[Location: Outside Reality, The Void]
A transparent, humanoid entity sat cross-legged in the suspension of nothingness, chin resting in his hand as he watched the farce unfolding in New York with unbridled delight.
His name was Caelum.
In his past life, he was just a corporate drone on Earth, struggling through a bitter, gray existence. But fate had a twisted sense of humor. An accident had violently ejected him from his reality and deposited him into the Marvel Universe. Fortunately, he didn't arrive empty-handed—he brought a System with him.
The "New Player Gift" was this very Void—a pocket dimension that elevated his existence the moment he crossed over, granting him the title of a Dimensional Demon God.
However, the title was deceptive. As a Demon God, he was laughably weak, bound entirely to this empty space. Worse still, the Marvel Universe had antibodies against intruders. The Sanctum Sanctorum's ancient barrier had detected his foreign signature and locked him out of Earth's reality.
With his current power level, he couldn't challenge the Vishanti. Hell, even the Sorcerer Supreme could probably drag him out of the Void and beat him like a piñata.
But there was a loophole.
The System allowed him to upgrade infinitely using one specific fuel: Emotion.
Love, hate, fear, awe, or despair. As long as he could provoke intense emotional fluctuations in the masses—directed toward himself or his creations—he could harvest that power.
Once converted, this energy could expand his domain and, more importantly, manifest "actors" from his memories.
Since Caelum couldn't enter Earth personally, he did the next best thing. He spent his starter points to create his first puppet, the Joker, and projected him directly into the heart of New York.
The Clown Prince of Crime did not disappoint. The initial panic alone caused Caelum's emotion points to skyrocket.
'Sitting at home while power falls from the sky...' Caelum thought, watching the screens floating in the void. 'This feeling of getting something for nothing... it's addictive.'
[Location: New York, The Addison Hotel]
Although Captain Stacy's arrival had established a perimeter, the situation inside was rapidly deteriorating.
A gunshot rang out from the banquet hall, echoing through the building like a thunderclap.
Outside, the atmosphere shifted from anxious to critical. No one knew if that shot had claimed a life, but the people upstairs were no ordinary citizens. If a Senator or a CEO died tonight, the NYPD would be buried under the political fallout.
"Captain Stacy, we need to breach. Now."
Beside George, a young man in a sharp military uniform spoke in a low, hard voice.
"Anyone up there is expendable, except Tony Stark. Absolutely nothing can happen to him."
The stakes had shifted. Once it was confirmed that Stark was among the hostages, this was no longer a robbery; it was a potential national security crisis. The military had already dispatched special forces to support the police, but their mandate was specific.
As the head of Stark Industries and the military's primary contractor, Tony Stark was a strategic asset. The Jericho Missile—the military's most advanced new weapon—was his brainchild.
Although Stark was an arrogant narcissist who rubbed many high-ranking officials the wrong way, his value outweighed his personality.
"Wait a moment," Captain Stacy said, staring grimly at the hotel entrance. "We go in blind, we get people killed."
Stacy glanced at the military liaison with thinly veiled contempt. He realized the disconnect immediately: The special forces were here to secure an asset. They didn't care about the collateral damage.
But the NYPD didn't have that luxury. The people inside were the city's elite, the police department's financial backers, and innocent civilians.
'I hope to God it's not as bad as it looks,' Stacy thought, gripping his radio. But remembering the chaotic face of the Joker from the files, a cold dread settled in his stomach.
[Inside the Banquet Hall]
The Joker stood over a body, the smoking shotgun resting casually on his shoulder.
He had fired without warning, shattering the room's fragile illusion of safety. As the well-dressed man collapsed, blood pooling rapidly on the expensive carpet, the screams began.
"He actually did it..."
"He killed him! He really killed him!"
The elegance of the evening evaporated. The ladies in their couture gowns and the gentlemen in their bespoke suits were stripped of their dignity. Under the threat of the "Great Equalizer," they remembered a primal truth:
Money cannot buy life.
Social status stops no bullets.
Right now, their fate rested entirely in the hands of a madman with a painted face.
"Now..." The Joker stepped over the body, ignoring the blood sticking to his shoe. "Has anyone remembered where Tony Stark is? I have some business to discuss with him."
The room was deathly silent, save for the sound of stifled sobbing. Everyone trembled before the dripping gun barrel. The problem was, they truly didn't know where Tony had gone.
However, while they didn't know where Stark was, they certainly knew who Stark trusted.
Survival instinct is a powerful, ugly thing.
Almost in unison, the eyes of the crowd shifted. They turned away from the Joker and focused their gaze on a specific spot in the crowd.
Better you than me.
At the center of their collective gaze stood two conspicuous figures.
Throwing Tony Stark's friends to the wolves was unwise, but vengeance was a luxury for the living. To survive the next five minutes, they would sell anyone out.
"Pepper, stay behind me," Rhodes whispered, his jaw set tight.
He saw the betrayal in the crowd's eyes. He knew he and Pepper could no longer hide.
James Rhodes, Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Air Force, straightened his back. He stepped forward, shielding Pepper Potts with his body, and met the Joker's manic gaze head-on.
"What do you want with Tony?" Rhodes demanded, his voice steady despite the tension. "If you want a meeting, I can arrange one. But you should know... he's a very busy man."
The Joker's eyes widened in mock delight.
"Whoa!"
He clapped his hands together, the shotgun dangling recklessly.
"Look what I've found! A Hero! A soldier in a fancy suit!"
The Joker began to walk toward Rhodes. His pace was agonizingly slow, each step a deliberate stomp that seemed to echo in Rhodes' chest.
He didn't look like a criminal. He looked like a glitch in reality. His scars stretched into a smile that didn't reach his dead eyes.
Only by facing him directly did Rhodes understand the true horror of this man. The files didn't do him justice.
The Joker was reflected in Rhodes' eyes, and his mind screamed a single word: Chaos.
Unfathomable. Unguardable. Unpredictable.
The Joker stopped inches from Rhodes' face. He smelled of greasepaint, gunpowder, and stale sweat. Rhodes felt a drop of cold sweat trickle down his temple.
The Joker tilted his head, his tongue darting out to wet his scarred lips.
"Why..." he whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "...So... Serious?"
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