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Chapter 1 – A Smile Behind the Counter
The fryer beeped again.
Keith jolted, almost dropping the metal basket. Hot oil hissed as he lifted the fries, and a wave of greasy steam slapped him in the face. He winced, eyes watering.
"Keith! Careful with those!" his manager barked.
Keith muttered an apology under his breath and dumped the fries into the tray. The smell clung to his uniform, his skin, his very soul. By now, he wasn't sure if the scent of oil was in the restaurant—or in his blood.
He had worked the closing shift at McDonald's for almost two years. His life had become a routine: flip burgers, mop floors, nod at rude customers, pretend their insults didn't sting. Twenty-three years old, and this was it. No college degree. No girlfriend. No savings. Just… Keith.
The only thing that made the day tolerable was what waited for him afterward: movies.
Not just any movies. Films that burned.
Films that showed society's mask peeled off, exposing the madness beneath. And above all, he worshiped one character. The one who didn't just live in madness—he danced in it.
The Joker.
Sometimes, when the shift dragged on, Keith whispered Joker quotes under his breath. Like prayers. Like lifelines.
"If you're good at something, never do it for free…"
He'd chuckle to himself, just enough to stay sane.
---
That night, when the clock finally struck midnight, Keith clocked out. He didn't even say goodbye to his coworkers—they hardly noticed him anyway.
The city air hit him, cool and damp, washing off the stink of grease but not the exhaustion. He shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and began the long walk home. His headphones went in immediately.
The familiar video started playing. The Joker: Agent of Chaos – Best Moments. He had downloaded it so many times that the lines felt etched into his skull.
On screen, Ledger's Joker licked his lips, eyes burning with an almost holy madness.
"Introduce a little anarchy. Upset the established order, and everything becomes chaos."
Keith mouthed the words with him, a small smile curling on his tired face.
People thought the Joker was a monster. Keith didn't see it that way. To him, Joker was honest. Honest about the absurdity of the world, about the rot beneath the polished smiles. Joker didn't pretend like everyone else. He turned pain into performance.
Keith envied that. God, he envied it.
---
The road was quiet, the kind of dead silence only late-night streets knew. Neon signs buzzed over shuttered shops. The pavement glistened from a drizzle earlier.
Keith's mind drifted, as it always did, to what ifs.
What if I could break free? What if I could live without caring what anyone thought? What if I could laugh at everything—like him?
A honk shattered the thought.
Bright light. A roar of an engine.
The truck.
Keith turned too late.
---
There was no pain. Just a flash.
Then nothing.
---
When his eyes opened, Keith thought he was dreaming.
The ceiling above him was yellowed with cigarette smoke. A flickering light buzzed in the corner. The couch he lay on was cracked leather, torn stuffing poking out. His head throbbed like he had been drinking all night.
He sat up slowly, disoriented. "What…?" His voice sounded off. Deeper. Rougher.
He stumbled toward the mirror across the room. The cracked glass reflected him back—except it wasn't him.
White skin. Green hair, messy and unkempt. Lips twisted in a scarred grin, jagged like a wound. Eyes glimmering with something feral.
Keith's breath hitched. His hands rose to his face, trembling. The skin felt wrong—smooth and cold, painted yet real.
"No. No, no, no…"
The laugh slipped out before he meant it. A nervous chuckle. Then it grew. Louder. Higher. Until it spilled into the room, uncontrollable.
"Hhhaha… hahahahaha—!"
It wasn't his laugh. It was his.
The Joker's.
Keith fell to his knees, clutching the sink, shaking. His reflection laughed back at him.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But all that came out was laughter.
---
When he finally stumbled outside, the night air hit him like a wall. But this wasn't his city.
This was Gotham.
The streets were darker, dirtier, more alive than any movie screen could capture. Rats scurried past overflowing trash cans. Distant sirens wailed. Neon signs flickered like dying stars. A gunshot cracked in the distance, and nobody screamed—it was too normal here.
Keith leaned against a wall, clutching his chest. His heart thundered.
"This can't be real. This can't be—"
But every instinct in his body told him it was.
---
He wandered for what felt like hours, trying to process. His thoughts tangled.
I'm dead. I died. The truck… so how…?
Why Joker? Why me?
Is this… is this my second chance?
Every step echoed with the pull of two selves inside him. Keith's humanity, panicked and lost. And Joker's instincts, whispering laughter, whispering freedom.
When the first thugs appeared, cornering a man in a business suit, Keith froze. He could've turned away. He should've.
But the whisper inside pushed him forward.
---
He picked up a bottle, glass glinting in the lamplight. His grin widened without his permission.
"Now, now, gentlemen…" His voice lilted, theatrical, almost playful. "That's no way to treat a member of the audience. Where's the suspense? The drama? The punchline?"
The thugs blinked. One spat. "The hell are you supposed to be, freak?"
Keith's chest tightened. For a heartbeat, fear nearly paralyzed him. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't strong.
But then the laughter came, sharp and unstoppable.
And he moved.
Joker's body knew how. Wild, unpredictable. The bottle smashed into a face, shards flying. A kick landed low, dirty. He didn't fight like a boxer or a soldier—he fought like chaos itself.
The thugs scattered, bleeding, cursing. The businessman ran, terrified of both attackers and savior.
Keith stood alone, chest heaving, hands trembling.
He looked down at his bloody hands. They shook violently—but his grin stayed plastered.
The laughter bubbled up again, tearing through his fear.
"That… felt good."
Not righteous. Not heroic. But raw. Free.
---
Later, perched on a fire escape, Keith stared at Gotham's skyline. His body still buzzed with adrenaline, his mind with terror and exhilaration.
This city was alive. Hungry. Waiting.
And so was he.
For once in his life, Keith wasn't invisible.
He wasn't Keith-the-nobody.
He was the Joker.
And the world would learn to laugh with him—or drown in his laughter.