Nights in Hell's Kitchen have never felt so long.
In the seventy-two hours since the guy known as " The Joker " appeared, the crime rate here has seen a bizarre surge.
The gang system, which originally emphasized rules and territorial divisions, completely collapsed and turned into chaotic Riot.
The Joker doesn't need territory, nor does he collect protection money.
He simply randomly selected "lucky audience members" to participate in his sociological experiment.
An abandoned textile factory on Tenth Avenue.
This place, once a warehouse used by Russia to transship illicit drugs, has now been transformed into an absurd amusement park.
The searchlights were painted in bright, colorful patterns, their beams flickering erratically in the dark warehouse.
Dozens of gang leaders dressed in expensive suits were tied to chairs and arranged in a circle.
In the center of the circle, a figure in a purple suit is dancing.
There was no music; the screams and pleas for mercy from the victims served as his accompaniment.
"Don't be so formal, gentlemen."
The Joker stopped in his tracks.
He turned around in the stark white light.
The face, covered in paint, appeared extremely ferocious in the light and shadow.
His green hair clung wetly to his forehead, and the red scar at the corner of his mouth twitched as he spoke.
He was holding a submachine gun that he had stolen from some unlucky guy, but the way he held it was strange, like he was holding a bouquet of flowers.
"Who are you waiting for? The Russia? Or that caped man drinking milk in the Vought Tower?"
The Joker walked up to a fat, greasy gang leader and gently tapped the man's sweaty forehead with the barrel of his gun.
"None of that is right. The heroes of this city are all too busy. Busy saving the world, busy filming commercials, busy... competing to see who's the worst."
"So, we need to find some fun ourselves."
The Joker pulled a grenade from his pocket, pulled the pin, and then tossed it in his hand.
"This is a game of choice. I have something in my hand. Whoever can swallow it and hold it for ten seconds without spitting it out will be let go. Only one person can go."
The gang leaders who were usually ruthless killers broke down. Some cried out for their mothers, some tried to commit suicide by banging their heads on the ground, and others frantically cursed their rivals.
The ugliness of human nature has been laid bare.
The Joker looked at the scene and let out a suffocating laugh.
He laughed so hard he bent over, tears streaming down his face, as if he had witnessed the most hilarious comedy in the world.
"Look! This is the real thing! This is --"
"Bang!"
A muffled thud interrupted his the Batman Who Laughs.
It wasn't the sound of gunfire.
It was the sound of some kind of hard wooden stick striking a skull.
One of the Joker's henchmen, who was originally guarding the second-floor walkway, fell straight down from the sky without even letting out a scream, crashing into the wooden crates below. His fate is unknown.
The Batman Who Laughs in the warehouse abruptly stopped.
The Joker tilted his head, his eyes, heavily circled with dark circles, gazing into the darkness above.
He wasn't afraid; instead, he showed an even more excited expression, and even stuck out his tongue to lick the scar on the corner of his mouth.
"Oh? Another new guest has arrived?"
"Snap."
All the searchlights were turned off.
Darkness engulfed the entire warehouse.
Only the sound of thunder and rain pounding against the tin roof echoed in the empty space.
Then came the sounds of chaotic fighting.
It was the crisp sound of bones shattering, the muffled groan of a body being struck hard, the whistling sound of some weapon cutting through the air.
Those mad henchmen hastily recruited by the Joker were utterly helpless in the darkness.
They fired wildly in all directions, the muzzle flashes only illuminating the horrific scene.
A dark red shadow moved through the crowd.
No one could see his face clearly.
All that could be seen were the dark red, tight-fitting uniforms that stood out starkly against the backdrop of gunfire.
A demon with horns on its head.
Less than thirty seconds.
The gunfire stopped.
Only that red figure remained standing in the center of the warehouse.
At his feet lay groaning thugs; each blow had struck a joint, rendering them incapacitated without killing them.
You shouldn't be here.
The red figure spoke.
Matthew Murdock.
Daredevil.
He has no eyes, but he sees the world more clearly than anyone else.
To his sensory radar, the man in the purple suit in front of him was nothing more than a chaotic jumble of noise.
No increase in heart rate.
There was no secretion of fear hormones.
Even the frequency of their breathing remained eerily steady.
This is a real madman.
"Who are you?"
The Joker clapped his hands in the darkness.
He wasn't bothered at all by the annihilation of his men; it was more like he had just enjoyed a wonderful performance.
"A red bodysuit? And two little horns on your head? Hmm... let me guess, you're the type who... was locked in the confessional by your godfather for too long when you were a kid?"
Daredevil did not answer.
The two short sticks in his hands clicked together and became a long stick.
He despises this kind of person.
This guy is enjoying the chaos.
"The police will be here in five minutes." Daredevil walked step by step toward the Joker. "You'll rot in jail."
"Prison?"
The Joker heard something funny, and he pulled a playing card from his pocket, flipping it deftly between his fingers.
"Prison is just a stage with a larger audience. And..."
The Joker suddenly raised his hand.
There were no warning signs whatsoever.
The playing card flew out of his hand, spinning as it sliced towards the throat of the fat gang leader who was tied to the chair.
"Can you save them? My friend of justice?"
Daredevil hurled his short stick.
"When!"
The short stick knocked the playing cards down in mid-air.
Both things landed at the same time.
But just as Daredevil made his move, the Joker pulled out a dagger and charged at Daredevil.
His movements were completely haphazard and full of flaws, yet every strike was aimed straight for a vital point.
Daredevil dodged the Blade and delivered a knee strike to the Joker's abdomen.
This force is enough to make an ordinary person vomit and faint.
But the Joker only took two steps back, letting out a strange groan, and then laughed again.
"Good strength! Let's do it again!"
He didn't care about the pain at all.
Daredevil grabbed the Joker's wrist, twisted it with a reverse joint, and tried to disarm him of his dagger.
"Click."
My wrist is dislocated.
The Joker turned in the direction of the dislocation, and with his other hand, he slid a stun gun out of his sleeve and stabbed Daredevil hard into his ribs.
A cracking sound of electricity exploding rang out.
Daredevil grunted and kicked the Joker away.
The Joker crashed into a pile of discarded wooden crates and was buried with a crash.
But he immediately got up.
That kind of vitality is disgusting.
He clutched his deformed wrist, then with a forceful twist, and with a sickening creak of bones grinding together, he miraculously put it back in place.
"Hahaha! That's more like it!" The Joker leaned against the wooden crate. "You're different from those boring guys. You don't kill, right? I can smell that nauseating stench of morality on you! It's so nostalgic... hehehe..."
The sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance.
Daredevil adjusted his breathing; the pain in his ribs did not affect his movements.
He gripped the short stick tightly, ready to deliver the final blow to the madman.
"We'll meet again, Little Red Riding Hood."
The Joker suddenly fell backward and pressed a remote control hidden in his palm.
"Boom!"
One wall of the warehouse suddenly exploded.
Smoke and dust rose everywhere.
It wasn't a lethal bomb, but rather smoke bombs and confetti mixed with a pungent odor.
Daredevil quickly retreated, covering his mouth and nose.
His Radar Sense experienced a brief blind spot due to the shockwave and noise of the explosion.
Wait until the smoke clears.
The purple figure has disappeared.
Only a single King of Spades card remained, lying silently on the ruins, casting a mocking smile at Daredevil.
The undercurrents in Hell's Kitchen were completely poisoned by the arrival of these two freaks.