of her and even though the old timey street inspired her imagination and made her feel like she had taken a trip back in time, there was still the acrid flavour of Gotham smog on every inhale.
Hazel came in from the north, just as she had when she and Jason had interviewed Hammond, passing the Grocers where Lucy had worked, and the apartments she had lived in. There were no lights on in the apartment block; most residents yet to wake.
Hazel passed the Grocers and other small shops by, soon arriving at the three houses on small blocks - the ones the apple farm workers had once lived in, according to Hammond.
Hazel looked over the stout fences that framed the front yards. The houses were dark too.
It was too early to make house calls for general information gathering, but it would be good to leave a calling card so that the neighbours could get in touch.
Lifting a latch quietly, hazel slipped through the white gate and headed up the path. The path was stoney with a small amount of grass grown through. Hazel followed the path all the way to the front door and slipped her card in the door jam.
For a moment Hazel thought she heard a noise inside âa rustle behind the door. She paused in case someone presented, but only silence followed. Hazel left the card and turned away.
Heading back down the steps from the porch, Hazel paused scanning her eyes around the perimeter. There seemed to be a storm door to the side.
Subterranean basements. This little corner of Gotham she knew little about. She wondered if perhaps they had used the extra storage space for the cellars when the homes belonged to orchard workers. Hazel ducked back through the gates as silently as she entered, leaving the small house to sit peacefully in the grey light of dawn as she ventured back to the sidewalk.
Exiting the gate Hazel noticed a van parked right by the curb. There were a few cars parked along the street, but this was parked most directly in front of the house closest to the brewery. Perhaps it belonged to whomever lived in the house. For good measure, Hazel plucked a second card and tucked it under the windscreen wiper on the curb side of the vehicle.
Hazel checked her watch, it was not even 6am, the Brewery wouldnât be open for some time. Yet, she wouldnât mind having a quiet poke around the general area. Hazel kept her pace up to a brisk walk, not wanting to cool too much after her run. The sweat that had gathered on her back and hairline was already chilling. Gotham mornings had a bite to them.
As Hazel neared the brewery her interest was piqued by banging inside the courtyard. The gates were shut, and Hazel couldnât see into the bar area where she and Jason had sat the day before. The noise was loud coming over the fence line, a clatter and hammering sound. Hazel pressed her ear up to the fence and listened. Was that the faint sound of power tools? She listened for a moment, unable to identify the sound, then banged firmly on the fence in between the bouts of noise.
 Hazelâs knocks went unanswered. The sound came from deeper in the property â perhaps in the bowels of the old brewery.
Hazel waited for a lull, and in the silence, she hammered again and yelled.Â
âGotham Police Department â Open up!â
This time the sound stopped completely and was followed by some shuffling. Moments later a flustered Hammond peered through the gate.Â
He wasnât the welcoming sight he was the day before and he opened the gate only a crack, enough to peer out, disgruntled. His eyes widened in silent recognition.
âWhat do you want?â
âEverything okay in there, Hammond? Thatâs a lot of noise for -â Hazel paused to glance at her wristwatch â â 6:15amâ
âEverything is just fine in here.â Hammond answered. âIs this another interview? Thought we were done?â
âNot at all â like I said, I was just in the area, heard the noise and thought Iâd check on you.â Hazel eyed Hammond carefully, his hair line was light with perspiration and his cheeks had a pink hue to them.
âYou been exercising, Hammond?â Hazel asked
Hammond huffed loudly and rolled his eyes.
âIt sure sounds like an interviewâ his voice strained with frustration âI told you everything I knew yesterday about Lucy and that lad she was seeing, I donât want nothing more to do with it. You need to leave.â
âWait â the lad she was seeing. Was Lucy seeing someone Hammond? I would have remembered if you mentioned that.â
Hammondâs jaw slacked. His expression skewed with discomfort at information he had just released, silently fighting for a way he could reel it back in, but he couldnât.
âWell, they were together sometimes so I assumed. Thatâs all. Like I said, she used to come here for a drink after work every now and then.â
"Who was she seeing?"
Hammond looked over his shoulder like he wished he could leave. Then sighed and let the gate relax open just a little.
"That dude from your picture. Gabriel."
âWere they both here that night, Hammond?â
Hammond rubbed his face with both hands
âShit.â he sighed under his breath before meeting Hazel with a pained expression. âYea. They were here. They arrived, about 7 after her shift and were here till 9:00, left together about then.â
lying jerk...
âThat sculpture in the front" Hazel was casual. "â you make that yourselfâ
âYeah.â Hammond frowned. âWhat of it?â
âWhat kind of wood working tool would you use on a job like that?â
âWhat tool do I use?" His hands tightened at his sides. "This is crazy. You just asked me about two dead people - then switched topics. Why are we talking about woodworking?â
âAn electric saw?â Hazel mused. âThey make a bit of noise⊠but I guess youâve got a bit of space around you, so as not to bother your neighboursâŠDo you own a buzz saw, Hammond?â
âI had one before it was stolen. Now I carve by hand.â He eyed Hazel suspiciously.
âStolen? You report that?â
âWhy would I report a stolen power tool?" his voice went up. "Youâre standing here, with no leads on a multiple homicide case, a stones throw from the Narrows, I've got junkies and hookers on my doorstep every morning and you think Iâm going to expect the GCPD to recover my electric saw? This conversation is fucking insane!â
Hazel could feel Hammondâs eyes on her as she paused to give him a smile.
âSay, Hammondâ You donât suppose I can trouble you for a glass of water? I have run all the way from East Parade.â Hazel wiped her brow with her forearm for emphasis
Hammondâs lips pulled up into a sneer.
âI do mind. I know exactly what you are up to - snooping around. I know what my rights are, and I know I havenât done anything. Why the fuck would I help you do your job? GCPD. Good for nothing! You are bad for business. This whole mess is bad for business. You think the Riff-Raff drifting in isnât enough? â Iâm practically broke! The Narrows is closing in on me with all the new project housing and now you are here, dragging my ass through this instead of finding the actual killer or cleaning the streets!â
Hazel had her phone out and hit speed dial for Jason, he picked up after one ring with a foggy hello.
âRise and shine â meet me with the car on Gold Spurâ
Hanging up the phone Hazel tuned to Hammond with hard eyes.
âI think you better come in for a little chat. Maybe spend some time explaining to us why you didnât mention all this before. If you have any security footage on this building â Iâd like a look at that too."
"Me! Why do I need to come into the station?"
"Because Hammond. As of this chat, your venue is the last known location for not just one, but two homicide victims, and you may be the last person who ever saw them alive.
**
Back at the station with Jason beside her, Hazel leant on the desk.
âSo, Hammond, how about you tell my partner what you told me back at the gate at Davies Drop.â
Hammond sat at the interview table with his head down. Hazel hoped that a single night in the holding cell would loosen him up, but so far nothing. The warrant was approved but unless they found something, Hammond would be able to walk in a couple of hours.
âAs I said. It was nothing â just that she was there that night, and the dude from the pictureâŠhe was with her.â
âThatâs pretty relevant to our case â isnât it, Jasonâ Hazel raised her head to Jason.
âYes, it is.â Jason frowned âSeems like a big thing to forget⊠after all, the pair were murdered â decapitated in fact â I am sure you heard that, didnât you, Hammondâ
âNow, I am sure Hammond has a good explanation for saving that information â give him a chance to talkâ Hazel fawned.
Hammond slouched in the chair, broody. Hazel wasnât sure if he would answer, but before he had a chance there was a tap at the door.
Hazel and Jason turned as the station reception officer peeped her head in.
âIâm terribly sorry to interrupt. Detective Maddon, can I get a quick word?â
Hazel blew out air as she stood and made her way to the door.
âThis better be important.â
Once in the hall, the receptionist spoke in a shushed tone.
âI have a woman out front - determined she must see you. Sheâs making a real scene about it.â
âThat's it?â Hazel shoved her hands on her hips âYou don't need to interrupt me for that! Tell her no. Tell her to book an appointment. Iâm in the middle of an interview.â
âI told her, no, at first. She is one of those street walker types â I think sheâs high, but she's adamant it's urgent and she knows strange details about you that she would have no reason to know. She swears she has information pertinent to your case."
"THIS INTERVIEW is pertinent to the case! This interview is urgent! Donât interrupt me again, tell her to come back"
"She asked for you by name, Hazel. She said you would know her. Said if you didnât want to talk to her, she would leave peacefully â but she needed to hear it from you. She said you would know it was important when I told youâ
Hazel paused halfway back through the door.
"Fine. What's her name?"
"She said her name was Rose, knows you through a friend called Jay, apparently.â
Hazel stiffened.
She only knew one Rose: Miffs connection to Joker. The woman who met and led her to the church that night.
What could she want?
âShall I put her in an interview room?â The receptionist asked, reading Hazel.
âHave Rose wait in my office. Donât let her talk to anyone else. Iâll be there soon.â
**
Hazel sat at her desk slouched in her chair. She watched Rose pace around her office. Rose muttered intelligibly and squeezed her hands into fists and released them as she paced.
âRose, you canât just turn up here like this â Jesus, youâll get us both in big trouble.â Hazel thought of Joker âor dead.â She added.Â
Rose turned to face Hazel her eyes focusing for the first time.Â
âI wouldnât have mam - except that itâs terrible important!â She leaned towards Hazel and dopped her voice. âItâs Miff.â
At the mention of his name Hazel straightened up.
She hadnât spoken with Miff since he had connected her with Rose to get to Joker. He had left a voice mail telling her he had made a mistake connecting her, and a second one begging her to call it off.
Hazel had never returned his calls. It wasnât his place to worry and frankly it had pissed her off. She felt the heat of irritation on her neck just thinking about it.
âOh? and what about himâ Hazel asked flatly.
âHeâs missing.â Rose started pacing again. Hands wringing. âI wouldnât expect the GCPD to care â but you â you gotta help me. Miff kept his nose clean. He wouldnât have asked me for that favour if you and he werenâtâŠclose. He stuck his neck out for you. Now you owe him.â
Hazel crossed her arms across her desk.
âFirst, I donât owe anyone anything â second, please stop pacing and sit down before you wear a trench in my floor. Start your story at the beginning.â
Rose hesitated but sat down in the chair opposite Hazel, clasping her hands in a white-knuckle grip. She Sucked a deep breath and started.
âMiffâs a good guy. He always looked out for me. Heâs always told me to stay away from trouble. He always told me itâs not worth the dept to get mixed up with you know who.â Rose leaned close, âI used to have a problem with Heroin. The state said I was born an addict, because of my mother. Well, back then, I would have sold anything for a hit â thatâs how I started working for you know who.
Rose picked a fingernail as she elaborated.
âThatâs how it works, see. Even amongst the savviest of underworld players there are only whispers of you know who on the street â you donât find him less he wants you to.â Rose paused as though the next part hurt. âItâs in your darkest hour he appears, offers himself as a lifeline. Whatever you need â for whatever he wants. Desperate people take the bait, like I did.â A shaky breath. âA contract with the devil â itâs for life.â
The words chilled, but Hazel just nodded in quiet understanding.
âI wanted to listen to Miffâ She continued âbut all I really had was the illusion of choice.â
 Rose shook her head at the memory.
âOf course, my addiction got worse and so did my trouble. It would have been the death of me if it werenât for Miff. He took me in and helped me through the withdrawals, told me to always come to him first. Heâd give me a dime bag of weed and tell me to sleep. He saved my life. Thatâs why I helped him with that wretched favour when he asked.â
Rose paused. Her hands softened, and she stared into the distance, deep in thought. Hazel noticed how her eyes were glassy with emotion but alert. In this moment she seemed grief struck, but sober. Maybe she was still clean. Maybe the receptionist had read it wrong â she was frantic with worry, not drugs.
âRose,â Hazel attempted to focus her. âWhat did you have to tell me about Miff?â
âHe has been quiet lately. He felt bad about getting you in with you know who. Said you were in over your head this time and it was his fault. He kept saying maybe he could fix things. He wanted to come to some agreement with you know who where he would take your place in any debt you might incur. He felt responsible.â
Hazel felt cold clamp around her heart.
What was Rose suggesting?
That Miff would try to negotiate her freedom? Bad idea. And not asked for. The fear was quickly surpassed by anger.
What was his problem? She could handle herselfâŠ
âAnyway,â Rose continued âI thought I talked him out of that madness, but I needed to be sure. I hadnât seen him round so I decide to go over for some smokeâ not just for a smoke â I wanted to see him. He was not answering. His doors were locked. I thought I better not break in.â
Hazel raised an eyebrow âGood choice, I guess. Then what happened?â
âThere was a van parked at his house, so I think to myself maybe he got visitors. Maybe thatâs why heâs not answering. So, I take a nap in a doorway opposite and wait for the company to leave. The head lights wake me later, blinding in my face, and the van leaves.â
âDid you see the driver? Did they talk to you?â
Rose shook her head. âI saw the driver, just a glimpse. Middle aged man. No passenger. He doesnât stop. I cross the street figuring itâs my turn to visit now. I knock at Miffs door but heâs still not answering. It strikes me as odd, but maybe heâs just real high on smoke and fell asleep. Miffs a good guy â the last thing I wanna do is wake him. So, I set up camp in the alley way behind his house, and I stay there all night. Iâm telling you heâs not been in or out. It ainât like him. Miff, heâs always there.â
âAnd thatâs why you are here, to report him missing?â Hazel confirmed.
Roseâs eyes were like saucers now and filled to the brim with dread. âSomething bad has happened â I can feel it in my bones.â
Hazel nodded in a well-versed gesture of validation âI am sure there is a rational explanation.â she reached out a hand to Rose âbut you have my word I will look into it. You are right, Miff is a good guy. I will find him.â
Hazels words were offered as reassurance to calm Rose and promote cooperation. Yet, Hazel felt a certain weight in her guts she couldnât ignore. It was true, this was out of character. Miff was always there.
Yet, she could hardly trust Roseâs account of events entirely. She would call Miff when Rose left. It was the easiest way to put the situation to rest.
Before Hazel could continue wrapping up the session, she was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
What the fuck!
Was it impossible to get through an interview uninterrupted in this place today?
This time there was no polite hesitation as the door slammed open and her boss stepped through. He was back from tending to his mother. The short reprieve was over.
Lieutenant James looked dark. âHazel, a word if you will.â he nodded towards the hallway.
To Rose she nodded. âStay put. Iâll be right backâ
Inwardly she groaned.
Fuck.
**
Hazel Followed the Lieutenant into the hall and tailed him up the corridor into his own office. Jason was there, already seated in one of the chairs. He nodded at Hazel with heavy features as Hazel came in.
Not good.
The lieutenant sat down at his desk and folded his hands.
âHowâs your mother?â Hazel asked.
âAs well as can be expected. She is settling into the facilityâ the lieutenant replied. âA greater concern to me is the state of this case and the publicity shit storm thatâs about to unfold.â
Hazel didnât answer. She had the distinct impression he was referring to something she wasnât yet privy to, but she was about to find out.
The lieutenant took out a remote and clicked on the small TV screen that was mounted against the left wall. The TV crackled to life to show a Gotham News reporter on the screen.
âItâs been 4 years since The Joker terrorised this city, ensuring that no Gotham citizen would feel safe. Whilst weâve moved forward â the city remembers the horror all too well. We thought the Jokers reign was over, but recent anonymous information supplied to the station tells us that The Joker is active again and is now the number one suspect in an open multiple homicide investigation. With 6 bodies and counting â is The Joker really the Gotham Slasher? And if so, what hope do Gotham City Police Department have of stopping him without the BatmanâŠ.
Lieutenant James punched his thumb on to the remote and the screen went black.
âWho slipped it to the press?â Hazel asked
âYour guess is as good as mine - about a dozen witnesses watched you pull a Joker calling card from the corpses head.â The lieutenantâs tone was full of contempt as he stared her down. âI told you to follow this lead hard. Didnât I? Now the whole bloody city knows and what do we have on him? Nothing.â
Hazel bit at the inside of her cheek but said nothing.
âI have city hall breathing down my neck.â he continued. âI am sure you can appreciate the repercussions of this leak â Itâs the god dam Joker â he brought the city to his knees. We have no more Batman, no more Harvey Dent, we donât even have âsuper copâ Jim Gordan who's sunning his retired ass in the Bahamas or wherever his wife dragged him to â Jesus knows he owed herâ the lieutenant scoffed. âThere are no more heroes in Gotham! Itâs just us. So, tell me.â He threw his arms wide, palms open âHave you got anything further? and please, I am hanging on it!â
Fuck she hated his beady eyed face.
He slumped into his seat and wiped his brow, reached for a bottle on his desk and took a swig of his drink. His face was hot. Sweat visible at his brow line.
Hazel watched him intently as he lowered the drink back to the table. Watched him release it and then retrain his eyes on her. A flicker of something crossed his face as his eyes met hers - she didn't know what, and then with a sharp flick he dumped the bottle in the paper basket.
The smash of Glass in the bin made Jason jerk beside Hazel.
Soft.
âWell? What have you two got for me?â
Hazel shook her head. On a normal day she would consider it strong to say that she and Jason were holding the last man to have seen Lucy and Gabriel alive, that they had secured a warrant and by the end of the day they would have searched his premise and watched over all the camera footage taken on site, but not today.
Not after what had just gone to air.
This was going to turn into a media and political shit-soup and the Gotham Police Department would be tossed first into the crap-pot. Hazel was garnish.
Something in her gut told her silence was her friend.
Jasonâs phone rang and he excused himself to the lieutenant, then pressed his phone to his ear.
The way his voice dropped caused Hazelâs head to snap around, hanging on his few words before he flipped his phone shut.
The expression on his face was torture, like the words he had to speak tasted terrible and he couldnât bare to pass them through his mouth.
âWhat?â
âAnother headless body, in the Narrows."
Hazelâs eyes flicked from Jason over to her boss who looked ashen. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and his fingers as though trying to supress a headache, or a stroke, or perhaps a full-blown adult tantrum.
Hazel stood from her chair. It scaped abrasively beneath her.
âWell, itâs been a pleasure as always, but I guess thatâs meeting adjourned.â She muttered.
Hitting the hallway Jason grabbed her arm and jerked her around to face him.
âHey! Itâs both our asses on the line! Do you always have to be so oppositional?"
Hazel yanked her arm free and continued onwards.
âWhy didnât you tell him we were holding Hammond?â Jason followed her with rushed footsteps.
Hazel shot him a glare over her shoulder but didnât slow down.
âItâs not enough. I need some real answers first.â
"We need answers â this is a partnership, remember?â
Frankly, Hazel felt like Jasonâs part in the partnership was filing reports. She doubted that blurting it out would help the situation deescalate, so instead she shrugged.Â
âWe doing this, or not? PartnerâŠâ
She didnât bother to tell him the other part. Something didnât feel right, something was gnawing at her gut and she had no intention of opening her mouth whilst something felt off. She knew better than to lay out all her cards.Â
Jasonâs shoulders dropped and he raised a hand in submission
âletâs go.â
Hazel paused outside her own office. She had forgotten all about Rose.
âI just need to stick my head in and reschedule someone.â
Hazel swung her office door open before Jason could ask questions.
The chair where Rose was seated was empty and Roseâs bag was gone.Â
Fuck.
**
Thanks so much for reading. Would love to hear a comment if you are on this journey with me. Things are going to get a little darker, plus the return of our beloved clown prince in the next chapter :) Out soon.
