Despite the buzz about Joker's escape, he wasn't the only unstable mind needing care within Arkham Asylum. The facility was packed with broken brilliance and fractured psyches: Scarecrow, Two-Face, Riddler, and countless others, each one requiring their own brand of psychological maintenance.
Shawn spent the next few hours navigating through their minds—dodging insanity, unraveling trauma, and diagnosing madness.
But in truth, none of them compared to Joker.
The Clown Prince of Crime wasn't just mad. He was unpredictable, unbreakable, and at times, strangely self-aware. The others had cracks. Joker was pure chaos.
By the time Shawn completed his sessions and returned to his private clinic in downtown Gotham, the evening sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the city skyline.
But the moment he stepped out of his vehicle, his eyes narrowed.
There, on the outer wall of his clinic, was a single bloody red handprint, smeared deliberately, like a signature left behind by a lunatic artist.
The trail of blood dripped faintly beneath it.
Shawn's lips curled into a smirk.
Trouble.
"Someone's got guts," he muttered. "Or a death wish."
He walked up to the door and pushed it open, the familiar creak of the hinges echoing into the dimly lit lobby. The scene inside instantly caught his attention.
Selena and Harley Quinn stood stiffly in a corner, clearly rattled but unhurt. Their eyes darted toward him with visible relief. Nearby, sprawled across a blood-soaked couch, was a familiar figure dressed in tattered purple—his pale face twisted into a wide, exaggerated grin.
The Joker.
"Hello, my friend!" the clown greeted him, voice cheerful despite the obvious pain radiating from his broken body.
Shawn didn't reply.
He walked right past Joker and headed for Harley and Selena.
"You two okay?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with steel.
Harley was the first to nod, visibly relaxing as soon as she saw him. "We're fine, boss. He didn't hurt us. Just locked us in and said he needed to wait for you."
Selena crossed her arms, scowling toward Joker. "We're not injured, but you better kick that freak out. This isn't a playground."
Shawn nodded.
He believed them. If Joker had laid a finger on either of them, he wouldn't still be breathing.
He turned toward Joker, his gaze sharp and cold.
"You're lucky," he said softly. "If you'd so much as scratched them, you'd be dead already."
Joker lifted a bloodied hand in mock surrender, chuckling. "Come on, we're friends, aren't we? I'd never hurt your girls."
Shawn ignored the jab and looked back at Harley and Selena.
"Clean this place up. Reset everything. Pretend this didn't happen."
Harley nodded quickly. Selena didn't even need to be told twice. As long as Shawn was in the room, they felt safe. Even with Joker lying ten feet away, bleeding and smiling like a lunatic, their confidence returned.
"Follow me," Shawn said, his eyes locking on Joker.
Without another word, he turned and walked into the back hallway of the clinic. Joker slowly pushed himself up and staggered after him, leaving a faint trail of blood behind.
At the end of the corridor, past Shawn's main office, was a sealed, state-of-the-art operating room—a space he had custom-built for handling emergency surgeries, particularly on Gotham's more… complicated patients.
Joker collapsed onto the surgical bed with a groan and a laugh.
"Ah… comfy. It's like coming home."
Shawn didn't bother replying.
He began gathering his tools: antiseptic, clamps, a bone saw, stitching thread. Surgical gloves snapped into place on his hands with practiced ease.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
Joker didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his pocket and tossed something to the ground.
It landed with a metallic clink.
Shawn glanced down—and his eyes narrowed.
A bat-shaped throwing dart.
It was instantly recognizable. Sleek. Black. Razor-edged.
There was only one man in Gotham who used Batarangs.
Batman.
Shawn raised a brow. "So… Bruce did this to you?"
Joker grinned through the pain. "Well, not personally. He sent his alter ego."
Shawn shook his head and began inspecting the wounds.
Bruises coated Joker's ribs, purple and angry. Several ribs were cracked, one was completely broken. His chest had a deep laceration that had nearly punctured a lung. His abdomen had been gored by the Batarang, and internal bleeding was evident.
"You're lucky you crawled here," Shawn muttered. "You were about an hour away from bleeding out."
As he injected a sedative and began stitching the abdominal wound, he asked, "So what did you do this time? Push him too far?"
"I don't know," Joker said with a lopsided grin. "He just… snapped. I mean, we've danced so many times, I know the choreography by now. But this time? He went off script."
Shawn worked silently for a moment before replying. "You mean… he tried to kill you."
Joker's grin widened.
"Oh yeah. He meant it. It wasn't just beatdown and handcuffs. There was venom in his fists. It was beautiful."
Shawn looked him dead in the eye. "You sound impressed."
Joker leaned closer, eyes alight. "I am. But also…"
He paused.
"…nervous."
That surprised Shawn.
"You? Nervous?"
Joker tilted his head and gave a twisted smile. "It's not death that bothers me. It's oblivion. You know what I mean?"
Shawn didn't respond immediately.
But he knew.
Of all the fears hidden in Joker's deranged psyche, oblivion was the one that truly haunted him. He could face death with a laugh, but the idea of being forgotten, of disappearing without legacy, terrified him to the core.
He had once been exposed to Scarecrow's fear toxin, and while most people saw nightmares of monsters or death, Joker saw… emptiness.
No spotlight.
No audience.
No Batman.
Just… nothing.
That had shaken him more than any fist ever could.
"You're a sick man," Shawn said finally, stitching the last wound closed.
Joker chuckled. "Takes one to know one."
Shawn cleaned the blood, wrapped the injuries, and moved to sterilize the tools. The procedure had taken nearly an hour.
By the time Joker could sit up again, he looked more like himself—patched together, smirking through the pain.
"Don't come back here unless you're bleeding again," Shawn said dryly.
Joker gave a theatrical bow. "Of course, Doctor. I only bleed for you."
Shawn gave him one last glare and walked out of the room.
Behind him, Joker sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure where the game with Batman was going.
And that made him uneasy.
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