Gunshots, curses, screams, and the shrill wailing of the bank's alarm echoed through the grand hall.
The clown-masked leader of the gang, dressed in a black hoodie, tilted his head back and took a deep breath, as though savoring the coppery tang of blood in the air.
Like a crude ballet dancer, he pirouetted on his toes, his hood fluttering as he leaped lightly onto the wooden counter in the center of the hall.
"History!"
He slammed his hand on the century-old wooden counter, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"History is a wonderful thing, ladies and gentlemen. Never forget it."
Four other masked gunmen emerged from the back of the orange school bus, each donning a different clown mask. They fired their semi-automatic rifles aimlessly into the air, ensuring that no one in the room dared to stand.
Swinging his legs casually, the gang leader tilted his head and sneered,
"History teaches us that you, the lambs, should all lie down on the ground like mice in a cathedral—silent and motionless. Or else, I'll paint these walls with your blood. Understood?"
The crowd cowered, their fear rendering them mute. Only the urgent wail of the alarm filled the silence.
Huddled in a corner, Li Ang let out a soft sigh. He had no desire to get involved—none at all. If someone wanted to rob the bank, so be it. The vault's wealth had nothing to do with him.
A guard's corpse lay slumped before him, its hollowed-out eye socket still oozing an unrecognizable viscous liquid. Warm blood pooled around the body, inching closer to where Li Ang and the twins were hiding.
Elizabeth and Isabella trembled in his arms like frightened fawns, their heads buried against his chest as they sobbed quietly, soaking his shirt with tears.
"They're just kids," Li Ang thought, stroking their hair. Not like those child soldiers in war-torn Africa who carry guns and kill in the streets.
He used his phone's screen reflection to monitor the scene outside.
"Now," the clown leader declared, hopping down from the counter. "Let's see who can open the vault for us."
He yanked the assistant manager to his feet—a man who had once exuded confidence in his suit and tie but now stood trembling, sweat streaming down his face.
"You're not the Joker! He's dead! He's dead!"
The manager's exclamation froze the clown leader in his tracks, as if someone had pressed pause on a video.
Gotham was a city of sin—there was no denying that. Too many criminals and villains thrived here, leeching off the innocent like parasites in a swamp.
From Penguin, the heir of the Cobblepot crime family, to Mr. Freeze with his cryo-gun; from the Scarecrow who spread fear with his toxins, to the Riddler in his question-mark suit, and Two-Face with his coin-flipping fate—Gotham's rogues gallery was a veritable flock of vultures circling a never-ending feast.
Yet among them, the Joker reigned supreme.
He embodied pure chaos: a madman, cunning, and unrelentingly evil. He despised convention, thrived on anarchy, and would sacrifice anything to watch the world burn.
Despite lacking supernatural powers or vast resources, the Joker orchestrated horrific events that left even seasoned criminals in awe.
A year ago, he had disappeared after slicing off his own face. Rumors abounded—some said he died of illness in a sewer; others claimed he fell victim to a grisly revenge. For a full year, Gotham had been free of his madness, and the police celebrated his absence with secret toasts.
"Joker?" the clown leader sneered, hoisting the manager higher. "Who told you I was him?"
Agitated, he ripped off his mask, revealing a round face painted with white powder and a comically red foam nose. He looked less like a criminal mastermind and more like a children's party entertainer.
"Does every clown in Gotham have to be that Joker?" he roared, shaking the manager violently.
"Every single clown registers their makeup with the Clown Guild! Look closely! Do I look like that unregistered, noseless hack?!"
The manager stammered incoherently, and the clown leader tossed him aside in disgust.
Li Ang noticed the manager discreetly press something in his pocket as he fell. An alarm? Good.
Gently, he whispered reassurances to the twins, then extended his foot to hook a fallen guard's pistol, pulling it closer.
"Citizens of Gotham, good afternoon."
The leader gestured theatrically to himself.
"My name is Bucky the Clown."
Pointing to his accomplices, he continued, "That's Hisoka and Pennywise drilling into the vault. Over there is Saco on patrol. All of us are registered members of the Clown Guild—certified professionals, not some back-alley knockoffs. If that so-called Joker isn't dead yet, I swear I'll skin him alive."
With a loud bang, the vault door finally cracked open. Hisoka and Pennywise rushed inside, filling duffel bags with fresh cash and gleaming gold bars.
"Ah, wealth," Bucky muttered, rubbing his hands together. "So dazzling, so radiant."
He ordered his crew to load the loot onto the bus.
Suddenly, the screech of brakes echoed outside. Seven or eight police cars screeched to a halt, blocking the bank's entrance. Officers used their doors as shields, their weapons trained on the bus.
"What the hell?" Bucky shouted, stomping his foot.
"Didn't we cut off the police lines? How did they get here?"
A cheerful ringtone pierced the tense silence. Li Ang glanced at his phone screen: a message from Cristina.
"Did you pick them up yet?"
Before he could respond, Bucky's boots came into view, and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against Li Ang's forehead.