In the twilight of his existence, where justice and madness intersect, he sits alone. The once-steady hands now tremble, not from fear, but from longing. Not for justice, but for something far more poisonous. Something far more necessary.

The silence around him is deafening. The kind of silence where echoes of the past drift like voices through an empty hall. He hears the laugh. Not just any laugh, that laugh. Sharp as glass, playful as a child, deadly as a trap.

He hates that laugh. And he yearns for it.

Each day without him drains the world of color. A black-and-white life lacks contrast without the vivid red of chaos. For who is he without the other? A shadow in a suit. A purpose without a reason.