The bar set was a real cathedral, dark as a confession box and twice as quiet. The air, before first call, was an element of its own: every surface wiped, the fake smoke machines not yet venting, and the only movement the shuffle of extras in rented Italian shoes.
Overhead, the gaffer adjusted the last bank of amber glass, one bulb at a time, until the spill on the lacquered wood was exactly what the director had sketched on his storyboard. Above the set, rigs like steel ribs caught the light and threw it down in stripes. Even the dust motes traveled with intention.
At the far end of the room, a grip in a faded Minor Threat tee checked his phone, then the hands of his watch, then the phone again. The first AD, wired on three coffees and an extra shot of cortisol, paced from the monitor to the dolly track, barking into his walkie at intervals so exact they could have been scored by metronome.
"Finals up—ten, no, make that five. I want to see smoke in three. Where's sound? I want them on deck."
A row of background gangsters—handpicked for their pallor, their hollowed faces, their ability to sweat without effort—shifted on their stools. Their shirts were all period, their ties knotted so tight the Adam's apples pulsed above the silk.
Each man looked like he'd been bred in a tank for this one morning: two generations removed from a real Italian, three from a real American, and so practiced at pretending to drink that their shot glasses were filled only with air and memory.
The set itself was a study in impossible detail. Nolan's art team had sanded the mahogany bar to a shine that ate the reflections of everything within three meters; the bottles were real, labels custom-printed in faded, decades-old fonts, the edges worn with steel wool until the branding faded to ghosts.
Behind the counter, a barkeep with liver spots and a regulation-grade comb-over wiped the same spot for the twentieth time, his gaze never leaving the door.
At exactly 7:14, the entire space held its breath.
Marcus entered from the shadowed wing, not walking so much as precipitating out of the darkness. He wore the velvet coat—no, the coat wore him, the shoulders built out by the weight of the fabric, the lining a neon green that flared when he moved too fast.
The shirt underneath, a perfect sickly mint, collared up and unbuttoned just enough to suggest either indifference or calculated seduction. The gloves—black, soft, creased at the knuckle—caught the light every time he flexed his hand.
The hair was different than at the table read. It had been slicked back, hard, the green now overlaid with a varnish that made each strand glimmer in the chandelier light. The face: white as a chalk outline, the paint not caked but pressed into the skin until it became a kind of living mask.
The eyes ringed in black, still shot through with the animal green beneath. The mouth was overdrawn, obscene, the red running just to the edge of the possible, then a millimeter beyond.
He said nothing as he entered. He did not look at the crew, or the extras, or even at the camera, already lensing in on his approach. He just moved to his mark, set at the end of the bar, and placed both hands on the wood. The gloves made no sound.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the room bent around him. The extras at the bar went rigid, the barkeep wiped a little slower. The first AD, mouth open to call a countdown, forgot to exhale.
Even the gaffer, perched above with a wrench, paused mid-torque, arm extended in silhouette like a man about to touch a high-voltage wire.
From behind the triple monitor, Nolan watched, hunched, notepad already open to a blank page.
He did not say action.
He did not say anything at all.
The Joker stood at the bar, head down, elbows splayed, the velvet coat folding in on itself like wings. The camera, mounted on a whisper-silent dolly, eased closer, creeping up the length of the set until it met the edge of the Joker's profile.
In the monitor, the frame was perfect—too perfect. The world behind him fell out of focus, leaving only the line of the jaw and the flicker of a tongue wetting the painted lip.
The AD cleared his throat, remembered how to speak.
"Roll sound. Scene twenty-eight. Take one."
A red LED winked to life on the matte-black camera rig. For the first time in twenty minutes, someone in the room inhaled.
The Joker raised his head, just enough to catch the overhead light on the bridge of his nose. He looked to the left, then right, never moving his shoulders, only the pivot of the neck.
The movement was so reptilian, so controlled, that the two extras closest to him flinched, just a fraction, but enough that even the camera operator noticed.
He let the silence build. The script called for an immediate quip, a throwaway joke about the décor, but Marcus—now the Joker—waited. He seemed to time the tension in the room, measuring it by the tremor of the bartender's hand or the bead of sweat on the AD's forehead.
When he finally spoke, the voice was nothing like the laugh. It was soft, almost gentle, the tone of a therapist with a very sharp knife under the table.
"That's some beautiful wood you've got here," he said, running the gloved fingertip along the grain of the bar top.
"You know what I love about mahogany? It doesn't bruise. You can take a sledge to it, and the worst you'll see is a little blood, maybe some teeth. But the wood—the wood remembers nothing."
The words landed with a wet slap. Even those who knew the line felt it land in a new, unwelcome place.
The barkeep, sweating through his prosthetic forehead, managed a shaky, "We like to keep it clean, sir."
The Joker smiled. It was not the stage smile from the audition, not the practiced rictus; it was a slow, private amusement, as if he'd just heard a joke from another room. He reached for the nearest tumbler, lifted it, and pretended to study the contents.
The script called for a cut here, a reverse shot to the extras at the far end of the bar, but no one called for it.
The camera just kept rolling.
Marcus tilted the glass, watching the light bend through the empty air. He swirled it, as if expecting a spirit to materialize. Then, with a single, deliberate gesture, he hurled the glass against the floor behind the bar.
It exploded, shards peppering the fake marble with a violence so abrupt that the barkeep recoiled, eyes wide.
The extras jumped.
The AD started to mouth "cut," but thought better of it.
The Joker leaned in, voice even softer now.
"Oops," he said.
"Slipped."
A beat, then he stared directly into the lens—no, not into the lens, but past it, as if there was a world behind the camera only he could see. For a moment, nobody in the room moved. They were held, not by force, but by the certainty that to break the silence would be to break something sacred.
Behind the monitor, Nolan's hand trembled on the edge of the notepad. He had not taken a single note.
The Joker turned, coat flaring just enough to show the green of the lining. He walked the length of the bar, each step measured, almost elegant, as if he were auditioning for a different role entirely. At the end of the set, he paused, flicked his wrist, and a switchblade appeared from nowhere, glinting in the light.
He spun it once, twice, then closed it with a snap. He set it on the bar top and patted it, like a dog waiting for permission to eat.
"Who's next?" he said, eyes fixed on the two extras, both now visibly sweating.
Nobody answered.
He turned again, this time to face the camera fully. The eyes—impossibly bright, ringed in darkness—held steady.
He let the smile fade, just enough to make the red of the lips look like a wound.
"Smile," he whispered.
Nobody breathed.
Nolan let the shot run for five more seconds, then ten, then fifteen. The air in the room thickened, the only sound the faint whine of the hard drives in the sound cart. The first AD, unblinking, mouthed a silent prayer to no god in particular.
Finally, Nolan exhaled.
"Cut," he said, voice hoarse.
No one moved.
The Joker—Marcus—did not break character, not even when the set started to relax, not even when the gaffer swung down from the catwalk, wrench still in hand. He stood at the end of the bar, hands at his sides, head tilted, as if waiting for a response that would never come.
One by one, the crew remembered how to move, how to talk. The bartender wiped the sweat from his brow, stared at the ruined glass, and laughed, too loud, too brittle. The extras at the bar shuffled off their stools, shooting glances at Marcus like he might reach out and touch them.
The first AD looked to Nolan, then back to the set.
"That was… I mean, we're good to move on, right?"
Nolan didn't answer. He just watched the monitor, frame frozen on the Joker's last, lingering stare.
At the center of the set, Marcus stood alone, velvet coat folded in on itself, the paint of his mouth flawless and unbroken. He waited for the world to catch up.
Outside the bar, the city was waking up. But inside, the only thing alive was the man in the purple coat, and the echo of the word "smile," drifting in the air like a threat or a promise.
The next scene was ready.
And so was he.
........
[Okay, I'm thinking we could set targets going forward with power stones. I don't know much about what would be acceptable but we could figure something out. Let me know what you guy's think.
For Extra Chapters Visit the Patreon and Subscribe!!
patreon.com/BS_Entertainment98]