THE CIRCUS OF MADNESS

The downpour showed no signs of stopping. Sheets of rain battered the abandoned cityscape, drumming against the crumbling rooftops and pooling in the cracks of the worn asphalt. Overhead, the storm clouds thickened, suffocating the sky in an unbroken veil of darkness. The air reeked of wet concrete and something far worse—the pungent, coppery scent of blood.

Slade Wilson stood amidst the wreckage, surrounded by lifeless bodies strewn across the flooded pavement. He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with a strange exhilaration. It wasn't just the thrill of battle—it was something more profound. Liberation. The intoxicating high of unfettered violence. It was as if the weight of the world had momentarily lifted, replaced by the euphoria of raw, unfiltered chaos.

He turned to Cindy, eager to share the moment, maybe trade a quip or two. But she was focused, her sharp gaze sweeping the scene with unwavering precision. She didn't indulge his amusement, nor did she acknowledge the casual humor he attempted to inject into the grim proceedings.

Fine. He supposed there was work to be done.

As the Joker had once put it, all it took was a nudge—a well-timed push—and a person, a city, could tumble headfirst into madness. Tonight was proof of that.

The rainwater on Slade's skin felt ice-cold, but inside, every fiber of his being burned with an electric, restless energy. He cast one last glance at the battlefield of broken bodies before turning his attention to the building ahead. Cindy was already studying it, eyes scanning for an entrance.

It was a structure that mirrored its owner's lunacy—a former storefront, its original doors now sealed behind layers of brick and haphazard paint. What had once been a welcoming façade was now an impenetrable wall of crimson, smeared with symbols and cryptic phrases scrawled in erratic, looping handwriting.

"Cute," Slade muttered.

Cindy adjusted her belt, pulling out a length of rope and a grappling hook. "Looks like we climb."

Slade's experience told him they wouldn't be alone inside. He could feel it—that unmistakable sensation of being watched.

"Be ready," he said, securing his own line. "You never know what's waiting in a lunatic's house."

The two moved in tandem, their hooks latching onto the rooftop with practiced ease. Muscles tensed, they hoisted themselves up, rainwater running down their suits, turning leather and armor slick beneath their grip.

As they ascended, Slade took stock of the building's layout. The first and second floors were completely sealed, their windows bricked over or welded shut. Only the third floor had openings—narrow ledges with rusted railings, reminiscent of lookout posts or execution platforms. This place had been repurposed for something sinister. A circus of death, perhaps.

He landed first, rolling soundlessly onto the platform. The rain masked their approach, drumming against the metal and wood. Cindy arrived a second later, her black-and-yellow mask glinting as she gave him a slight nod.

No words were needed.

Slade kicked open the nearest window with enough force to send shards of glass and chunks of rotting wood scattering across the floor. The two slipped inside, weapons drawn, scanning the dimly lit interior.

"Clear," Slade murmured.

The space was a former dormitory, but time had not been kind. The hallway stretched before them, lined with doors on either side, their peeling surfaces marked with crude drawings and obscene graffiti. Dust and grime clung to the floor, turning rainwater into sluggish trails of mud. The air was thick with an odor so foul even Cindy's helmet filters couldn't completely mask it.

She wrinkled her nose. "They ever hear of a shower?"

Slade barely registered the smell—he was more concerned with the staircase ahead. The shadows there felt off, too still.

Cindy caught it at the same time. "Wait. Trap."

She motioned with her chin, and Slade followed her gaze to the corner of the stairs, where a nearly invisible line of fishing wire gleamed under the dim light. He knelt, tracing it with a gloved hand until he found the source—buried beneath a heap of discarded junk was a grenade.

Not just any grenade.

This one was painted bright red, a crude, grinning face scrawled in white.

Joker's gang.

The design was familiar—one of their little games. A contest of chaos, where the rules were as nonsensical as the carnage it inspired. The 'Laughing Crazy After Killing Friends with a Joke Bomb' special.

Slade's stomach tightened. He knew exactly what that meant.

"Get down!" he barked.

Because where there were Joker traps, there were Joker eyes watching.

Before Cindy could reply, the doors along the corridor burst open.

They came in droves—painted faces twisted into manic grins, bodies clad in patchwork rags and stolen suits. They shrieked with glee, weapons brandished high as they surged forward. And just as they closed in—

The grenade detonated.

The hallway became a cauldron of fire and concussive force. The explosion swallowed the closest attackers, sending limbs and shrapnel flying. Slade barely had time to brace himself, gripping the stair railing as the shockwave roared past. Outside, Cindy had already leaped onto a rickety wooden platform to avoid the blast.

And still, they kept coming.

The lunatics laughed, even as the flames licked at their skin, even as their comrades fell. They were driven by something deeper than pain—something primal, something that turned suffering into fuel.

Slade had no time for philosophy. He sized up the battlefield in an instant. Forty bodies. Light firearms. Melee weapons. Explosives depleted.

His next move was clear.

A smoke bomb clattered to the floor, its contents billowing outward in thick, choking clouds. White mist swallowed the corridor, twisting the flickering lights into an eerie, flickering nightmare. The attackers hesitated, colliding with one another in the confusion.

Slade didn't.

Shotgun in hand, he stepped into the haze.

Each shot was deliberate, methodical. The confined space turned every blast into devastation, bodies crumpling as buckshot tore through flesh and bone. The air filled with panicked shrieks and the acrid tang of gunpowder.

Seven seconds later, silence reigned.

Cindy reappeared, stepping lightly through the carnage. "Not bad. Forty-two in seven seconds. Guess you really are built different."

Slade ejected his spent shells, expression flat. "You had time to count?"

"Didn't need to." She tapped her temple. "Automatic."

Slade exhaled, wiping a smear of blood from his armor. "Next time, at least pretend to help."

Cindy smirked. "That would be inefficient."

She turned, already heading upstairs. Slade followed, slipping a cigar from his pocket but tucking it away for later.

Music drifted from above—sultry, rhythmic, accompanied by the click of high heels.

"She's still dancing?" Slade murmured.

"Don't try to understand lunatics."

They pushed open the final door.

And there, beneath the neon glow, a circus of madness awaited.

Harley Quinn twirled around a pole, moving like a ghost in a world of flashing lights and chaos.

And on the velvet sofa nearby, lounging in the shadows, someone else watched.

They weren't alone.