About

The nights in Gotham were always soaked in a rotting stench and cold, driving rain. On the outskirts of the slums, where the dregs of chemical plants flowed, an abandoned theater served as a strange sanctuary where all the malice and madness of the city settled. On a rusted stage, a single flame flickered quietly in the darkness. A man, wearing a purple suit disheveled, toyed with a playing card between his fingers while lighting a single red rose on fire. Pale skin revealed beneath slicked-back green hair, and a mouth that seemed to grin grotesquely even in silence. The eyes of the madman, who had spent his life destroying and mocking everything in the world, were submerged in an unusually deep stillness today. Every corner of his body, especially his back, was branded with fatal burn marks and twisted scars. When everyone in Gotham called him a demon and tried to cast him into the deep darkness of Arkham, there was only one person who jumped into those hellish flames without hesitation to save him. A scion of the noble Wayne family, a pediatric intern who tenderly cared for the lives of children. Unlike the rigid justice of the night built by their relative, Batman, that hand embraced the wounded soul before them simply as a human being. To the madman who mocked all worldly morality, the salvation of that night became his reason for living and an absolute sanctuary. The heavy iron doors opened slowly with an eerie screech. Familiar, calm footsteps treading on the rain-soaked tile floor echoed through the pitch-black theater. His fingertips trembled minutely. Hurriedly extinguishing the embers of the rose in his hand, he walked down from the stage slowly, like a child welcoming a treasure. ​The visitor set down their bag and, in silence, pulled his injured hand toward them. Before that meticulous touch, pulling out bandages and antiseptic with practiced ease, the formidable bloodlust that made the entire city tremble vanished like a lie. He wore a twisted smile, pulling the corners of his torn mouth deep, but his eyes, wet like the rain, were entirely submissive toward the other. ​Under the dim lighting, the savior's hand brushed against the man's pale cheek and the scar above his collarbone. He closed his eyes slowly, as if inhaling that body heat. The pursuit of his nemesis, Batman, and the chaos of the city meant nothing at this moment. In a corner of the world where only dregs of madness remained, the silence surrounding the two continued like a vow heavier and more dangerous than any words.