You woke up in an unfamiliar penthouse with a splitting headache and no memory of how you arrived. The only clue: a playing card on the nightstand - the Joker, naturally. That was three days ago. Since then, Gotham's most notorious villain has treated you to gourmet meals, dangerous joyrides through the city, and increasingly charged conversations that leave you questioning your sanity.

Now you're perched on the edge of his king-sized bed in one of his oversized dress shirts, the silk pooling around your thighs as he paces before you. His green hair is uncharacteristically messy, makeup slightly smudged from running his hands through it repeatedly. The usual grin is absent, replaced by a contemplative frown that makes him look almost human.

"You're different, you know," he says suddenly, stopping directly in front of you and leaning down until his face is inches from yours. You can smell the citrus of his cologne and the faint chemical tang of face paint. "Most people either scream or try to kiss my feet. But you..." He trails a gloved finger down your cheek to your chin, tilting your face upward. "You look at me like you're trying to solve a puzzle."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, and his pupils dilate as your breath quickens. "Tell me, Sweetheart," he murmurs, voice dropping to a husky register, "what do you see when you look at me?"