The Chinatown safehouse was quiet at six in the morning, save for the rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of a leaking pipe in the bathroom and the faint rumble of morning delivery trucks on Mott Street.
Jack was standing in front of the cracked, fogged-up bathroom mirror.
He’d stripped off his dirty grey shirt. His torso was a purple and yellow canvas of deep bruises, white surgical scars, and tight black sutures holding his left side together. But his hands weren't shaking. Thanks to the [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION], the agonizing burn in his ribs was just background noise—a faint hum, like a distant radio station playing static.
He picked up a tube of thick white zinc-oxide paste he'd nicked from a pharmacy, squeezed a heavy dollop onto his palm, and slowly began slathering it over his face.
Smear. Smear.
His pale skin turned a chalky, dead-tissue white.
Next came a greasy stub of black eyeliner he’d yanked out of Felicia’s makeup kit. He didn't draw neat lines. He slapped it around his eyes in wide, sloppy, smudged circles—dark, hollow sockets that made his bloodshot eyes pop out like twin red flare signals.
Finally, he picked up a fresh tube of bright crimson lip balm.
He didn't just put it on his lips. He dragged it sideways—far past the corners of his mouth, slicing bright red scars three inches up toward his cheekbones, carving an unholy, permanent, ear-to-ear grin across his chin.
Jack leaned in close to the glass, his face inches from his own reflection.
He blinked once. Twice. Then his mouth expanded into that exact, carved shape, his chest bubbling with a quiet, dry, wheezing chuckle—hehehe... ha... HAHAHA!
"Looking sharp, Jackie boy..." Jack rasped into the fogged mirror, winking at himself. "...looking real sharp."
Out in the main room, Natasha was sitting at the laminate counter, sipping dark black coffee from a chipped mug while inspecting a pair of custom 9mm magazines.
Felicia was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through her phone, still half-asleep.
The bathroom door creaked open with a slow, agonizing groan.
Jack stepped out into the kitchen.
He had his long, ragged coat back on, but now it was buttoned over a bright purple silk shirt he’d swiped from a Chinatown dry cleaner’s rack on the way in. His white-painted face glowed faintly under the dull morning light, the smudged black eyes staring right through them, and that wide, wet, crimson smile stretched almost to his ears.
Felicia looked up from her phone. Her thumb froze. Her green eyes widened in utter, speech-deprived shock.
"Oh... my God," Felicia breathed, her voice dropping into a horrified whisper. "Jack... what did you do to your face?"
Natasha didn't drop her mug, but her hand went completely still midway to her lips. Her steel-grey eyes narrowed, scanning the chalk-white paint, the messy red grin, the manic, glowing madness rolling off him in waves.
"I called it an upgrade, Kitty!" Jack cackled, stepping forward with a theatrical bow, sweeping his dirty coat tails out like a circus ringmaster. "A brand identity! A fresh coat of paint for the theatrical debut!"
"You look like a nightmare that got run over by a parade float," Felicia muttered, though she pulled her legs back on the sofa, clearly spooked by the sheer, unhinged vibe radiating off him.
Jack ignored her, stepping right up to Natasha’s counter. He leaned over her coffee mug, his white-and-crimson face inches from hers. The sharp smell of theatrical greasepaint, peppermint, and copper filled the small gap between them.
"So, Red," Jack purred softly, his bloodshot eyes unblinking behind the dark, smudged black paint. "How do I look? Be honest. Do I look like marriage material now?"
Natasha didn't back away. She calmly set her coffee mug down, her face entirely impassive, though her fingers twitched slightly near her wrist-gauntlets.
"You look like someone who's begging for a bullet, Jack," Natasha murmured, her voice flat, cool, and deadly. "And trust me... with that face, anyone on the street is going to shoot you just out of self-defense."
"Let 'em try!" Jack exploded into a loud, raspy HAHAHA, slapping his thigh so hard it echoed off the drywall. "Let 'em waste the brass! It's show business, baby! And New York is about to get a whole lot more colorful!"
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, steel deck of playing cards he'd picked up, and tossed a single card face-up onto Natasha's lap.
It was the Joker card—scratched, stained with a drop of dried blood, and marked with a sloppy crimson smile drawn over the jester's face.
Natasha picked up the card, staring at it for a long, quiet second before looking back up at him.
"Fisk’s guys are hunting you, Jack," Natasha said quietly. "Spider-Man is looking for you. Stark wants his car paid for. You’re making yourself the biggest target in the city."
"Target?" Jack leaned in close, his crimson-painted lips almost touching her ear as he rasped his favorite word into the morning air.
"...dare 'em to shoot, Red..." Jack whispered, his chest vibrating with wild, unstoppable laughter. "...DARE 'EM! HAHAHAHA!"
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