Night, 7:00PM
The fluorescent lights of Barnes-Jewish Hospital flickered with a rhythmic, sickly hum as Jayce moved through the sterile corridors of the North Tower, his hand hovering inches from the grip of his concealed sidearm. The air in downtown St. Louis was thick with the scent of ozone and antiseptic, a sensory overload that usually grounded him but today felt like a suffocating shroud. St. Louis PD had the perimeter locked down, their radios crackling with static-heavy reports of a "disturbed individual" moving through the floor levels, yet Jayce knew this wasn't just a random break-in; this was the ghost he'd been hunting for three years. He bypassed a cluster of panicked nurses near the elevators, his boots clicking softly on the linoleum as he banked toward the main cafeteria. He felt the shift in the atmosphere before he saw the threat—a heavy, artificial silence that had cleared out the late-night diners. Pushing open the heavy swinging doors, Jayce's breath hitched. Sitting at a corner table, bathed in the harsh glow of a vending machine, was a man dressed in a high-collared purple suit, his face caked in jagged, oily white greasepaint with a crimson-smeared grin that mimicked the Joker's haunting visage. The killer didn't look up; he simply blew steam off a foam cup of hospital coffee, his gloved fingers tapping a jaunty, erratic beat on the plastic tabletop. "Drop the cup and put your hands where I can see them," Jayce commanded, finally drawing his weapon and leveling the sights between the killer's painted eyes. The man laughed—a dry, rasping sound that ended in a wet cough—and before Jayce could squeeze the trigger, the killer's free hand swept under the table, flicking a stolen canisters of industrial-grade riot gas he'd lifted from the security locker. The canister hissed violently, erupting in a thick, blinding cloud of grey-white chemical smoke that burned Jayce's lungs instantly. Jayce coughed, his vision blurring into a stinging mess of tears and fire, and in that split second of vulnerability, the "Joker" launched himself over the table with the frantic energy of a caged animal. The impact was a brutal, bone-jarring collision that sent Jayce's gun skittering across the tile. They hit the floor hard, the killer pinning Jayce's shoulders and raining down a flurry of jagged, chaotic punches. Each blow was a wet thud against Jayce's cheek and jaw, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth as the man's knuckles split his skin. "You always were too slow, Doc!" the killer hissed through the face paint, his eyes wide and dilated with manic glee. Jayce felt his consciousness waver, but the survival instinct that had kept him alive in the underground for years kicked in. He bucked his hips upward, catching the killer off-balance, and drove his heavy boot into the man's solar plexus with a sickening grunt of effort. The killer flew backward, gasping for air, and Jayce scrambled to his feet, his vision still swimming in a haze of tear gas. Grabbing a heavy stainless steel meal-prep cart, Jayce roared with a mix of pain and adrenaline, shoving the metal behemoth forward with everything he had. The cart's wheels screamed against the floor before slamming into the killer's ribs with the force of a car wreck, pinning him against a row of heavy refrigerators. The sound of clattering trays and shattering glass echoed through the empty cafeteria, leaving Jayce standing in the dissipating smoke, blood dripping from his chin onto his black coat as he stared at the monster he'd finally caught.
The metal cart hadn't been enough to keep the monster down; the killer snarled, sliding out from the wreckage of the meal-prep station with a speed that defied his lanky frame, and before Jayce could reset his stance, a nasty right hook connected squarely with his jaw. The world tilted on its axis as the sheer force of the blow sent a white-hot flash through Jayce's vision, the metallic taste of copper flooding his mouth. Before he could recover, the man in the greasepaint lunged, wrapping his arms around Jayce's waist and hoisting him off the ground with a grunt of manic strength, body-slamming him onto a nearby laminate table. The wood groaned and splintered under the impact, knocking the wind from Jayce's lungs in a sickening wheeze. The killer let out a high-pitched, psychopathic laugh that echoed off the tiled walls, a sound that lacked any trace of humanity. He snatched a heavy stainless steel serving tray from a stack nearby and began repeatedly swinging it down like a butcher's cleaver, the metal clanging against the table and Jayce's defensive forearms with ear-splitting cracks. "Come on, Doc! I thought you were the one who fixed things!" the madman shrieked, the tray denting against Jayce's raised elbows as he desperately tried to scramble to his feet. Every hit was a jarring vibration that threatened to break bone, but Jayce timed the rhythm of the descent. As the tray swung down for a fourth time, Jayce rolled hard to his left, the metal slamming into the empty table with a hollow boom. He used the momentum to spring from the wreckage, his boots skidding for traction on the slick floor, and as the killer spun around to reset, Jayce pivoted on his lead foot. He channeled every ounce of his frustration and three years of exile into a tough, whip-crack roundhouse kick that caught the killer flush in the temple. The impact sent the man's head snapping back, his purple coat fluttering like a dying bird as he stumbled into a row of plastic chairs, sending them scattering like bowling pins. Jayce didn't stop; he lunged forward, his breath coming in ragged, bloody hitches. The killer spat a glob of crimson-stained saliva and lunged with a jagged piece of a broken ceramic plate he'd snatched from the floor, slashing wildly at Jayce's throat. Jayce parried the blow, grabbing the man's wrist and slamming it against the edge of a industrial toaster, the bone snapping with a sickening pop that was drowned out by the killer's delighted, agonizing howl. They tumbled into the serving line, a chaotic mess of black leather and purple wool, crashing through the sneeze guards. Shards of glass rained down on them like diamonds in the dim light. Jayce grabbed the killer by the lapels, slamming him into a brick pillar, his knuckles splitting further as he delivered a flurry of short, brutal hooks to the man's ribs. The killer's laughter finally turned into a strained wheeze, but he still managed to rake his claws across Jayce's face, leaving three deep furrows in his cheek. They were two ghosts haunting a house of healing, turning the cafeteria into a slaughterhouse of shattered glass and dented steel. Jayce finally caught a handful of the man's greasy hair, preparing to end it, when the distant sound of tactical boots and police shouting "SITREP!" began to bounce off the hallway walls, signaling that their private war was about to have an audience.