Chapter 14

In Arkham’s high-security ward, there were prison guards. Whenever they returned to work, Megan felt an even stronger urge to hide herself. Yet each time, she obeyed the Joker’s orders and was sent out to play, hiding like a mushroom in various corners.

She was just a small child, utterly harmless, except for one thing—being the Joker’s property, which made others wary. Some of the newly arrived, immature guards grew restless...

They came to work here because they were broke! Most of them were scum—drunks, gamblers, addicts—and otherwise wouldn’t have signed the “slave contract” Arkham handed them. They wrote their wills before coming in and had to abide by Arkham’s rules, or else face life-or-death consequences. Their families wouldn’t even receive compensation.

Yet they were prison guards!

God, they were tasked with watching over the criminals who had stirred up chaos in Gotham;

God, this inflated their vanity and thirst for power, making them think that with this identity, they could suppress the inmates, become the “big shots” feared and respected by the criminals. Such delusions easily blinded these fools, leading them to their own demise.

One such guard tried to lay hands on Megan, while the other inmates just watched. After all, how important was she really?

The answer was, of course, no.

From the guards’ perspective, the Joker’s “toy” was a lunatic, a freak; any child raised by him was bound to have some issues. Even if now she seemed dull and numb, in the future, she would become as mad and strange as him. But for now, she was weak and a convenient target for bullying.

Honestly, the criminals in Arkham’s high-security ward still feared the Joker somewhat, but the new guards didn’t care. They believed they held the power, stood above, able to look down on and dispose of the criminals at will, and preferred to vent their violence on the weak to prove their “authority.”

Such laughable thoughts of fools.

...

Megan crouched in a corner, her gaze still empty. Only rarely did it sparkle with life. She slowly perceived the outside world but showed no interest in people, or rather, she resisted them.

She was more curious about the dust on the floor, the cobwebs in the corners, the moths—alive or dead. They were all unknown to her, strange. Even after many days, she hadn’t fully “understood” them.

The tiny child crouched on the floor was just a small bundle, her spine slightly protruding. Malnutrition wasn’t something remedied quickly. Her limbs were thin and fragile, looking as if a gentle touch might break them. She was so fragile that the Joker had demanded she not be harmed, which made some criminals hesitant to approach.

But now, in the eyes of a guard eager to satisfy his sadistic desires and prove his authority, she was perfect prey—unable to resist, and perhaps the Joker didn’t care about her.

If only he communicated with the criminals. But there was no “if.” If he had half a brain, he would know that the mentally ill inmates here valued their targets highly and would not tolerate interference. Alas, he was a genuine fool.

Many malicious eyes in the prison watched. As he walked down the long corridor, his mind fantasized about his own glory. Just as he was about to pass the corner and reach the weak child—

A monstrous, terrifying hand shot out, mercilessly grasping his entire head and lifting it. The human skull, usually hard, felt fragile in its grip, easily cracked with a gentle squeeze. But the creature didn’t just squeeze—it snapped it. The guard didn’t even cry out; his struggling legs and arms went limp.

No one genuinely liked the Joker’s playthings, but Killer Croc was an exception.

Killing someone and resolving a threat was easy. His tail thumped contentedly. There were no complications; the fool was dead and could be tossed anywhere.

Regarding killing a guard? In Arkham, neither criminals nor guards nor staff cared. They were all expendable. This place was a vast cage, imprisoning criminals and everyone who came here. No one cared about their lives or deaths—there was compensation money to buy lives anyway.

Nearby in the corner, Megan heard the wind.

It was the monster’s breathing—heavy and rhythmic, echoing through the prison corridor. Megan wanted to see the wind but only glimpsed a deep green tail as her eyes shifted from the floor.

The scaly green tail swayed. Killer Croc hadn’t noticed; he was here just to kill and leave. The guard was still in his grasp, intended to be thrown somewhere the child would not go.

His footsteps were heavy ahead; she followed slowly. As Killer Croc took a step, she took several slow ones. The distance grew until the tail disappeared, and the wind faded.

She stopped in the middle of the corridor, head bowed, staring at the floor, unaware that the terrifying creature had stopped too, casting several glances back at her. But ultimately, there was no interaction.

The wind ceased. At a moment, Megan heard her own breathing—very faint at first, then growing loud and chaotic. Then came another sound—rustling, small but impossible to ignore. Yet she couldn’t fully perceive or distinguish it.

After eating, Megan returned to the Joker’s cell. He sat in a chair, tapping his knees to the rhythm of a hummed tune. Without opening his eyes, he knew she was back from the noise the little mouse made. Did he know what happened in Arkham?

He stopped humming, smiling as he beckoned Megan over. His grin stretched wide as he waved her closer, then gently patted her back. “Good girl! You’ve won the kindness of a monster with hardly any effort!”

She needed do nothing to earn that kindness. Killer Croc would willingly protect her—something the Joker always knew.

Therefore, he cared not at all about the guard’s attempt to harm Megan. Standing up, he wore a dazzling rose-red tailcoat suit, paired with a green shirt and bow tie—a combination most couldn’t pull off, but he wore it perfectly. He was flamboyant, the center of attention on any stage.

The Joker stepped back a little, looking down at her as she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. She was the child he had trained, his proud creation, his gift.

She would bring him surprises, but every gift required a price. The Joker often took by force, but sometimes, before achieving his aims, he would disguise himself—he understood the ways of this mundane world.

He bent down, extending a hand wrapped in leather gloves. “Come, let’s celebrate you being a little better than yesterday.”

The Joker noticed every small change in her and cared deeply.

Megan was the obedient child who responded. Her raised hand was grasped by his; then the Joker hummed his favorite tune again. She straightened but soon grew tired, her hand falling. So he changed the gesture—only extending his index finger. Megan stared for a moment, then extended her own finger to meet his.

Their fingertips touched through the gloves. The Joker’s expression was grim but satisfied. He swayed his hand from side to side; Megan’s gaze and finger followed.

She was wholly devoted to his command. No one in this world could immerse themselves more completely.

Even Batman would be distracted by other matters; he had sidekicks, and the Bat-family was numerous. Gotham had many criminals besides him, so Batman could never fully immerse himself in his game. But she was different. Her world was empty—only his mark remained.

After teasing the child for a while, the Joker, bored, patted her head. “Go back to your room and play by yourself.”

...

But this time, she did not obey. Lowering his head, he met her focused gaze—those clear green eyes often vacant, devoid of emotion or expression, wooden in nature, yet whenever she looked at him, she was unusually serious, as if curious, probing, judging something.

The Joker twisted his lips. “What are you looking at, Megan?”

Her eyes reflected his pale face and figure—pale white, green, and rose red blended into twisted colors. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, nor would she answer him. Finding her uninteresting, the Joker simply left her there. Megan stood still for a long while before finally returning to her room.

The lighting in the dark room was dim. After tripping over herself and bumping into walls several times, she managed to get a working light bulb. Everything there belonged to the Joker—nothing was hers, not even herself.

Sitting beside the modified bed, her focus began to sharpen, settling on the shadow cast under the lamp.

She had lived here for many days, going out and returning many times. Now, without orders, she moved—raising her hand, the black shadow fell heavily, crashing into her consciousness and perception.

Megan stood, wanting to find the shadow’s source. She raised her hand high, climbing onto the bed, but it was still not tall enough. She seemed to realize what she sought was at a great height. Though she had no related thoughts or logic in her mind, she possessed an instinct.

Standing on the tall, battered desk, she raised her hand, straining to look up.

The peeling wall held nothing. Then she saw the ceiling light.

The bulb was glowing.

...Light.

Suddenly, the rotten desk leg snapped with a crack. She fell, hitting the wall and landing hard, but as if without pain, she still raised her hand, slightly shading the light in her eyes.

A sound came from nearby. She turned and saw the Joker entering, stepping in pointed shoes. In his hand, he carried a crowbar, displeased to find his little mouse making such a ruckus today—for the first time, no less. He was extremely curious.

The Joker approached, looking down at her. His smile never wavered, but in a chilling tone he said, “You really don’t let me rest—not only noisy but mess up my things.”

Yet his eyes held another kind of frenzy and delight. With a loud clatter, he threw the crowbar aside, crouched down, and cradled Megan with exaggerated tenderness in a fake embrace.

He laughed, his chest trembling uncontrollably, laughter rising from a low chuckle to a sharp, wild cackle.

Gazing into her somewhat clear eyes, he stroked her face and praised, “I knew you’d see it. You will always come to me.”

“You are mine, Megan,” the Joker kissed the child’s forehead, repeating, “You are mine.”