Prologue...
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Rain poured heavily over the city, thunder rumbling in the sky.
Two Fortuners stopped outside a tall penthouse—one black, one white. From the black SUV, two men stepped out.
From the white one, two more followed.
Without speaking, they walked quickly through the rain and entered the penthouse.
Inside, the main lights were dead, and the solar backup didn't work. Only the glow from their phone flashlights lit the way, making their shadows move across the walls.
They settled in the living room. A bottle of whiskey stood in the middle of the glass table, glasses half full. Cigarette smoke curled in the air as the four men talked, drinking slowly.
Then—three soft knocks came from the door.
The first, they ignored.
The second was louder.
The third sounded heavy and sharp.
One man got up, phone light in hand, and opened the door.
A stranger stood there in the rain. Still. Silent.
The man pointed his phone toward the stranger's face In an instant, the stranger grabbed his wrist, shoved the phone hard into his mouth, and threw the first punch.
The hit made a loud, sickening crack. Blood sprayed from his lips, hitting the white marble floor.
Another punch followed—harder—blood now dripping down his chin, pooling on the tiles.
The third punch tore the skin at the corner of his mouth. More blood splashed, mixing with the rainwater on the floor.
The stranger kept holding his head in place, hitting again and again until the man's body went limp. Then he let go. The man dropped to the ground, lifeless, the floor around him painted red.
At the table, the other three froze, their glasses trembling in their hands.
The dark figure in the doorway slowly stepped inside.
The three men stared in shock, their breathing sharp and uneven.
It was as if death itself had stepped into the room.
One of them instinctively reached for his gun. But it wasn't there.
It was still in his car, far away in the rain.
Fear gripped them like a cold hand around the throat. The sound of their quick, shaky breaths filled the silent room. Each inhale felt like it could be their last.
The stranger at the door slowly closed it with a dull click.
Then he began walking toward them.
Two of the men bolted for the stairs, desperate to get to the upper floor.
The third… didn't move.
He stood frozen, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling. A dark patch spread down his trousers—he had lost control.
The stranger approached him at a slow, steady pace. The man's phone light was still pointed toward the floor, so he couldn't see the stranger's face.
The stranger stopped right in front of him.
"Wh… wh… who… are… you?" the man stammered, his voice shaking like a child lost in the dark.
Without answering, the stranger reached for the whiskey bottle on the table.
He swung it hard—
The glass shattered against the man's head.
Before the victim could even cry out, jagged pieces of the broken bottle were shoved into his mouth.
Then the stranger pulled upward, tearing the skin at the corners of his lips until his scream became a gurgle.
With both hands, the stranger grabbed his head—
And pulled.
The sound was wet and sickening.
When he let go, the body crumpled to the floor in two pieces.
The stranger stood there, breathing slowly, before lifting his head toward the stairs.
The stranger began walking up the stairs, his footsteps slow, almost calm.
There were four rooms upstairs, but the two men hadn't gone into any of them—they didn't have the keys.
Instead, they had squeezed themselves into a small space at the far end of the hallway, trying to stay quiet.
The stranger whistled softly as he walked forward.
Then—suddenly—a man rushed from behind and struck the back of the stranger's head with an iron rod.
The blow barely made the stranger move.
He turned his head slowly, looking over his shoulder.
The attacker tried to swing again, but the stranger caught the rod mid-air.
In one swift motion, he pulled it over the man's head, lifted him upside down into the air, and
With a brutal twist—separated the head from the body.
Blood poured across the polished floor.
The stranger rested the rod on his shoulder, the severed head still hanging from it.
The glass walls upstairs reflected the storm outside, and for a moment, it looked as though rain was falling inside the house—only here, it was rain made of blood.
Still whistling, the stranger turned toward his final target.
He knew exactly where the last man was hiding—under a thin blanket, trembling.
The stranger stopped in front of him, gripping the blood-stained rod.
"Wh… wh… who… are… you?" the man stammered, his voice breaking, every word shaking as if each breath might be his last.
The stranger bent down until his masked face was inches from the man's.
A sudden flash of lightning lit the room, revealing the dark, paint-smeared mask of a grinning clown.
The man's eyes widened in shock. "You… you're alive…
The stranger's deep, cold voice growled back just two words:
"Bloody Joker."
Before the man could move, the rod was driven through the side of his head and out the other.
The stranger pulled it free, and the body collapsed.
But he wasn't finished.
Rage filled his eyes as he stomped down on the man's face again and again until nothing recognizable remained.
Then… silence.
The Joker sat on the floor for a while, staring up through the glass ceiling at the storm.
After a long pause, he stood, turned, and began walking back toward the stairs.
The penthouse was now painted red.
Outside, the rain still poured.
Inside, it felt as though a storm of blood had already fallen.
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Chapter 1 ( Coming Soon )