Chapter 4:the game begins

The Joker's cell in Arkham Asylum was not just a cramped room with four walls, but a silent cage that trapped a wild madness within. The cell was fortified with thick metal walls, painted in a gloomy gray color, reflecting the dim light of the barely functioning bulbs. The steel door was not just a barrier, but a gateway to a world of chaos, equipped with a small reinforced window allowing the guards to see inside without risking entry.

There were no bars, only a tightly secured metal door, designed to prevent escape or any attempt to tamper with it. Inside, the walls bore scratches and incomprehensible writings, perhaps memories or mere fragments of the Joker's sick mind. The floor was cold and hard, emitting a faint smell of disinfectants that barely masked the scent of mold and despair.

In one corner of the cell, there was a metal bed anchored to the floor, with a thin mattress that offered barely any comfort, beside it an exposed metal toilet with no privacy, as if the place was designed to crush any sense of dignity. This was not a regular prison cell, but a cage for a disturbed mind, a place where madness was left to grow without restraint.

Michael breathes slowly trying to suppress the panic gnawing at his mind. This isn't just a nightmare.

"It's impossible... this can't be real."

He recoils, feeling his body... no new injuries, no restraints... but the Joker? Not here.

He hears sounds echoing outside the cell—whispers, heavy footsteps, something moving in the darkness.

Before he can make sense of what's happening, the door suddenly opens. A tall guard enters, his face expressionless, holding a stun baton.

"Time for bed, inmate #1473."

Before Michael can say anything, he feels an electric shock course through his body. Darkness consumes him once more.

——————————

The smell of antiseptic, harsh white lights, and the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ear. Michael opens his eyes to find himself strapped to a chair, in front of a sleek desk where a bald man with a neatly trimmed beard and round glasses sits... Michael recognize him.. he's Dr. Strange...not the marvel one but something worse

"Welcome, Michael."

Michael freezes. How does he know my name?

"You're not crazy, are you?" strange speaks calmly, his tone carrying a subtle hint of mockery.

Michael glares at him angrily, trying to suppress the fear creeping up inside him. "I'm not crazy. You need to get me out of here, there's been a mistake—"

"Oh, don't worry," strange interrupts him with a smile, his voice smooth. "You're not crazy, Michael... But I think we both know you're not entirely sane either, are you?"

Michael clenches his fists, his mind racing. He's heard of Dr. Strange before—the infamous psychiatrist known for his work with criminals, particularly those with... complicated minds. Was this where he truly belonged? He wasn't a criminal. But something about this place—this nightmare—made him doubt everything he thought he knew.

Strange leans forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with clinical curiosity. "Tell me, Michael... how are you feeling? Physically? Mentally? Because, you see... you and I are going to have a very interesting conversation."

Before Michael can respond, Strange's assistant enters the room, holding a syringe. Michael's pulse quickens as he instinctively tries to resist, but the restraints keep him firmly in place.

"No... I'm not crazy! I swear—!" Michael shouts.

But before he can finish, Strange gives a calm nod, and the assistant injects him with a sedative. Within seconds, Michael's body goes limp, and the darkness takes him once more.

———————————

Michael again woke up to find himself lying on the cold floor of the Joker's cell once again. This time, there was no doubt… he had been brought back. But he wasn't the same. He felt angry... helpless... scared. He quickly got up and rushed to the iron door, banging on it with all his might.

"Get me out of here! You fools, get me out!!"

There was no response, except for a few minutes later when the door suddenly opened, and a massive guard entered. He didn't speak, just lifted his metal baton and struck Michael hard in the stomach, knocking him to the ground as he gasped in pain.

"Just hold on for a few more days," the guard said gruffly, before adding with a mocking smile, "Maybe the Joker will get bored with you... and you'll live."

Michael slowly raised his head, his breath coming in short gasps… but before he could say anything, the guard closed the door and left him alone once again.

The cell was quiet. Too quiet.

Michael was still on the ground, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when he heard light footsteps approaching. He didn't need to see who it was.

Then… the voice came.

"Well, well… look who's still breathing."

Michael slowly lifted his head, his eyes widening as he saw the Joker standing at the door, holding a crowbar in his hand, swinging it lightly as if it were a musical instrument. His smile was terrifying, his eyes gleaming with a mad brutality.

"You know what's beautiful about this thing?" the Joker said, raising the crowbar in front of his face, inspecting it like a piece of art. Then he looked directly at Michael, a wide grin on his face. "Every time I hit someone with it… I feel an indescribable pleasure."

Michael didn't move. He didn't speak. His body stiffened completely, and inside, he felt something he had never felt before… raw, pure, boundless fear. The Joker moved closer, raised the crowbar high, enjoying Michael's reaction for a moment… then pounced on him

The screams filled the cell.