Rainwater dripped down the rusty fire escape stairs and flowed into the garbage-strewn drains.
This is Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan's West End, New York.
Even the blinding neon lights of the Vought Tower across the river couldn't illuminate the deepest darkness of this block.
Josie's Bar.
The light bulb on the signboard had been broken for a long time, and it occasionally emitted a dying buzzing sound.
Turk Barrett huddled in the moldy leather sofa, the cheap beer in his hand long since gone, looking like a glass of murky urine.
He didn't drink; he just stared nervously at the dilapidated wooden door, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the table.
His disordered rhythm betrayed his inner turmoil.
"Damn it, this awful weather."
He was an Irishman named O'Leary, a recently emerged minor leader in Hell's Kitchen, with a green shamrock tattooed on his neck, and he always looked down on people.
But today, the clover has withered.
"I've brought the goods you requested."
Turk Barrett, not wanting to hear any more nonsense, stuck out his foot and kicked a canvas bag from under the table to O'Leary's feet.
"These are all obsolete products from Stark Industries. Although they're older models, they're still considered heavy firepower on the street. $50,000 total, no bargaining."
"I know you've been fighting the Mexico for territory lately. With this shipment, you can turn those burrito-eating bastards into sieves."
Normally, O'Leary, that stingy Irishman, would have already started haggling over the two thousand dollars, or inspected the gun barrel for wear like a picky shrew.
But today, he didn't.
This Irishman, who is known for his ferocity, looks like a frightened quail.
He grabbed the glass and took a big gulp, the amber liquid running down his stubble and into his collar.
"I don't necessarily need these guns anymore, Turk." O'Leary lowered his voice, looking extremely strange. "The guns are useless to him."
Turk frowned and hooked the canvas bag back a little.
"What nonsense are you spouting? This is a 5.56mm assault rifle. Unless you mess with that flying Homelander, this thing can turn anyone into a sieve."
"Haven't you heard?" O'Leary leaned forward, his face, red-faced and etched with fear. "That rumor."
" Hell's Kitchen has hundreds of rumors every day. Today Vi, that female tyrant, has found a new girlfriend; tomorrow the Russians will chop someone up and feed them to the fish at the docks; the day after tomorrow some unlucky guy will have his ribs broken by Daredevil."
Turk took a deep drag of his cigarette; the nicotine's harshness calmed him slightly. "We're gangsters, not tabloid reporters. Pay up, or get the hell out of here."
"It's not Wei, and it's not Russian."
O'Leary grabbed Turk's hand as he lit his cigarette.
That palm was cold and clammy, covered in cold sweat.
"That Russian outpost... that car dismantling yard under Tenth Avenue, it was empty last night."
Turk's hand froze in mid-air.
The Russian gang is a tough nut to crack in Hell's Kitchen.
That underground car dismantling yard was their core stronghold, where at least thirty fully armed retired special forces soldiers were stationed year-round, along with heavy machine guns and RPGs.
"Did the FBI do it? S.H.I.E.L.D..? Or is it Shocker, the Shocker that wants to turn the whole world into Nazis?"
Turk narrowed his eyes, several names he didn't want to mess with flashing through his mind.
"None of those."
O'Leary swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
"It's one person. Only one person."
Turk scoffed, shook off O'Leary's hand, and the lighter shot out a flame.
"One person took down thirty Russians? Don't be ridiculous. That's something only a superhero could do. Did Vought International come to this slum to do charity work?"
No... that's not a hero.
O'Leary clutched his head, his voice trembling, "That's a madman, a madman with no logic."
"The only survivor was the doorman. I saw him at the hospital. He'd gone mad, constantly muttering 'jokes,' and the doctors had to give him three times the normal dose of sedatives."
"He said the man was wearing a purple suit. One of those extremely ill-fitting, cheap purple suits. His face was covered in white powder, and his lips..."
O'Leary drew an exaggerated arc.
"His lips were painted with red lipstick, and the crack stretched all the way to his ears."
Turk took a drag of his cigarette; the nicotine calmed him down a bit.
"A Joker? Someone who escaped from a circus?"
He walked into the car dismantling yard, without a gun, only holding a pencil.
O'Leary shivered.
"He said he'd perform a magic trick for Sergei. Before Sergei could even order someone to fire, that madman grabbed a pencil... Good heavens."
Turk didn't want to listen anymore.
Having been in the underworld for so many years, he knew exactly when to shut up and when to run away.
His intuition told him that this matter had an eerie quality that sent chills down his spine.
"He doesn't want the money, Turk."
O'Leary continued talking to himself, "The Russians opened the safes. Millions of dollars, and that madman didn't even glance at them. He just laughed. And while laughing, he poured gasoline on the money, and... on the people."
He asked those people if they knew how they got those scars.
"Then what?"
Turk asked instinctively.
"Then the car dismantling yard exploded. Not with a bomb, but with those people strapped to gasoline drums... That madman forced them to play a game. Whoever stopped laughing first would live. But once they started laughing, they couldn't stop until their lungs burst."
O'Leary looked up, his expression even more unpleasant than if he were crying.
"Now that lunatic is looking for new people to play with. He says the city is too serious, everyone's got a long face. He wants to bring a bit of... humor to Hell's Kitchen."
"Clang!"
The bar's door was suddenly kicked open.
The wind and rain, mixed with thunder, poured in, and all the conversation abruptly stopped.
Turk instinctively reached for the pistol at his waist.
But it wasn't the freak in the purple suit who came in.
It was a young thug covered in blood who stumbled in, only to fall to the ground after taking a couple of steps.
"Help... help me..."
The thug rolled over, revealing his face.
Everyone present gasped.
The thug's mouth was cut open.
Two neat cuts stretched from the corners of his mouth to his cheeks, carved out with a knife—a "smile" that could never be closed.
A playing card was stuck in his collarbone.
Turk saw it clearly.
That was a "Joker" card.
Why are you so serious?
A sharp, piercing sound drifted in from the darkness outside the door.
Hahaha... Hahahaha!
laughter.
There was no joy, only chaos, madness, and a kind of malice that seeped into the very marrow.
Turk Barrett has made many wrong decisions in his life.
But this time he made the best decision of his life.
He didn't even take the bag of guns; he kicked the window next to him and, ignoring that it was a second-floor apartment, jumped into the rainy night without looking back.
Screw business.
A devil has come to Hell's Kitchen.