In Gotham City, there was no one more infamous than the Joker. His name alone was enough to send chills down spines, to make civilians double-check their locks, and for even the most seasoned villains to reconsider their plans.
But for all his madness, all his chaos and carnage, the thing that scared Joker the most wasn't death.
It was being forgotten.
That after everything—after the laughter, the blood, the explosions, and the twisted punchlines—the city would move on. That some new villain would rise, wear a different mask, and become the talk of the town. That he, the Joker, would be just another name in Arkham's dusty files.
Unacceptable.
He didn't mind dying—he welcomed the spectacle. But he swore to himself that before that day came, he would make sure Gotham never forgot him. He would become a nightmare carved into the soul of the city.
Twisted? Definitely.
But for someone like Joker, it was almost… poetic.
Despite the severity of his wounds, the treatment from Shawn was swift and meticulous.
Broken ribs, deep lacerations, internal bleeding, and more—things that would have killed any other man. But with Shawn's hands, it was nothing more than a routine procedure.
A few hours later, Joker stood on his own feet again, rotating his shoulders and stretching like a gymnast after a nap.
"Gotta say," he smirked, adjusting his blood-stained jacket, "you're not just a mind-mender, Doc. You've got hands like a goddamn angel. Or a devil."
Shawn remained silent for a moment, then offered a dry response.
"Next time, be more careful. You might actually die."
Joker laughed. "Wouldn't that be tragic?"
Shawn didn't answer.
He didn't particularly care about Joker's survival—but he understood Joker's place in Gotham. The chaos Joker created? It spread like wildfire, stirring panic, shaking stability. And for a demon like Shawn, chaos was a valuable source of energy.
As long as Joker lived and kept Gotham on edge, Shawn got stronger.
So no—he didn't want Joker to die. Not yet.
Joker tipped an imaginary hat, grinning. "Well, I'll be off then. See ya around, Doc."
As he limped out of the clinic and disappeared into Gotham's polluted skyline, Harley and Selena finally exhaled.
"Thank God…" Harley muttered, clutching her chest.
Selena shook her head. "That clown gives me the creeps."
Shawn turned to them, amused. Then his gaze focused on Harley.
"Harley," he asked with a half-smile, "what do you think of him?"
Harley's entire body tensed. She hugged herself and took a step back, eyes wide.
"Boss… that guy's a full-blown lunatic. If it were up to me, I'd ban him from this building for life!"
Her voice was still shaking.
Shawn chuckled softly.
As he expected.
In the original DC timeline, Harley Quinn had fallen in love with Joker after being manipulated during therapy sessions. She had become his partner-in-crime, sidekick, and occasional punching bag.
But here, in this world, things were different.
Harley hadn't fallen for him. She hadn't been seduced by his madness.
Here, Harley still had her sanity.
And that meant the tragedy that unfolded in other timelines wouldn't happen again.
Originally, Shawn had assumed Joker's appearance at the clinic was just a random incident.
But what followed in the days after made him realize: something bigger was happening.
One after another, Gotham's rogues started arriving at his door—battered, broken, bleeding.
Penguin. Black Mask. Killer Croc. Deadshot.
All in varying degrees of physical ruin.
Some came crawling. Others were carried.
And every single one of them had a name on their lips.
Batman.
Something had changed.
Gotham's dark knight had always been relentless. He would track down criminals, beat them into submission, and hand them over to the police with a grim warning. But now?
Now he wasn't stopping at submission.
He was beating them within an inch of their lives.
No monologues. No speeches.
Just raw, brutal, merciless violence.
One criminal described it best:
"He didn't arrest me. He didn't say a word. He just… snapped."
And what disturbed them even more was that Batman seemed stronger.
Faster. More aggressive. As if something deep inside him had shifted—or snapped.
Gotham's villains weren't just afraid of Batman anymore.
They were terrified.
But Shawn wasn't surprised.
He had known this would happen eventually.
After all, he was the one who caused it.
Not long ago, after a near-fatal encounter with a villain, Batman had suffered a grievous wound to the heart. A wound so severe even his vast resources couldn't heal.
That's when Shawn stepped in.
Using a fragment of his demonic essence—known as Black Aura—he had repaired Batman's body and saved his life.
But as with all demonic power, there was a price.
The Black Aura didn't just heal—it corrupted. Slowly. Quietly.
It seeped into Bruce Wayne's soul like ink in water, and over time, it began to twist him.
Bit by bit, the unwavering sense of justice gave way to ruthless vengeance.
The protector became the predator.
And now, Batman was evolving—into something darker, colder… deadlier.
Shawn's eyes glinted with satisfaction.
He hadn't expected results this soon. But seeing it unfold was thrilling.
"Soon," he murmured to himself, "Gotham's knight will become its executioner."
A Dark Knight in every sense.
And he couldn't wait.
A few days later, while enjoying a cup of black coffee in his office, Shawn received an invitation.
The letter had the seal of a prestigious New York medical organization.
It was a formal invite to a private medical symposium, featuring surgeons, psychiatrists, and researchers from around the globe. A celebration of innovation and expertise. An elite gathering.
Shawn glanced at the letter, read the names, the venue, and the date.
Then, without a second thought, he tossed it into the trash.
He had no interest in boring dinners or intellectual dick-measuring contests.
He didn't attend these things.
He was above them.
Let the humans gather and toast their achievements.
He had demons to shape.
And a Dark Knight to watch evolve.