The streets of Sing reeked of rot and despair. The Harrow Sect's capital was a city of stark contrasts-gleaming spires and fortified walls towering above sprawling slums. Here in the Shadow District, where Joker and the other Harlequins lived, life was a slow death.
Joker moved carefully along the narrow alleyways, the hem of his tattered shirt brushing the muddy ground. The roads were filthy and cracked, those unfortunate enough to not have homes lay across the streets while others begged for scraps. The air heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food. Around him, makeshift structures lay precariously set up, constructed from scraps of wood and rusted metal. Children with hollow eyes darted between the shadows, their laughter an echoing yet fleeting sound that carried no joy.
Joker's destination loomed ahead- a crumbling Harlequin building with broken windows and a sagging roof. He ducked inside, climbing the uneven stairs to his room on the third floor. It wasn't much- just a straw pile in the corner, a bucket for water, and a single window that let in more cold air than light. But it was his, and for now, it was safe.
He sat on the edge of the straw, rubbing his hands together to warm them. The night's events played over in his mind- the hours spent cleaning gear and the stables, the knights' mocking, Commander Sorin's cold words. Power is taken, not given.
The room suddenly felt too small, too suffocating. Joker swiftly got up and went to the window, staring out at the city below. From here, he could see the sheer difference between the Shadow District and the Noble Quarter. The Noble Quarter sparkled in the torchlight, its wide streets clean and orderly, its buildings grand and adorned with banners bearing the Harrow Sect's insignia.
In the center of it all was Harrow Castle, a fortress of black stone that rose like a jagged wound against the night sky. It was there and the Tower that the knights trained, where power was cultivated and wielded without mercy. The Tower was a place of mystery for the common folk within Sing, but its terrace rose almost as high as the castle and served as another reminder of how much wealth and power they had. It was a world Joker could only watch from afar, a world that had crushed him under its heel.
A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Joker hesitated, his body tense, before cautiously opening it. A young girl stood there, her face smeared with dirt, her eyes wide with fear.
"They're coming," she whispered.
Joker's stomach twisted. He didn't need to ask who she meant. The Harrow Sect patrols often swept through the Shadow District at night, rooting out troublemakers, punishing those who couldn't pay their tributes, and mostly just reminding everyone of their place.
"Go back to your family," he said quietly. "Hide."
The girl nodded and ran off, her bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. Joker closed the door, mind racing. He had no family to protect, no one to look out for but himself. But that was arguably worse- this meant there was no one to protect him from the abuse. The patrols were unpredictable, their cruelty boundless, they enjoyed reminding the Shadow District that they are in charge by whatever means necessary.
From the window, he saw the patrol descending the large staircase into the Shadow District- the distinct boarder that separated the nobles from the peasants. Their torches flickered like fireflies, casting eerie shadows on the crumbling walls. Joker slipped out of his room, heading down the stairs and into the alleyways. The slums were a labyrinth, and he knew them better than most.
As he moved through the maze of shacks and filth, he passed the people who called this place home. An old man sat hunched over a broken bench, muttering to himself. A woman cradled a crying infant, her face etched with exhaustion. A group of boys played a game with a knotted rope, their laughter harsh and fleeting- but their eyes mostly dead.
This was Sing. The forgotten, the discarded, the broken- all gathered in the Shadow District, clinging to life by their fingernails. And above them, the Harrow Sect watched while laughing, their power absolute.
Joker paused at a corner, peering around it. The patrol was close now, their armored boots echoing in the narrow streets. He ducked into a side alley, his heart pounding. The walls here were covered in paints- symbols and words scrawled in defiance of the Harrow Sect. Most were illegible or curses, but one caught his eye: a crudely drawn flame, its edges jagged and wild.
The Revolution Cult. The name was whispered in hushed tones, a flicker of hope in the darkness. It was a rouge band of Harlequins who tried to protect, care for, and fight off the Harrow Sect with what little strength they had- while they might not have magic they can still train their bodies. They were said to be planning something- a way to break the chains that bound the Harlequins and start a revolt for those within the Shadow District. But Joker had never seen them, and he doubted they were anything more than a dream. Most of the rumors that existed were just that. Rumors. Hope spread to make the day to day life better.
The sound of boots grew louder, and Joker pressed himself against the wall. The patrol passed by, their torches casting flickering light on the graffiti. They didn't notice him, too focused on their hunt for tonight's victim.
When the patrol was gone, Joker exhaled and stepped out of the alley. The slums were quiet, the people hiding in their hovels, waiting for dawn- save for the sounds of those screaming under the knights torment. But no one would dare make a move to help them and risk coming under that torture themselves.
After a few minutes of waiting, Joker made his way back to his room to rest for the night- a brief reprieve before doing it all again the next day.