If the previous chaos was merely a superficial itch, tonight the virus has completely penetrated into the cerebral cortex.
All you need is a network cable and a flame strong enough to burn away reason.
An account named "Joker_Free" suddenly went viral online, with only one pinned video.
There was no one speaking in the video, only a pair of hands wearing purple gloves, stuffing a large wad of US dollars into a blender to be pulped.
Background music begins.
It was a whistled version of " The Star-Spangled Banner," but the player was tone-deaf, and the tune drifted to the Atlantic Ocean, with every note mocking the solemn piece.
"Look at the serial number in the bottom left corner! Those are consecutively numbered banknotes just issued this week! It's real! It's genuine money!"
"This guy's insane! Which rich kid is taking revenge on society?"
Just when everyone thought it was just an expensive performance art piece, the video suddenly changed.
The hands held up a card with a line of hastily written red characters on it, ink still dripping down:
[Buffet begins, no payment required]
A coordinate is attached below the video.
That's the infamous warehouse district of Hell's Kitchen.
It once belonged to Kingpin and was used to store smuggled tobacco that couldn't be brought to the light of day.
Now, the doors are open.
There are no traps here.
There were only mountains of dark green ammunition boxes.
When the first group of daring young men arrived, they saw neither police nor gang thugs.
The warehouse doors were wide open, like a gaping maw inviting you into an abyss.
There were no traps inside.
The only thing was the mountain of ammunition boxes, all of which had their lids pried open.
The M4A1 assault rifle still had rust-preventive oil applied to its barrel.
The Glock 19 pistol, its magazine fully loaded.
There were even boxes of M67 grenade, rolling on the ground like green apples.
Ironically, those riot shields and bulletproof vests were also marked with a conspicuous blue laser sign that read "Vought".
Beside these deadly weapons, enough to arm a reinforced battalion, was a small mountain of masks.
Cheap plastic material, pale white background, exaggerated red smile, and those empty eye sockets that always carry a mocking tone.
A banner hung crookedly on a beam in the center of the warehouse: Free yourself.
The first to arrive were not gangsters, but residents of the nearby slums.
Jack is a typical working-class young man from Hell's Kitchen.
His face was covered in acne, he was wearing a faded sweatshirt, and he only had two dollars left in his pocket—his breakfast money for tomorrow.
Five minutes earlier, he had been called "useless" by his landlord for not being able to pay his rent.
Now, he stood in this armory, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
Dozens of people like him were staring blankly at the scene before them.
There were unemployed workers, women suffering from domestic violence, and students being bullied at school.
Jack reached out his hand, trembling.
His fingertips touched the grip of the Glock pistol, he swallowed hard, picked up the gun, and clumsily pulled the slide.
"Click."
Jack turned his head and looked at the street thug who always bullied him.
The thug was greedily stuffing grenades into his clothes, completely unaware of the commotion behind him.
Jack picked up a mask.
The plastic mask felt stuffy and hot against my face, and even smelled of cheap glue.
But through those two dark eyeholes, Jack discovered that the world had changed.
There are no more laws, no more morals, and no more of that timid, good-for-nothing Jack.
"Bang!"
He pulled the trigger.
The bullet pierced the thug's chest.
"Ha ha..."
Jack chuckled.
Then, the laughter grew louder and more manic.
"Hahaha! I am... the Joker!"
He raised his gun and fired another shot at the thug's buttocks.
"I am the Joker!!"
Everyone rushed towards the weapons like madmen.
The woman who had been subjected to domestic violence grabbed a submachine gun, her eyes gleaming with a wolf-like light.
The bullied student emptied his textbooks and stuffed them full of C4 explosives.
They put on masks.
They became the same person.
Burn this godforsaken place down!
Screw the rent!
Fuck the boss!
Chaos began.
Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk overlooks Hell's Kitchen, which he considers his private property.
The once dark West End was now ablaze with flames and filled with the sound of gunfire.
The sirens blared incessantly, but they couldn't quell the frenzied tide.
"Our defenses collapsed on Block 35."
Wesley stood at the back, his voice remaining calm, but his pace noticeably quickened.
"Those thugs... they have no strategy. They don't even know who they're fighting; they shoot anyone in a suit and burn any car they see."
Where's the police station?
Fisk asked.
" The 15th Precinct has been under siege for half an hour. The chief called to inquire about the situation, saying that if they didn't send reinforcements soon, they would have to deploy the National Guard."
Fisk did not turn around.
His gloomy face was reflected in the glass.
" The National Guard can't get in."
Fisk gave a cold laugh and turned away.
"Notify everyone to bring all our manpower from Brooklyn and Queens over here. Tell them there's no need to mop the floor tonight. Kill every single person wearing a mask."
"Boss, there are several thousand people there..."
Wesley hesitated for a moment.
"Then kill a few thousand." Fisk straightened his tie, his eyes cold. "In this city, only I can create fear."
The streets have become a battlefield.
A police car was overturned, and the fire caused by the leaking fuel tank illuminated the frenzied faces of the people around it.
Several thugs wearing Joker masks were cheering atop the wreckage of a police car, waving stolen batons and shields.
"This is freedom! Hahaha! Burn these cops!"
"Death to Vought International! Death to Kingpin!"
They have no political demands, and even their slogans are contradictory.
They simply enjoyed the thrill of looting, vandalism, and arson.
Beneath this mask, there is no responsibility, no consequences, only the most primal animalistic release.
Daredevil stood on a rooftop, his Billy Stick gripped tightly in his hand.
All he could hear were screams and maniacal laughter.
It's too messy.
This is not the kind of targeted crime we used to see.
Previously, he could track down drug dealers, strike at the ringleaders, and thus dismantle the entire chain.
But now, every passerby is a criminal.
The auntie who usually feeds stray cats, the uncle who sells hot dogs every day, might now wear a mask and throw Molotov cocktails into shop windows.
How do you capture an emotion?
How do you judge madness?
Is this what you wanted to see?
Daredevil roared at the night sky.
No one responded.
Laughter echoed in his mind:
Why so serious?