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Chapter 2 – The Smile of Control
Jack Napier stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror of a run-down bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered above, buzzing faintly, throwing his pale features into shifting shadows. His lips curled upward—not in madness, not yet—but in something sharper.
A test. A recognition. A revelation.
The man in the mirror wasn't Keith anymore. Keith, the McDonald's worker, the film lover, the nobody… he was gone. What stared back was Jack Napier, the Joker. The name carried weight in this city, even if it wasn't yet attached to him.
He ran a hand down his face, fingers brushing the unnatural white skin, the stained green hair. It didn't feel fake. It didn't feel like a mask.
This is me. I am him. Joker.
The thought lingered, heavy yet liberating.
He should have panicked. He should have screamed at the impossibility of it all. But instead, a calm rolled over him. He remembered every movie scene, every comic page, every twisted philosophy the Joker embodied. But now, it wasn't about acting or pretending.
It was about choosing.
Joker wasn't just chaos. He wasn't random. He wasn't just Batman's foil. That was the world's mistake. They all underestimated the mind behind the grin.
Jack leaned closer to the mirror, whispering to himself, "Step one: understand the board. Step two: know the players. Step three… own the game."
The words came out steady, deliberate. His smile widened—still small, still controlled.
They think of Joker as a storm. I'll be the storm with a map.
A soft laugh escaped him, unforced, almost natural. It built slowly, like a song only he understood, before he cut it off. He had no need for theatrics yet. Let Gotham think he was just another clown on the street. That illusion would be his weapon.
He turned away from the mirror, his eyes landing on a cheap switchblade resting on the sink. He'd lifted it from a vendor's stall earlier—clumsy, amateur theft, but it had served its purpose. The weight of the blade in his hand grounded him.
Not because it gave him power.
But because it reminded him of control.
Control wasn't in guns or bombs. It was in perception. Fear. Timing.
He pocketed the blade and pushed the bathroom door open, stepping into the grimy, smoke-choked bar. The air reeked of alcohol and sweat. Music droned from an old jukebox, half-drowned by the murmur of half-drunk men.
A group of low-level gangsters sat around a sticky table, laughing at some crude joke. Their tattoos, their swagger, their cheap gold chains—they were the kind of men who thought they owned Gotham's streets.
Jack's eyes lingered on them.
Perfect test subjects.
He moved forward, unhurried, every step deliberate. Conversations faltered as people glanced at the man with the painted face and unsettling grin. The gangsters noticed too, frowning at his audacity.
One of them spat on the floor. "What the hell you lookin' at, clown?"
Jack didn't flinch. He slid into the empty chair at their table, folding his hands neatly in front of him. His smile was calm, his gaze sharp.
"Gentlemen," he began softly, "let me tell you why you should fear a man who smiles."
The gangsters laughed, loud and ugly. The biggest of them, a bald brute with scarred knuckles, leaned forward. "Listen, freak, you picked the wrong table. You want to walk out of here with your teeth, you better move along."
Jack tilted his head slightly, studying the man like a puzzle piece. His voice stayed even, almost conversational.
"You see… fear is a funny thing. Most people think it comes from strength, or violence, or blood. But fear doesn't start there. It starts here." He tapped his temple lightly. "Up here. Once you crawl into a man's head, once you live there rent-free… you own him."
The laughter dimmed, just slightly. The gangsters weren't used to clowns talking like philosophers.
Jack's smile widened by a hair. Hook, line, sinker.
"You laugh at me now. Good. Laughter is easy. It makes you relax. But then… later, when you're alone, when the bar is empty and the streets are quiet—you'll remember me. You'll remember the smile. And you'll wonder… is he watching? Did he follow me home? Will tonight be the night I wake up with a blade at my throat?"
The bald gangster sneered, but Jack saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt.
Jack leaned forward suddenly, close enough for the man to smell the faint chemical tang of his skin. He whispered, "That's how you win, friend. Not with fists. Not with guns. With fear. And I promise you… I will win."
The bar went silent for a heartbeat.
Then the bald gangster shoved back his chair, reaching for a bottle to smash across Jack's skull.
But Jack was already moving.
He flicked open the switchblade under the table, dragging it just deep enough across the man's thigh to make him howl. The scream split the bar, the sound of real pain cutting through the air.
The gangster stumbled back, blood seeping into his jeans. His men jumped to their feet, but none of them drew their weapons. Not yet. They hadn't decided if the clown was insane or dangerous.
Jack stayed seated. Calm. Smiling.
"You'll live," he said smoothly, tucking the blade away. "Think of it as a reminder. Next time you see me smile, ask yourself… do you really want to find out what happens after?"
He stood, straightened his jacket, and walked out of the bar without looking back. The room stayed frozen in silence, every pair of eyes glued to him until the door shut behind.
Outside, the night air of Gotham wrapped around him. Sirens wailed in the distance. The city pulsed like a living beast.
Jack lit a cigarette he'd lifted earlier, inhaling slowly, savoring the burn. His grin widened as smoke curled from his lips.
Step one complete. The board has noticed me. Now… time to decide which piece I'll move first.
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