I climbed out of the wreckage—flames licking the broken ground around me, twisted steel and scorched debris falling away as I emerged.
My clothes had been completely disintegrated by the blast, reduced to ash and blackened threads. But my body? Not a scratch.
Not a burn.
Not a bruise.
Not even a scar.
The smoke curled around me like a dying ghost, and I held my breath against the acrid stench of burning oil, charred rubber, and vaporized madness.
In the distance, I heard them—sirens. Dozens of them. Police cruisers, fire trucks, ambulances, all closing in. Red and blue lights painted the crumbling buildings in pulsing flashes of law and order.
They were coming.
I took one last look behind me—the warehouse was gone. The bus, gone. And Joker?
Gone.
No last laugh this time.
I stepped out into the open as the first spotlight hit me.
"I SURRENDER!" I shouted, my voice echoing across the ruins like thunder.
Dozens of guns immediately trained on me.
"Get down on your knees! Hands behind your head!" someone shouted over a megaphone.
I obeyed without hesitation, sinking to my knees, hands laced behind my head. I could feel the weight of their fear in the air—the disbelief. The man who walked out of an inferno, naked and unburnt, like some kind of urban legend.
"Is that him?" one officer asked, barely audible. "That's the guy who… who took out the Joker?"
"Jesus Christ," another whispered. "He looks like he walked out of hell."
A squad of heavily armed officers approached cautiously, forming a perimeter around me. One of them threw a thermal blanket over my shoulders. The other snapped cuffs on my wrists.
"You're under arrest," he said, voice tight. "You have the right to remain silent…"
"I know," I murmured. "Just make sure the world knows... he's gone."
The cop paused. Looked me in the eyes. And for a second—just a second—there was silence between us.
Then he nodded.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
"Do you have any idea what you've done?!" screamed the bloated, balding excuse of a corrupt cop, his face so red it looked like he was one bad day away from a heart attack.
I was in the dingy interrogation room of the station, sitting across from this pig in a cheap suit. The flickering fluorescent light above us only added to the atmosphere of pathetic intimidation he was trying to project. Too bad for him, I wasn't buying it.
Leaning back in my chair, arms crossed like I owned the place, I let a smug smirk crawl across my face. "Yeah," I drawled, my tone laced with venomous mockery. "I killed a terrorist. Meanwhile, you're over here trying to compensate for your one-millimeter dick by screaming at the guy who did your job for you."
His face turned an alarming shade of crimson, his hands slamming down on the table as if that would make me take him seriously. His fists clenched so tight I half-expected his fat knuckles to pop. Honestly, the guy looked like he was about to stroke out. I wouldn't have minded.
"You think this is funny?!" he barked, leaning in so close I could smell the toxic cocktail of stale coffee, cheap cigarettes, and moral decay radiating off him. "You don't get to decide who lives and who dies!"
I tilted my head slightly, pretending to mull over his words as if they weren't utterly ridiculous. "And yet," I said, letting my smirk widen just enough to push him further, "here I am, making those decisions while you're too busy yelling yourself into an early grave. Life's full of surprises, huh?"
The vein on his temple looked like it was about to burst, but before he could get another word out, I waved my hand lazily, like I was swatting a fly. "Let's get one thing straight," I continued, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through his bluster. "It was self-defense. Those so-called terrorists were armed, dangerous, and a threat to everyone in the vicinity. So, yeah, I handled it. And judging by the way you're huffing and puffing here, I'd say I'm better at your job than you'll ever be."
His mouth opened, but no words came out. He just stood there, his face contorting as he struggled to come up with something—anything—to throw back at me. But there was nothing. Just silence.
I leaned forward slightly, closing the gap, my voice dropping to a low, deliberate tone. "Face it," I said, my smirk now a full-blown grin. "I saved lives while you sat on your bloated ass. The real question isn't what I've done—it's why we're still wasting taxpayer dollars on you."
Leaning back into my chair, I started rocking it casually, the legs scraping the floor with a deliberate, grating rhythm. "What are you even doing here, huh? Playing the tired old 'bad cop, good cop' routine?" My eyes drifted to his supposed partner—who hadn't said a word, just sitting there awkwardly like a piece of cheap furniture. Then I turned my gaze back to the bloated prick in front of me.
"And let me guess," I continued, my tone mocking, "you're supposed to be the 'bad cop.' Well, the only thing bad here is your father's decision not to wear protection the night you were conceived. Honestly, the world didn't need another worthless, cum-stain excuse for a man like you stinking it up."
The room fell deathly silent. The so-called good cop shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting around as he tried to avoid making eye contact. The red-faced bastard in front of me froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, struggling to process the verbal gut punch I'd just delivered.
I smirked, leaning back in my chair once more, hands clasped behind my head, rocking it slowly, savoring the discomfort I'd caused. "What's the matter?" I asked, feigning innocent curiosity. "Cat got your tongue? Or did I just hit a little too close to home?"
The cop's face twitched, his rage simmering just below the surface, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he struggled to hold it together. But then, his voice faltered, "Y-You motherfu—"
I cut him off with a sharp, taunting laugh, leaning in just a little closer, savoring the moment. "Oh, spare me the theatrics. It's obvious your entire existence is just a result of your father's needle-dick barging into your mother's personal space without a second thought. No wonder you turned out like this—an embarrassment to the badge and a stain on humanity's collective dignity."
The tension in the room thickened, like the air itself had turned hostile. I leaned forward, locking eyes with the pathetic excuse for a man in front of me, and let my voice drop to a chilling whisper. "So tell me," I said, each word sharp and deliberate, "how does it feel knowing you're just the tragic result of a failed condom and a decision that should've never been made?"
His face twitched, the rage seething beneath the surface, but there was something else behind his eyes—something that flickered for just a second before vanishing. Doubt? Shame? It didn't matter. I had him where I wanted him.
Suddenly, with a guttural scream, he lunged forward, his fist swinging toward me, fueled by pure fury. But I saw it coming a mile away. The movement was predictable, sloppy, a desperate reaction to a feeling of powerlessness.
I didn't move.
His fist stopped inches from my face, hovering in the air, trembling with the force of his frustration. I tilted my head slightly to the side, eyes still locked on his, as if I were examining an insect under a microscope.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the so-called "good cop" stepping forward, his hand gripping the fat prick's arm, restraining him with surprising force. The look of hesitation on the good cop's face was unmistakable—he knew better than to let this escalate.
"I will kill you, you motherfucker!" he bellowed, his voice shaking with a mixture of fury and desperation. His entire body trembled with the effort to hold himself together, but it was clear he was barely hanging on to what little control he had left.
I didn't flinch. Didn't move. I didn't even blink.
I stared straight into his eyes, every inch of me radiating the confidence of a man who knew he had already won. My voice, when it came, was calm—too calm. "You think you're a threat?" I said softly. "You can't even control your own temper, let alone kill me. You're all talk, just a big mouth and even smaller balls."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the sting of truth, and I saw the anger in his eyes turn to something else—something more dangerous, something akin to self-loathing.
The good cop's grip tightened, and the fat cop's fist slowly lowered, his entire body shaking with the tension of holding back.
"Come on, Frank," the good cop urged, his voice firm but tinged with frustration. "Back off. Just back off."
With a grunt, the good cop practically shoved the fat cop out of the room, dragging him by the arm as Frank stumbled, still seething with unchecked fury. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving me in the oppressive silence.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow, deliberate breath as I basked in the silence of victory.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Time passed.
I sat in the metal chair, cuffs still snug around my wrists, posture relaxed, almost bored. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead like dying hornets. The stink of stale sweat and bitterness still lingered in the air from the last round of entertainment.
No more screaming. No more red-faced pigs.
Just silence now.
I liked it.
Then—click.
The lights snapped off.
Total black.
I didn't flinch.
A few seconds passed in that perfect, deliberate void… then click—one overhead light turned back on, flickering once before flooding the room with sharp, sterile white.
He stood just beyond the edge of the light, shrouded in shadows like some judgmental gargoyle carved from myth.
The cowl. The cape. The scowl.
Batman.