"The problem with human attraction is not knowing if it will be returned."
–Becca Fitzpatrick

nine years later

I SHUFFLED IN PLACE against the uneven brick wall, a lit cigarette clinging limply to my bottom lip.

I'd gotten into contact with a man named Ryder within the first week of my residency in Gotham. He was a burly man, standing considerably over six and a half feet, with a gruesome scar that lined nearly the entire surface of his face. He was intimidating, no doubt, but I'd encountered far more intimidating men in my life within the past decade. Ryder was just another man.

The hefty steel door slid open, revealing the scarred-face man as I faintly jumped in surprise. The nearly finished cigarette slipped between my fingers, colliding with the toe of my sneaker as I hastily kicked it aside.

"Horton, is it?" Ryder pressed, glancing in each direction to ensure that I had arrived alone.

I wordlessly nodded, whisps of overgrown blonde hair concealing my sight as I irritably brushed the strands away with the back of my hand.

"Yes, sir."

"Come on in, then." Ryder pressed, his voice thick and laced with smoke as I trudged into the unknown building buried deep within the Narrows.

An involuntary sigh escaped my parted lips as I trudged over the threshold, eyes immediately widening at the sight of Ryder's hideout. It was drastically large, with insanely tall ceilings, complimented with thick, painted pipes and tall steel beams. Gunfire echoed in my ears, prompting me to flinch at the unexpected sound as my sight searched for the source. Sure enough, an indoor range sat off to the far left, filled with three-or-so individuals practicing shooting.

Ryder scurried in the direction of several matted pieces of furniture, a profusion of smoked cigarettes littering a chipped coffee table in the center of the sitting area. The eldritch man thrust an unopened bottle of beer into my hands as I lay distracted, grunting something along the lines of: "take a seat."

I lowered myself onto the severely torn sofa, settling into the crunchy material as Ryder took his spot directly across from me. I quietly observed as he placed a fresh cigarette between his lips, lighting the end with ease as I unscrewed the top from my beer.

"So," Ryder eventually began, twisting the lit cigarette between two fingers as he intently eyed me. I uneasily took a sip from my drink. "What can I help you with?"

"Well," I thickly began, my throat instantly going dry as I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. "I'm a bit new to Gotham and I'm looking for some work."

"How new?" Ryder countered, a brow cocked in curiosity as he tightly crossed his legs. I winced at how securely they were crossed, wondering how in the fuck his balls even had a chance to breathe.

"Three weeks." I monotonely replied, picking at the excess skin on my fingernails, my half-drank beer bottle discarded onto the littered table.

"Where yah from, bud?" Ryder prodded, his voice muffled by the cigarette between his lips.

"Metropolis. I did a bit of dealing while I was there, but I'm looking into doing something bigger." I revealed, snatching my bottle from the table as I took a generous swig.

"Ah," Ryder mused, looking me up and down several times. "Are you handy with a gun?"

"I believe so, sir." I stuttered, flinching at the sudden gunfire that echoed throughout the building.

"Y'know what, pal?" He snickered, tossing his used cigarette onto the floor. "I think I have the perfect opportunity for you. The compensation is pretty generous, and you'll go on very exciting heists. Personally, this job is the best that I can possibly offer."

My features immediately brightened at Ryder's proposal, my posture straightening as I intently licked my lips.

"Really? That'd be amazing, sir. What will I be doing?"

Ryder snickered, leaning forward so that his elbows met his knees. An uneasy sensation came over me at his stance, beady, black eyes boring into mine as his palms met his chin.

"There is a good friend of mine who is looking for a particularly loyal henchman, and I believe that you fit the description quite well. I must warn you, though," Ryder trailed off, smacking his lips.

"This man is a bit — theatrical."

I opened my mouth to speak, but was immediately silenced by the thunderous boom of the heavy steel door colliding with the brick wall.

Ryder audibly gulped in response, his beady gaze diverting to meet the source of the racket as my glare remained fixated on the table. A sudden, eerie feeling overcame the entire building, accompanied by a haunting, high-pitched fit of laughter that sent aggressive shivers down the length of my spine.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah." A shrill, sinister laughter filled the void. It was unlike any type of laughter I'd ever heard in my twenty-five years of life. It was the type of laughter that immediately made your blood run cold, the type of laughter that made the miniscule hairs on the back of your neck stand tall.

My jaw fell ajar at the sound, the low thumping of heavy boots growing louder in intensity as the stranger swiftly approached us.

Ryder hesitantly stood to his feet, running the palms of his hands along his disheveled jeans in an attempt to dry them. If I was entirely certain, Ryder may actually be afraid of this man...

"How are you, J?" Ryder thickly inquired, audibly clearing his throat as he thrust an arm outward.

My eyes still focused solely on the half-consumed beer bottle on the coffee table. In my peripheral vision, an abundance of purple emerged, gloved hand outstretching to claim Ryder's.

My vision focused on his left arm, hand obscured by a theatrical leather purple glove. The sleeve of his heavy overcoat had scaled the length of his arm just a tad, revealing a tattooed set of lines circling his wrist.

"Whose-uh, this?"

My blood ran cold at the sound of his voice. It was unusual, unlike anything I'd ever heard before. More high-pitched in tone than anything, with a hint of lower octaves depending on the syllables. The strangest thing, however, wasn't the tone of his voice or even the pitch. No — the most captivating feature of all was the way he overly-enunciated some of his words, as if those particular terms served some type of significance...

Ever-so-slowly, my vision crept upwards, scaling the length of the mystery man named "J"s torso. He had a set of nice, slender legs, I'd noticed. Dressed cleanly in a pair of pinstripe plum hued pants, accessorized by a chain that circled his left hip, possibly connected to a wallet of some sorts, which must've been stowed in his pocket. My sight slowly rose, entirely enthralled by his theatrical attire as I took in the massive amounts of purple, with a dash of green.

My jaw nearly met the floor at the sight of his complexion.

His skin was masked with a variety of colored greasepaint, a massive amount of bright white covering the skin on his forehead, nose, chin, and even dipping down onto the crease of his jaw and neck. However, I couldn't help but openly gawk at the blood-red grin that was literally carved into his face, leading into dark circles for eyes.

A violent shiver immediately traveled down the length of my spine at the sight of him, an indescribable sensation overcoming my every limb as I thrust myself into a standing position. Never have I ever felt this way about another male. It was almost an immediate attraction, an overwhelming desire that I hadn't felt for any individual before in my life, even a woman.

The toe of my sneaker caught on the leg of the table, prompting the furniture to obscenely scrape against the cracked wooden floors as my hand outstretched, offering to shake this "J" characters hand.

Dark eyes immediately met mine, igniting a flame deep within me as his gloved clutch claimed mine.

Instant fireworks.

The moment J's concealed fingers cradled my palm, I managed to somehow internally combust. It was as if time had stood completely still, the surrounding individuals fading into black as I stood across from the painted-face man.

His face was framed by a mess of dirty blonde curls, several strands tumbling into his line of sight as his tongue toyed with the  inside of his cheek. I found myself staring once more at the lacerations imbedded upon his cheeks, internally scolding myself for doing so as he firmly shook my hand.

"C-Christopher Horton." I muttered, tearing my stare away from his appealing features as he simply grunt in response.

"Joker." He mutely replied, tearing his palm from my greedy hold as he diverted his gaze to meet Ryder once more.

Joker?

"So," the man named "Joker" began.
"What can he-uh, do?"

A sinister smile curled onto Ryder's lips, his gaze flickering in my direction as he tightly crossed his arms.

"How 'bout I let him show you?"

I swallowed thickly at the beady-eyed mans response, a sea of black meeting my bright blue gaze once more as I instantly stilled. I wasn't quite sure what this — feeling — was. No doubt, the fucker was intimidating as hell. Even more so than Ryder, if that were even remotely possible. I'd never even heard of his "Joker" man, but just by looking at his stern stance, I could tell that he harbored some extremely violent tendencies.

Joker enthusiastically smacked his lips in response, a gloved hand running through his greasy curls as he nodded curtly in my direction.

"You-uh, know how to shoot a gun, pal?" The man drawled, eyeing me intently as I stirred in place. A batch of unfamiliar butterflies brewed in my stomach at his hard stare, an indescribable electric-like feeling enveloping my arms and legs as I nearly melt into putty before him.

Fucking hell, Chris. Cut it out. He's a fucking guy. You're not fucking gay.

"Yes." I stirred, shuffling in place as Joker audibly cleared his throat.

"Show me."

There's many things I'd like to show you, Joker, sir...

I simply nod in response, twisting on my heel to venture towards the now isolated indoor range behind us. I clearly heard The Joker muttering inaudibly under his breath, the strand of phrases unrecognizable as he trudged on my heel.

Ryder had abandoned us, prompting my legs to wobble even more severely as I approached a wooden table covered with different types of firearms. My gaze immediately locked on a basic Glock-17, eyes widening as I instinctively reached out to claim the gun.

"Ah," Joker mused, startling me slightly as I heavily flinched. He didn't seem to notice my reaction, as his gaze was fixated on the gun now held in my clutch. "Good choice."

With wild eyes, I observed as Joker dug into his coat, extracting a silver-coated, customized Glock-17. I practically salivated at the sight of it, immediately losing interest in the plain pistol held in my palm.

"Holy shit." I gawked, tearing the magazine from the pistol as I began to load the firearm with ease.

"She's a beaut, ain't she?" Joker sang, twirling the gun between his gloved fingers.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." I breathed, prompting the theatrical man to snicker in reply. His heavily scarred lips curled into a toothy grin, somewhat stained teeth on display as my stomach churned at the sight.

He was effortlessly beautiful, and I didn't even mind the thoughts that currently bombarded my mind. I wasn't gay — No fucking way — But something about this Joker man was absolutely riveting. I found myself wanting to know every single detail about him.

I needed this job.

"Go on." He urged, nodding in the direction of the surrounding targets as I slipped the magazine back into the gun.

A painful gulp traveled through my throat as I nodded, cradling the handle of the gun with both palms as I pointed it directly down range. I could clearly feel the Joker pacing behind me, still muttering indistinctly under his breath as I let out a shaking exhale.

Three, two...

My index finger hovered over the trigger, legs separating as I took my proper stance. With a single deep inhale, I fired the pistol, a wave of vibration rippling through my arm as the bullet planted itself directly inbetween the eyes of the cardboard human target twenty yards away.

A satisfied grin captured my lips, eyes flickering in Joker's direction as he let out a strand of sinister giggles.

"Impressive." He complimented, a single brow raised as he approached me swiftly.

I immediately tensed at the dreadfully close proximity of the man, my heart thumping erratically in my chest as he fidgeted with the customized firearm in his hands.

"How are you under pressure?"

My lips parted to reply, but words immediately failed me. I didn't quite understand the question.

"I-I—" I stammered, but immediately silenced when Joker raised his gun, pointing it in my direction.

Fuck.

Before I could process the situation at hand, he'd fired the pistol, impelling my legs to immediately give out as I sunk to the floor. The stray bullet wizzed cleanly above my hand, burying itself deeply into the metal cabinet behind my broad shoulders as I shuffled behind the surrounding cabinet, taking refuge on the ground.

My heart hammered violently in my chest, gun at the ready as I mentally prepared myself to fire in the direction of the targets once again.

"Come ou-t come out, pretty boy." Joker hauntingly taunted, creeping around the bend of the cabinets as I balanced my weight on the soles of my feet.

Just as Joker had rounded the corner, gun aimed directly at my skull, I managed to propel myself over the cabinets, rolling along the surface as I effortlessly oustretched my arm, applying pressure to the trigger.

Two separate rounds of gunfire echoed in my ears as I landed directly on my feet, gun still pointed down range. Joker had managed to sink a bullet in the ground where I sat only moments prior, whereas the bullet from my gun had deeply penetrated the jugular of the cardboard dummy.

Severely shaken and somewhat overwhelmed, I glanced over my shoulder to view an extremely giddy Joker, a stupid smile slapped upon his features as he returned the gun to the depths of his coat. My chest heaved as he began to slowly clap, the sound ricocheting off the walls as I grimaced.

"Well done." He cheered, pressing either palm against the splintered wood of the cabinet as he thrust his legs over the furniture, joining myself on the opposite side.

"I think we'll make a grea-t team, pal." He stated, palm colliding with my left shoulder blade as I instantly froze beneath his touch.

We stood at approximately the same height, maybe an inch in difference as he barely towered over me. I watched, mouth agape as he blatantly chewed on his painted lip, stare focused on the dummy that I'd shot twice as I discarded the gun back onto the table.

"How old are yah, kiddo?" Joker pried, still admiring my handiwork.

"Just turned twenty-five three days ago." I revealed, stuffing my hands deeply into my jean pockets. "How old are you, sir?"

"It's-uh, boss to you now, kid." Joker countered, softened brown gaze suddenly meeting mine as my heart blatantly skipped a beat in my chest.

What the fuck?

"Guess." He teased.

I gulped, obscenely sighing as I merely shook my head. A part of me feared that a wrong answer could earn a bullet between my eyes.

"Uh, thirty?" I murmured.

"No-pe. Colder." Joker toyed, rotating his lanky form so that he could lounge his back against the table.

"Twenty-six?"

"Warm-er."

"Twenty-eight?" I measly guessed, avoiding his piercing stare.

"Ding-ding-ding!" The Joker chanted, causing me to openly flinch at the sudden volume of his voice.

"Bingo! You win a priiiize." He mused, lips widening as enunciated the "I"s in "prize".

"Oh?" I squeaked.
"What is it?"

"You ge-t to work for me."