It was the second day of Halloween, and the heat still lingered in the air.
Despite the chaos of the previous night, New York's pulse hadn't slowed. The city was alive and beating—people flooding the streets, lights blinking against the dark, laughter weaving through traffic noise.
But inside the SHIELD headquarters, the mood was very different.
Black Widow sat in the monitoring room, eyes locked on a wall of darkened screens.
Empty coffee cups were scattered across the table like fallen soldiers.
"Captain… we really haven't found anything," Benson muttered, his voice gravelly from fatigue. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—because he hadn't.
Ever since Black Widow stormed in the night before, demanding a full trace on the man in clown makeup, the team had been working nonstop.
But they had nothing. No leads. No footage. No name.
And she still hadn't left.
Black Widow leaned forward, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the metal edge of the desk. "Impossible," she snapped. "No one just disappears. Not in my city."
Benson hesitated. "We've gone through facial recognition, GPS analysis, biometric scans... every tool we have."
"And still nothing," she said coldly.
She didn't need to say more. SHIELD, supposedly the most advanced intelligence network on Earth, was being mocked. Mocked by a man in makeup.
Benson opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. There was nothing left to say.
"I've tried over a hundred data sets," he said quietly. "Everything. I'm out of angles."
"Then run two hundred," she ordered. "We will find him."
Benson sighed heavily, shoulders slumping as he returned to the console. He was about to launch another trace when—
Click.
The entire room went black.
Monitors. TVs. Consoles. All dead.
"What the hell? Did SHIELD forget to pay the power bill?" Benson muttered, trying to reboot the system.
"No…" Natasha stood slowly, her eyes narrowing. "It's him."
And she was right.
It wasn't just SHIELD—this was happening across all of New York.
"Wait—what's going on? A blackout?"
"No way. The streetlights are still on. But the screens… why are just the LED screens off?"
"This happened yesterday too—don't tell me... that clown?!"
A buzz of anxious voices rippled through downtown.
And then—
Pop.
A single, crisp sound—like a stage light snapping on.
And every screen across the city lit up at once.
There he was.
The clown.
His face filled the monitors. He sat—somewhere, impossible to tell where—but it was him. Same white makeup. Same red smile.
Above his head, bold red text appeared:
[The Trial of the Joker]
People froze.
"That's him! He killed that guy with a bat yesterday!"
"Who is this guy? Is he some kind of terrorist?"
"Is he gonna kill again tonight?!"
Panic started to set in. The air tightened with unease. Even those who tried to joke were beginning to feel it.
And then the clown laughed.
A slow, quiet chuckle that grew louder, deeper, until it filled the streets.
"...Hahahahaha..."
He didn't speak. Just laughed.
People stared, unsettled.
"What's he laughing at?!"
Then he stopped. Looked straight into the camera.
"Hi."
The single word fell flat.
It was so casual it almost seemed out of place.
"Hi? What the hell does that mean?"
"Is this guy trying to be funny? This isn't a joke, man!"
"Dude's got brain damage or something."
With just that one word, the tension began to crack. Some of the more irritable folks started shouting at the screen.
The fear hadn't vanished, but it was changing—turning into anger, frustration.
And then the clown coughed. Just a soft, deliberate cough cough.
Silence fell.
Everyone looked back at the screen.
He stood up.
Picked up two black bags from the ground.
The camera zoomed out—and now the city saw what he'd been hiding.
Corpses.
Dozens of them. Blood pooled on the floor, slick and shining under the dim lights.
Gasps and screams echoed through the streets.
People who had begun to relax now recoiled in horror.
Some turned away. Others covered their children's eyes.
And through it all, the clown walked—hopping over the bodies with exaggerated grace, like a performer in some twisted circus.
Unbothered. Unmoved.
The camera followed him as he stepped through the carnage.
And then… he stopped at a door.
Stark Bank.
The logo gleamed behind him.
"If you want to survive," the clown said suddenly, voice cold and clear, "the best way is to have no principles. This is my first gift to the world. Yesterday's gift doesn't count."
He raised a hand.
Pressed a button.
BANG—
An explosion rocked the city.
People screamed as flames lit the sky in the direction of Stark Bank.
And the last thing seen before the screen cut to black—
Was John's smile.
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