The village of Windermere lay suspended in the thick, choking mist, every soul drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them as though it were the final act of some grotesque play. Joker's declaration still hung in the air, the sharpness of his voice slicing through the silence like the cold edge of a blade. His pointed finger remained frozen, outstretched toward the trembling boy he had chosen, a smile of wicked delight etched across his pallid face.
The child—a boy no older than seven—stood rooted to the spot, his wide, tear-filled eyes locked on Joker’s. His small, frail body trembled as if the very earth beneath him quaked. His mother, standing a few paces behind, gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, but the fear that gripped her heart kept her feet planted where they stood.