Chapter 17: Spiral

He opened his eyes in a blinding white light.

The glare made his eyes dry and his head dizzy. He tried to shield himself with his hands—but found his wrists pinned to the chair by metal cuffs.

He looked down and saw he was wearing an orange prison uniform with a serial number etched on the chest.

...Where was this?

He looked around and found himself in a small, semi-enclosed room painted white. In front of him lay a metal table.

"Crack."

The door swung open, and a sullen-looking man in a police uniform entered, throwing a folder onto the table.

"You lunatic—"

the officer's voice was icy. "You and your accomplices robbed over a dozen banks in Gotham in two days, kidnapped eighteen people, and even blew up the city hall."

He approached Jack, pointed his finger at his nose, and roared, "Tell me! Where did you hide the hostages?"

—What?

Jack opened his mouth to deny, to shout, "It wasn't me," but a raspy laugh crawled from his throat, as if someone else was manipulating his facial muscles and vocal cords.

He was practically out of breath from laughing.

"...Hahahaha... Hehe..."

"What are you laughing at?!" the officer roared, grabbing Jack's collar uncontrollably. "What's so funny about this?!"

"Officer," he heard his own voice, lazy and mocking. "Do you think I'll just confess everything if you catch me?"

"You better confess!" the officer slammed his fist on the table, glaring at him with gritted teeth. "Otherwise—"

"Otherwise what? Use the same old tricks? Buzzers, electric shocks, waterboarding? Do you want to come up with something new?

" "You deserve it, bitch!" the officer cursed under his breath.

"You're right—" he leaned forward, laughing so hard that tears came out. "Why not let that bat come? Officer, the game between him and me isn't over yet—"

...

Jack heard a burst of curses, and then the chair was kicked over. He fell to the ground in dismay, his face pressed against the cold ground, but his body was still laughing wildly, and his chest was aching.

"Tell Batman—" he shouted, "I want to play a hostage rescue game with him—"

The door closed.

After a while, the laughter died down.

His head began to ache, his ears ringing. He gasped, his throat aching like a knife, the air tinged with rust—

"Enough...end this..."

Jack tried to move his fingers, and this time, his body actually obeyed, moving gently, ever so slightly.

"This isn't real...I'm dreaming, I need to wake up...wake up—"

He closed his eyes and forced them open again, but the world remained the same.

Then, he noticed a ballpoint pen on the floor—it had fallen from the officer's pocket when he left, and had rolled under the table.

He scraped against the floor, his wrists rubbing painfully from the handcuffs, but he inched under the table and tucked the pen between his fingers.

He stared at the tip of the pen.

He wanted to end this dream.

He wanted to leave this damn place—

"Goodbye," he gritted his teeth, and with all his might, he lunged forward.

The moment his eyeball exploded, a sharp pain shot through his nerves like an electric current. Then the entire interrogation room began to shake, the walls peeling and crumbling like paper. Only a thick blackness remained—

…

Jack opened his eyes abruptly. He

saw the familiar ceiling.

He sat up, sweat pouring down his forehead, his chest heaving violently.

He subconsciously raised his hand and touched his eyes—they were intact, nothing was wrong.

…Why did he dream about that? Jack wondered blankly.

Everything in the dream was still churning in his mind, eroding his sanity.

He got out of bed and drew aside the curtains. The night was still going on, and mottled moonlight was spilling onto the ground.

He put on a coat and walked out of the room.

He wanted to get some fresh air and relax.

The manor was quiet, and the ticking of the clock on the wall was unusually clear.

Jack walked down the stairs step by step.

The footsteps extended from step to step.

Just as he was about to take the last step, his eyes swept across the hall—

at some point, a group of people in black robes had appeared there.

They stood silently in the center of the hall, wearing white masks, as if conducting some strange ritual.

"Thump!"

A foot, suspended in the air, landed, the sole of the shoe clattering against the floor.

Everyone stared at him, like a row of eerie statues.

In that moment, fear washed over him.

"Who... are you?"

No one responded.

Suddenly—

they began to applaud.

Chaotic applause erupted in the hall.

Jack retreated in panic, wanting to run upstairs for help, but everything around him began to shake. The floor tiles beneath his feet cracked, then shattered and collapsed, sending him screaming into a vortex of darkness.

...

The feeling of falling washed over him, and he didn't know how long it took

before—

"Thump."

Jack landed on a chair.

Pitch black, he could only feel the velvet beneath him.

Where was this? he wondered.

The lights flickered on, and he looked up, finding himself in front of a stage he knew so well.

He was sitting in the theater auditorium, right in the center of the first row.

A familiar space.

An eerie silence.

He slowly turned his head and found himself surrounded by people—hundreds, perhaps even thousands, sitting silently in their seats.

But their faces were devoid of features.

Their pale skin resembled wax dolls.

Then, all of them began turning to "look" at him.

Silently.

But the gaze was chilling.

His spine slammed against the back of his seat, his expression awash in uncertainty. Suddenly, those strange spectators stood up—

they surged toward him like a wave,

as if to push him into the abyss.

"No... don't touch me..."

His voice trembled, fear gripping his throat.

He tried to flee, but he had no direction. The next moment, cold fingers clawed at his shoulders, arms, and back from all sides.

He was touched, lifted, and pushed step by step toward the stage.

When he opened his eyes again—

lights shone from overhead, and he stood center stage.

A costume had suddenly appeared on him.

A familiar one—Macbeth's.

He held a sword and wore a crown, but his hands trembled uncontrollably.

The "audience" that had pushed him up returned to their original positions and watched him silently.

Actors in costume, their faces blurred, appeared on either side of the stage.

His body was once again losing control, and he heard his own voice echoing through the theater.

"I must leave it all behind. My feet are already deep in blood, and if I don't wade through it, the return journey will be equally tiresome."

—No, I don't want to act anymore!

He resisted, he struggled, wanting to leave this strange place.

But his body was uncontrollable. He was like a puppet, forced to conform to this absurdity.

...

The play ended.

The lights went out.

It was all over, the strange audience disappeared, and he knelt on the ground, gasping for breath.

The belated fatigue found him, and he felt his body become heavy. He tried to find a way to leave, and just then, he found that

there was still someone left in the audience.

He was a tall and thin man. His face looked abnormally pale, and the corner of his mouth looked like it had been cut by a knife, extending into a scarlet arc. He was wearing a purple suit and a rose on his chest.

Jack held his breath -

they had the same face.

The man stood up from his seat and clapped his hands vigorously, and crisp applause broke out.

He looked at Jack with interest.

"Excellent performance!" He laughed and cheered, and the sharp voice echoed in the silent theater.

He slowly walked towards Jack, and when they were face to face and could clearly hear each other's breathing, he tilted his head and asked softly in a low voice:

"Are you ready for the curtain call?"