Chapter 24 Kiss (Revised)

When the doorbell rang, Jack was curled up on the sofa and browsing Twitter, holding a sugar jar in his arms and a cup of cold coffee on the coffee table.

Standing outside the door was an unexpected person.

The man was wearing a dark windbreaker and carrying a briefcase, with an indescribable emotion on his face.

"Bruce?"

"I just happened to pass by and came to see you."

Jack blinked and stepped aside: "...Come in."

Bruce walked in, hung his windbreaker on the hanger, and his eyes swept across the living room, finally stopping at the sugar jar on the sofa. He walked over, sat down, and tapped the glass jar lightly with his hand.

"Eating candy again?"

"Hmm." Jack made a meaningful sound, "I'm a poor guy with a sweet addiction."

Bruce picked up the sugar jar and looked at it, then shook it, making a few crisp sounds. He asked casually, "How much do you eat by yourself?"

"That question sounds like a questionnaire in drug rehabilitation." Jack spread his hands lazily. "Probably only two or three cans this month?"

"You should quit sugar." Bruce's tone was calm, but with a hint of scrutiny. "Too much sugar intake can affect sleep, accelerate skin aging, cause various diseases... and even tooth decay."

"I'm not a teenager."

"But you are addicted to it."

"Baby, you can't deprive a sweet lover of this little hobby—"

"But I worry about you." Bruce looked at him and said slowly, "As your lover."

The sudden direct shot made Jack a little dazed. He blinked blankly, and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. After a moment, he responded, "...Yeah."

Bruce put the candy cane into his windbreaker pocket, the movement as natural as if it belonged to him.

"Are you still reading the script?" He glanced at the page on the coffee table.

"Not really. I just put it there so I can look it up at any time."

"Come to think of it, a screenwriter friend of mine recently wrote a script. He came to me after he knew I sponsored your theater," Bruce took out a bound script from his briefcase. "The content is pretty good. I want to show it to you first."

"What's it about?" Jack came over with interest.

"The Man Who Laughs," he handed the script to Jack. "The setting is in Gotham. The protagonist is a crazy criminal, but he always feels that the whole world is crazy and he is the only one who is sane."

Jack opened the script and quickly checked the character introduction. After a while, he shouted excitedly and jumped up from the sofa -

"I like this script! There is Batman in it! I want to recommend myself to the screenwriter to play Batman -"

There was silence for a second.

"Wait," Bruce's smile faltered, and he interrupted stiffly. "I disagree."

"Why?" Jack's eyes widened, his expression hurt. "You'd rather delegate the rights to someone else than me? Don't I know Batman best?

...Because this isn't how Bruce imagined it would go.

"Because there's a more challenging role for you," Bruce pressed his brow, suppressing the urge to sigh. "The protagonist—he calls himself the Joker. This role is going to be very demanding for an actor."

"Okay... okay." Jack instantly deflated, returning his gaze to the script. "Let me take a closer look—"

He sat back down to study the script, twirling a felt-pen idly until he reached the description of the character's appearance, the pen slowing down.

"Uh..." Jack began stiffly. "Pale skin, green hair, cleft red lips? Where did that come from?" "

I provided the inspiration. Remember that nightmare I mentioned earlier?" "

Bruce stared at him intently, as if trying to take in every detail of his movements.

It was obvious that Jack had put this matter behind him a long time ago.

His eyes drifted away for a moment, and after a moment he turned to praise Bruce's imagination.

"...Interesting imagination! Bruce, you should be quite suitable to be a screenwriter."

"You look a little surprised?"

Jack pulled the corner of his mouth and said in a casual tone: "I just didn't expect you to support me to play the protagonist of such a script - to be honest, this is not very 'Batman'."

"It's time for you to get rid of those stereotypes about me." Bruce raised his eyebrows, "Do you think you can play the protagonist well?"

"It's hard to say... It's indeed a challenge. I have to admit that the image of the protagonist makes me feel a little physically uncomfortable."

He glanced at Bruce and added: "But I should ask the director for an audition."

A warm body slowly leaned over, and he could feel the other person's body temperature.

"We can do it now," Bruce rested his chin on his shoulder, and his breath brushed against his ear when he spoke, "I can act with you, and I will play Batman. "

Jack looked very surprised.

"Well, of course, of course." He said in surprise, "I didn't expect you to be interested in practicing with me--"

Bruce didn't say anything, he just took out another script from his bag, and it was obvious that he had prepared it.

Jack couldn't help but smile. He leaned back on the sofa and put the script on his legs.

"I think I need to ask your opinion, which scene do you want to play?"

"The part in the third act where Batman and the Joker are in prison."

"Oh! It looks good," Jack flipped through it, "Then give me some time to prepare. Bruce

watched Jack, watched him scribbling on the script, watched him begin to pace back and forth, watched him repeatedly read a line or two—

his gaze was complicated.

He had lied to Jack. He didn't have any screenwriter friends, let alone a script. What he had personally handed Jack was... a real-life encounter between him and the Joker, compiled and edited by him personally.

Every line here was a confrontation between them, leaving an indelible mark on his memory, and he replayed these memories.

But Bruce had to do this.

He had always suspected that Jack was the Joker.

The psychotropic drugs in the candy, the identical appearance, the confused memories, the absurd reality... He couldn't sit idly by; he needed confirmation.

So he chose this method to observe Jack's reaction.

When those slightly excited eyes glanced at him, he knew Jack was ready.

So he spoke first, his voice characteristically Batman's deep, hoarse voice—

"You wanted me, and now I'm here."

Jack stared at him, the mockery in his green eyes hidden beneath thick lashes, and he leaned forward.

"I wanted to see what you would do. You didn't let me down... You let five men die, and then you sent Dent to take your place." He stuck out his tongue, licking his lips. "Even for someone like me, that's too cruel."

"Where's Dent?"

Jack ignored his question, gradually losing himself in his own world, his body shaking nervously.

"Those idiots in the mafia wanted you gone so they could go back to the way things were. But I know the truth—there's no going back. You changed everything, forever."

He stared at the man across from him, like a venomous snake gazing at its prey.

The familiar words, the almost identical tone and expression, made Bruce's throat dry... He forced down the emotions churning inside him and asked, "

Then why did you want to kill me?"

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing laugh erupted from Jack's chest, and he put his hands on the table, as if trying to stop himself from sliding off the sofa.

"Kill you?" He looked surprised, but his chuckles continued. "No, no, no, I don't want to kill you. What would I do without you? Go back and extort money from the gangs? No, no, no... You, you complete me."

Bruce froze. He could feel the muscles at the back of his neck tightening inch by inch. Memories merged with reality, and the Joker's smile appeared on Jack's face... This inexplicable sense of dislocation almost made him regret his decision to test Jack.

But Bruce had no choice, so he continued.

"You're a piece of trash who kills for money."

The man gradually calmed down, a hint of mockery crossing his face. He looked over, his lips curling up slowly—

"Don't talk like those guys, Batsy," he said, as if pitying him, his eyes revealing a hint of sympathy. "You're not them. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. In their eyes, you're a monster, just like me."

The world seemed to freeze in that moment.

Bruce's heart skipped a beat.

That familiar tone, that nightmare-like tone that haunted him, that name that had been banished from the world, now flowed strangely from the mouth of the person in front of him.

That was Joker.

His speech was getting faster and faster, and he looked more and more excited, as if his emotions were taking over, leaving his consciousness far behind.

"They need you now, and when they don't need you anymore, it will be too late for them to escape. Their morals, their principles, are all a joke. At the slightest disaster, they flee like rats! I'll show you how these civilized people eat each other alive at the slightest sign of trouble."

His eyes were filled with sarcasm, like the sharp tip of a needle: "Bat, I'm not a monster—"

Bruce stood up suddenly, walked over, grabbed his collar, and lifted him up from the sofa.

"Joker!"

"I love seeing you angry, Batsy." He laughed nervously. "Come on! Bat, you can do whatever you want to me—"

"You lunatic—"

"You actually called me a lunatic?" He looked at Bruce with pity. "What about you, Bat? You use your gadgets to spy on my life 24/7. You monitor me, stalk me, you even watch me sleep... Do you like my performance, Bat? Do you really like my mouth calling your name like that?"

In that moment, Bruce could almost hear his sanity snap.

Heat rushed into his ears, and Bruce trembled all over. He wanted to shout back, but his throat felt like it was blocked. He breathed rapidly, his knuckles white from the effort.

"Isn't Gotham boring without me, huh?" The man's voice was seductive and provocative. "I miss the days when we danced on the roof—I know you miss me too... Can you face your desires?"

Bruce felt the man's eyes on him, a suggestive look.

Fire burned within him, anger and shame clashing in his chest. His mind struggled to control the situation, but the lingering temptation wore away his will.

"You mean nothing to me. You're... you're a criminal!" Bruce hissed.

"So you're letting your identity constrain your feelings?" He chuckled, enjoying the farce. "Does it terrify you to find yourself infatuated with a criminal? Oh... I love your fear of me!!"

He swooped in close, his green eyes, as if soaked in acid, fixed on Bruce like a wolf, watching its prey.

"You can't leave me. We're like light and shadow, forever entangled. You belong to me, Batsy."

Her cold fingertips traced Bruce's tense jaw, trailing up his cheek to rest beside his azure eyes.

"I love your eyes, Batsy. They're more honest than your mouth, the emotions there are more intense. They let me see your truest desires—"

He suddenly grabbed Bruce's hair and pulled his face close, their cheeks pressed together, their breaths mingling.

Bruce saw the man's Adam's apple bob as he spoke, saw the smooth white neck, saw the silent invitation in those eyes, saw the parted, red lips...

He should have stepped back, should have pushed this madman away, taunted him, ended this ridiculous show immediately.

But he couldn't move.

An indescribable emotion surged in his chest, different from anger and shame, but a deeper, more dangerous impulse.

The walls of his sanity were crumbling, and the man before him gently pushed...

"Admit it," his voice was like the lingering tenderness of a lover, but also like the seduction of a devil. "You like my madness, you've fallen in love with me—"

In that instant, all those dreams, desires, and pleasures flooded back into his heart.

It was an emotion buried beneath justice, lurking within rage—a desire beneath a mask, a secret deep within the soul.

That mysterious feeling quickly overwhelmed him like a wave.

He bit down.

He touched soft lips, felt the other's tongue dig into his mouth, heard a snort of laughter from the crack.

It felt more like punishment than a kiss. Blood mixed with saliva dripped down his chin, and Bruce was lost in it—he didn't know what he was doing, only that he could no longer feign indifference.

This wasn't a confession, it was a fall.

A collision of passions, an irreversible collapse.

The moment their tongues met, it was intense, chaotic, hatred and longing intertwined. They bit each other, they licked each other, a torrent of desire between their lips and teeth.

It was a wrestling match between two madmen, a release of repressed desire.

…

And then the warmth between their lips vanished.

The person before him opened his eyes wide, his breathing rapid, as if he had just awakened from a trance.

Bruce was still immersed in the residual warmth, his heart beating fast, and his belated rationality finally returned.