Chapter 10 – A Game Begins
Peter had been running in circles for hours.
He had retraced Malik’s last known whereabouts, followed up on the names he’d gathered, even lurked in some of Gotham’s seedier alleyways hoping to overhear something—anything—that could point him in the right direction.
But Gotham wasn’t New York.
New York had an order to its chaos, a rhythm he understood. A petty thief worked under a bigger crook, who worked under an even bigger one. You broke the right jaw, made the right threats, and information started spilling like an overfilled cup.
Here?
Here, people were scared. They didn’t talk. Not unless you were someone who mattered. And Peter, despite everything, didn’t matter in Gotham.
Yet.
By the time he made it back to the main streets, exhaustion had settled deep into his bones. He had nothing. No leads, no idea where to look next—just a city of locked doors and silent whispers.
And so, without thinking much about it, he walked into the bar.
The same bar where he had met him.
The place was just as dingy as before—low lights, sticky floors, the air thick with cigarette smoke and desperation. A handful of patrons were scattered throughout, hunched over their drinks, their lives weighing heavy on their backs.
Peter slid onto a stool and muttered, “Something cheap.”
The bartender barely glanced at him before pouring a dark, biting liquid into a cloudy glass. Peter took a sip, grimacing as it burned its way down his throat.
He didn’t notice him at first.
But then a voice—calm, amused—cut through the haze.
"Back again? I’d say I’m flattered, but something tells me you’re not here just for the company."
Peter froze.
His grip tightened around the glass as he slowly turned his head.
Jack Napier sat a few stools down, watching him with a smirk. He looked as effortlessly put-together as last time, but there was something different in his eyes—something curious.
Peter’s heart pounded in his ears.
Because now, he knew.
The name. The voice. The sharp, knowing way he carried himself.
Jack Napier wasn’t real. He never had been.
In his world, Gotham existed only in comics. And Jack Napier? That was just a name—an alias, a mask, a joke.
Because there was only one man in Gotham with a smile like that.
Peter swallowed hard.
"The Joker."
His skin crawled at the realization. He had read about this man. The stories, the horrors. What he was capable of.
And yet, here he was, sitting in a bar, speaking to Peter like they were just two guys killing time over cheap drinks.
Jack tilted his head. "Something wrong, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Peter forced his muscles to relax, even as his instincts screamed at him to run.
Just play it cool. He doesn’t know who you are.
He let out a forced chuckle, shaking his head. "Just… long night."
Jack hummed. "I bet."
He took a drag from his cigarette, then, after a brief pause, offered one to Peter.
Peter hesitated.
He didn’t smoke. But refusing would stand out. It would make Jack curious.
¨
So he took it, rolling it between his fingers, pretending to examine it.
Jack exhaled smoke through his nose, his gaze never leaving Peter. "You strike me as the kind of guy who’s got something on his mind. Heavy stuff."
Peter exhaled sharply. "You have no idea."
Jack grinned. "Oh, I might. Gotham has that effect on people."
Peter studied him, trying to see him beneath the mask. Beneath the clean-cut hair, the sharp suit, the eerie calmness that didn’t fit the monster he was supposed to be.
Was this real?
Or was this just another game?
Peter thought back to Malik, to how every door had slammed shut in his face. He needed something. A lead, a name—anything to push him forward.
And as much as the thought sickened him, Jack Napier might have answers.
He forced himself to speak. "Let’s say… someone needed to find a kid. Someone who might’ve been taken by the wrong people."
Jack tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, watching Peter with renewed interest. "And let’s say that someone didn’t exactly have the usual connections to get that kind of information."
Peter nodded.
Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke. "And why should I care?"
¨
Peter’s stomach twisted.
This was a risk. A huge risk.
But Peter had learned something about the Joker a long time ago.
He didn’t care about money. Or power.
He cared about chaos.
Peter met his eyes. "Because you’re bored."
Jack stilled.
The shift was subtle—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of something sharp in his gaze.
Then he chuckled.
It was soft, almost thoughtful. He shook his head, amused. "Now that’s interesting."
Peter forced himself to stay still. To keep breathing.
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. "Tell me more about this kid."
Peter swallowed, and started talking.
He had just made a deal with the devil.
But it was for Malik, so maybe it wasn’t as bad. … okay, he knew it was that bad. It was THE Joker, of course it was that bad! He just made a deal (almost) with one of the greatest villains in this world. The psychopath because of who suffered thousands of people. The Joker kills children, he doesn’t care about age, so if this isn’t entertaining enough, he might find Malik first and he will become just another victim in one of his sick games.
He can’t let that happen. He has to take care of the Joker after.
What the Hell is he thinking?! He’s not gonna kill the Joker! Spider-man doesn’t kill!
But Peter Parker can.
NO! He can’t!
Something is very wrong with him. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. Maybe being around Gotham’s villains for so long is finally catching up to him. He has to get Malik back and then start searching for a way home, because if he doesn’t get out of here soon. He wont stay sane for long.
---------------
Jack noticed him the moment he walked in.
Not that it was hard to notice.
The kid carried tension in his shoulders, the kind that came from exhaustion, frustration—desperation. He moved like a man who had spent hours chasing ghosts, only to be left with empty hands and nothing to show for it.
And now, here he was.
Jack smirked, watching as the kid slumped onto a barstool and muttered something to the bartender.
"Something cheap."
Interesting.
Jack had spent enough time in places like this to know what that meant.
People who asked for cheap weren’t drinking to enjoy it. They were drinking to drown.
Jack took a slow drag from his cigarette, waiting a beat before speaking.
"Back again? I’d say I’m flattered, but something tells me you’re not here just for the company."
The reaction was fascinating.
The kid stiffened—just for a fraction of a second—but Jack saw it. He felt it.
The careful way he turned his head, the way his fingers tightened around his glass.
Like he had just realized something big.
Jack tilted his head, grinning. "Something wrong, kid? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
And then came the laugh.
Forced.
"Ah."
Jack inhaled, taking his time.
Something had changed since their last encounter. Something had clicked in the kid’s head, and oh, how Jack wanted to know what it was.
Then, the kid did something really fun.
He asked for help.
Oh, not directly. No one in Gotham ever asked for help outright. But the words were there, between the lines, wrapped up in careful phrasing.
Jack leaned back, tapping his cigarette against the tray. "And why should I care?"
And then—oh, then—the kid gave him the best answer possible.
"Because you’re bored."
Jack’s pulse thrummed.
Now that was good.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Now that’s interesting."
He dragged out the silence, savoring it.
Then he grinned.
"Tell me more about this kid."
And just like that, the game had begun.