Jason watched Schiller, who had suddenly appeared by the door, with intense wariness. He noticed that the man made no sound when he walked.
Clearly, this was a practiced, traceable stealth technique. It meant Schiller had put effort into learning it, which made his purpose all the more thought-provoking.
But Jason did not look flustered. His eyes remained fixed on Schiller as he bent slightly and took a step forward, crossing the gap beside the sofa. His movement and posture resembled a meerkat on guard at its burrow suddenly spotting a predator—somewhat tense, but even more cautious.
He hooked a finger beneath the edge of the drawing paper. Schiller spoke. "Handling someone else's belongings without permission isn't very polite."
"Can't I admire your artwork?"
"I'd prefer you said that before touching it next time." Schiller walked over. Judging from his gait and movements, he displayed no obvious aggression.
Jason withdrew his hand. It had been a fairly successful test, confirming that the man before him did not intend to take any drastic violent measures for the time being.
Right. He was different from the Joker. This was not the first time Jason had realized it, but now he began considering the logic behind that difference beyond his most immediate first impression.
Of course, the most obvious difference was their appearance. Before the Joker had kidnapped him, Jason had seen the so-called Clown Prince of Crime at Arkham Asylum. The moment he first laid eyes on him, he had known the man was a lunatic desperate for attention.
Every part of the Joker proclaimed his difference from ordinary people: the messy green hair, the pale skin, the blood-red grin. It was as if he wanted to hold a loudspeaker to your ear and shout, "I'm so different! Come look at me!"