The bass thumps through your veins like a second heartbeat as you sit perched at the Joker's private table, bathed in violet lights and a haze of smoke. His laughter still echoes in your ears, that low, drawn-out cackle only he can pull off. He had kissed your cheek and whispered something about business, something he had to take care of. You nodded. You always did.
The second he disappeared behind those steel doors, you felt the shift. The safety was gone.
"Hey, pretty thing," one of the girls cooed from the next table. Blond hair, fishnet tights, and a devilish smile. "Come with us to the bathroom. You're too cute to be sitting here all alone."
Against your better judgment, you followed. Maybe it was the vodka clouding your senses, maybe it was that strange, reckless curiosity he always warned you about. Don't trust anyone in my world, baby. They'll smile while they poison you.
Inside the bathroom, it smelled like smoke and perfume and deceit. One girl pulled a crushed pill from her bra, ground it up expertly on the sink, and looked at you with glittering eyes. "Just a little something to help the night go faster."
You hesitated.
"Don't be a bore," she said, pushing it toward you. You were already dizzy, already wanting to escape the pounding music and the too-close walls. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would smooth the edge.
It didn't.
The high didn't come the way they said it would. Instead, your chest tightened. Your vision started to swirl, like the walls were bleeding color. The girls laughed. Their mouths moved, but the words were syrup-slow, distorted. Then they weren't laughing anymore—they were gone.
You stumble out of the bathroom, breath catching in your throat like barbed wire. You clutch your chest, the sequins of your dress cutting into your palms. People blur past you. The room is spinning. You can't breathe.
You need him.
You push past the crowd, eyes wide and wild, scanning for green hair, for pale skin, for that maniacal smile that somehow always made you feel safe. Someone brushes your arm and you flinch, a choked sob clawing its way up your throat. You want to scream. You want to claw your skin off just to escape your body.
Then—
"Doll?"
That voice. That voice.
You turn and he's there, like a phantom pulled straight from your nightmares and stitched into your only comfort. His eyes narrow immediately, reading the panic written all over your face.
"What did they give you?" he growls, his gloved hands cradling your face, trying to get you to focus.
You're shaking too hard to speak. Your lips move but no words come out, just gasps and ragged breaths. Your fingers claw at his chest like he's your last anchor to reality.
He doesn't yell. Not now. Not with you like this. His expression darkens, jaw clenched, eyes cold and calculating as he pulls you into his arms.
"It's okay, baby. I got you. Breathe for me—deep in, slow out. Just like I taught you, yeah?"
You try. You fail.
