The detention cells were overflowing with members of the " Joker Gang " arrested during tonight's Riot.
They crowded behind the iron railings.
Some were still shouting excitedly, while others huddled in a corner, trembling, as the effects of the drug wore off.
Interrogation room B, the innermost room.
There are no one-way windows here, only walls lined with sound-absorbing cotton on all four sides.
The Joker was chained to an iron chair.
His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and his severed left leg had been simply bandaged—basically just two pieces of wood and a roll of bandage.
At that moment, he was tilting his head, observing the young detective in front of him with great interest.
"Name."
The detective slammed the file folder onto the iron table, the blinding light of the desk lamp shining directly into the Joker's face.
"Joe... Joe By... uh, sorry, I can't remember the old man's name." The Joker blinked. "You can call me Mr. J, or... darling?"
This isn't a circus!
Eager to make a name for himself, the young detective slammed his hand on the table, bent down, and grabbed the Joker by the collar.
"If you don't tell the truth, I guarantee you'll sit in that electric chair until your butt smokes!"
"Electric chair?"
The Joker wasn't intimidated; he brought his face closer to the detective.
"Speaking of the electric chair..." the Joker said in a low voice, mysteriously, "Guess why the remote didn't work?"
The detective paused for a moment, instinctively asking, "Why?"
"Because I didn't even put in the batteries, you idiot."
The Joker suddenly grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.
"If that had actually rung, I'd probably be a pile of puzzle pieces right now, and you... you'd probably be outside shoveling my brains."
Are you kidding me?
Enraged, the detective raised his hand to punch the arrogant criminal.
"Don't do it, officer."
A steady voice came from the doorway.
Sergeant Brett pushed open the door and came in, carrying two cups of coffee.
He glanced at his subordinate, who was covered in sweat, and waved him out.
"Go outside for some fresh air, I'll take care of things here."
The young detective glared at the Joker resentfully, then slammed the door and left.
Only two people remained in the room.
Brett pulled up a chair and sat down, not in a hurry to interrogate her.
He took a sip of coffee, staring at the Hell's Kitchen in front of him with a complicated expression.
Daredevil says you're extremely dangerous. But in my opinion, you're just a pathetic psychopath.
"Pitiful?"
The Joker leaned his head back in the chair, his posture still elegant even with his hands cuffed behind his back.
"Do you know what it means to be pathetic, Sheriff? It's having a gun in your hand but not daring to pull the trigger. It's knowing the law is a joke but still insisting on putting on your wig properly."
That's enough.
Brett didn't want to listen to this nonsense, so he slammed his coffee cup down on the table.
"I checked your fingerprints, there's no record. Your name isn't in the DNA database either. But I don't care, I'll lock you in the deepest dungeon of Ryker's Island Prison."
Ryker's Island? Sounds like a nice place.
The Joker whistled, then suddenly pressed his face close to the iron table, lowering his voice to ask, "But before that, have you ever thought about this? Why did I let that red-suited pervert catch me so easily?"
Brett frowned.
What are you trying to say?
I want to say...
The Joker grinned, and the scar writhed like a centipede.
"If I want to go to the police station, but I'm too lazy to fill out those tedious visitor registration forms, what's the best way?"
Brett was stunned.
A feeling of extreme unease crept up his spine.
Just then, a scream suddenly came from the corridor outside the interrogation room.
"Ah--! Help! These lunatics! They..."
The sound stopped abruptly.
Brett stood up, drew his Glock pistol from his waist, and rushed towards the door.
But just as his hand touched the doorknob, the door was slammed open from the outside. The young detective who had gone out for some fresh air was thrown back in and slammed against the wall.
A ballpoint pen was stuck in his neck, and blood was gushing out.
"This pen is of good quality."
A man covered in blood stood in the doorway; he was a member of the " Joker Gang " who had been locked up in the detention cell.
He was clutching a shotgun he had snatched from a police officer, a dazed smile on his face.
"I'd like an autograph too, Sheriff."
"Bang!"
Brett fired without hesitation.
The bullet pierced his chest, but that didn't stop him; he suddenly pulled the trigger.
"Boom!"
The impact of the shotgun blast knocked Brett to the ground. His body armor saved his life, but the pain from his broken ribs nearly made him faint.
"Hahaha! That's more like it!"
The Joker, sitting in the chair, shouted excitedly and shook his body wildly in the iron chair.
"That was a brilliant shot! I knew that intern had no future!"
The outside world is in complete chaos.
Gunshots and screams mingled together.
Brett struggled to get up, but he was horrified to find that the thugs who should have been locked up in jail had all poured into the office area.
They were armed with sharpened toothbrushes, dismantled iron railings, and even used their teeth to bite the panicked civilian staff.
"How could this be..." Brett spat out a mouthful of blood, "The cell door... only I have the key..."
"Key?"
The Joker laughed until tears streamed down his face.
"Why do you think I chose these adorable puppies? Because they have healthy stomachs!"
He extended his handcuffed hand and pointed to the fallen body of the thug.
In that man's bullet-riddled abdomen, mixed with flesh and blood, lay a master key stained with stomach acid.
These lunatics actually swallowed the key.
Then, after entering, they used some indescribable method to get the key out and open all the cell doors.
Two thugs stormed into the interrogation room and violently used a fire axe to break the bolts securing the iron chair.
They knelt on the ground as if worshipping a god.
"Well done, kids."
The Joker stood up, and although he was still dragging the iron chair, he looked like a king in armor.
"Now, go and party! Every person in uniform here is a gift for you."
The Joker Gang charged out with strange screams.
The Joker turned his head and looked at Brett was lying on the ground unable to move.
He moved with difficulty, dragging his broken leg and the iron chair, step by step, until he reached the sheriff.
"Don't... don't move..."
Brett raised the gun with trembling hands, but found he couldn't lift his hand at all.
The Joker kicked the pistol away.
He crouched down, took a pack of cigarettes from Brett's jacket pocket, pulled one out and put it in his mouth, then took out a lighter and lit it.
"You see, that's why I don't like Little Red Riding Hood."
The Joker took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into Brett's face.
"He always thought that everything would be fine as long as the bad guys were put in cages, but he forgot that cages, which can imprison people, can also be opened."
"What... what do you want to do...?"
"What are you doing? I want to renovate this lifeless place."
The Joker picked up the shotgun that had fallen to the ground and skillfully cocked it with one hand. "How about painting the walls red? I think that color is very festive."