The train was five minutes late, which meant the men with guns were right on time.I counted four of them. Two by the doors, one near the driver's cabin, one walking the aisle. Cheap masks, new boots, and that smell. You know the one. Fear mixed with cologne they bought this morning because they wanted to feel professional.People did what people do. They screamed, then got quiet, then tried to become small. A woman near me clutched her kid and whispered prayers. The kid stared at me. I was wearing a white clown mask with a crack down the left eye. It makes kids stare.The man walking the aisle stopped at my row. His gun wasn't shaking. That was good. Shaking means scared. Scared means mistakes."You," he said. "Phone. Now."I looked up at him. The mask has a permanent grin. It helps. People listen to a smile more than a frown. "You sure?" I asked. "It's mostly memes and a few bad photos of my lunch. I don't want to embarrass you in front of your friends."He blinked. "What?""Your fr

The countdown on my card said 71:39:00 when I got back to my apartment. It had gone up. That was new. Cards don't give you time back. Clocks don't run backward unless someone wants you to notice.I didn't notice. I documented. I took a photo of the card, the time stamp, the wax smile. Then I burned the card anyway. Ash doesn't tick.The earpiece I took from the pipe man was dead. Crushed. No signal, no serial number, nothing to trace. Professional. Expensive. The kind of thing governments buy and lose.I slept two hours. That's enough when you're counting exits.Mirexa Sol's clinic was on 8th, between a pawn shop and a noodle place that never closed. No sign. Just a red door and a buzzer that didn't work. You knocked. If she liked your face, she opened. If she didn't, you bled somewhere else.I knocked at 9:17 AM. The countdown in my head said 62:22:43. The door opened before my hand came down. Mirexa looked at me like I was a symptom. "You're not bleeding.""Disappointed?" I said."

The card in my pocket said 21:00:00. Flat. No countdown. No tick. Like it was holding its breath.Mirexa's said 58:38:14. Still dropping, slow. Punishment bleeding out by the second.We stood on Canal Street, soaked, watching steam rise off the asphalt where the flood had been. No one else remembered the water. People stepped around puddles that weren't there anymore. A guy yelled at a cab. A woman bought coffee. The city had already edited the last ten minutes."The kid," Mirexa said. She was wringing out her coat. "Red coat. He was here. Then he wasn't.""He's been here since Statton," I said. "Maybe since the train.""Kaedris Ulm," she said. "That's what the files called him. In the clinic. The patient who vanished. He left a note in the chart before I even saw him. Said 'You're already late.'"I looked at her. "You didn't mention that.""You didn't ask." She pulled the Joker card from her pocket. The ink under the smile had changed again. He was the seventh. Now it said, He's the

My card stayed at 00:00:00 all night. Not frozen. Not ticking. Zero. Like the Carnival was waiting to see if I’d cash out or double down.I didn’t sleep. I watched the ceiling. Mirexa slept on Nyxorin’s cot. Nyxorin didn’t sleep. She built something. She always built something when she was scared.At 6:03 AM, every screen in the city changed.Not just Below. Above. Times Square, bus stops, phones, ATMs. One image. My mask. Cracked. Grinning.Under it, text.WANTED: THE JOKER CRIMES: MULTIPLE HOMICIDES, TERRORISM, CONSPIRACY REWARD: 10,000,000 PAID BY: A CONCERNED CITIZENMirexa woke up to her phone screaming. "What did you do?""I left the Auction," I said. "They didn’t like that."Nyxorin killed her monitors. Too late. "It’s everywhere. Dark web, news, police bands. They’re calling it a terrorist bounty. Anonymous. Untraceable. But it’s Vale. Ozerik Vale.""Ten million," Mirexa said. "That’s not a bounty. That’s a war.""Good," I said. "Wars have rules.""No," Nyxorin said. "Wa