Chapter 2-[Inglês-Americano] Palhaço criando filhotes, não morreu, bem bom(O texto fornecido consiste em caracteres chineses que não podem ser utilizados na saída. Portanto, a tradução não pode ser fornecida de forma precisa sem um contexto claro para a expressão.)

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In truth, it wasn’t just the disobedient and restless black doctor, who tried to inform on other criminals in Gotham, that didn’t make it to the next morning—there was also Mary Miller, that fat, greasy woman full of lies.

The room wasn’t hers at all. The owner had gone abroad, and after Miller mistakenly entered the wrong room and found it empty, she took it over as her own. She was a woman addicted to gambling and drinking, pawning off all the valuables inside, but treating the place as her secret hideout.

After being hired by the Joker, she did what he asked—taking care of the child, cooking, and cleaning. She simply didn’t care whether the child ate or not; once her tasks were done, she would take the money and go play cards, often returning to find the child’s uneaten food thrown out the door.

There were no trash cans on that street, so discarded food was quickly ‘dealt with’ by others. But no one dared to mess with Miller. People kept an eye on what she was up to lately because her corpulence was evidence of some shady dealings and connections with minor enforcers. During her prime, she had dealt with many unruly kids.

But her self-assumed glory and worthless life both ended that night.

Miller was a minor figure; after her death, countless others tried to fill the void and divide her business. In Gotham, no fool would stand up for someone insignificant— not even the Blue Boys would bother. Her greatest posthumous presence was probably the coroner’s signature on the autopsy report.

How did she die?

—Shot.

Alright, that’s settled. Next.

The Joker knew Gotham and its people too well. Gunshot deaths were common; people died like that every day. The Blue Boys didn’t have the energy to investigate every case. Glancing at the victim’s social ties and making a simple judgment on the cause of death was already considered responsible enough, mainly to make their year-end reports look better.

Miller should count herself lucky for having a clear head, not openly defying orders or divulging secrets. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have died so cleanly, without torture, leaving her body intact.

By dawn, he was back. The black clinic was dimly lit, with the same bed used for both patient recovery and surgeries. Previously, beds were scarce; patients with minor issues didn’t get such treatment—they either sat on the floor or became living resources for the black doctors. Now, even starving patients could lie on the bed.

The Joker sat by the bed, legs crossed, chin resting on his hand, half his body swallowed by shadow, seemingly lost in thought. At some moment, his gaze shifted slightly, and his expression changed instantly.

His exaggerated, sinister face creased deeply. He leaned closer to the child, knowing she was awake but still keeping her eyes closed.

She wasn’t pretending to sleep; she refused to engage with anyone or anything outside. Yet her condition was far from good. Her small body curled up, stomach spasms causing her to jerk occasionally—likely the aftereffects of prolonged starvation.

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