The clip spread like gasoline and a match.
Seven days. That was all anyone needed. The alley fight, raw and ugly, replayed in a thousand feeds: the boy throttled against the dumpster, the phone capturing laughter, the phone thrown away, the final kick that sent a giant to the pavement—and then Rodey, face split with blood, falling and rising again as if the world had no right to keep him down.
They called him names overnight—Flash, Demon, an urban legend stitched from a single brutal minute. Some cheered. Some jeered. All clicked.
In a palace far from the gutters, under crystal and hush, someone else watched.
Dylan Dicosta sat alone with a phone in his hand. The video looped—again and again—the speed, the violence, the trembling breath at the end. His black suit swallowed the light, and as the final frame froze on Rodey's bloodied face, Dylan's lips pulled into a small smile. A smile that tasted like winter.
"Hussain, you stupid—" he said aloud, soft as an accusation, and the word hit the empty room like a verdict. "I gave you one work to do."
The phone dimmed in his palm. Dylan's eyes did not leave the screen. The name—Flash—settled in his thoughts like a debt ledger. History was rarely tidy; debts were rarely forgiven. He'd been patient. He'd been careful. But the city liked to make mistakes loud, and the video had put the mistake in his lap.
By midnight, his men moved: quiet cars, a street swallowed by shadows, hands that knew how to catch and silence. By dawn, Rodey didn't know where the apartment had gone; he only knew the last memory before the sleep that swallowed him—a prick, a blur, the world rolling away.
He drifted back into waking with his head pounding and sunlight that was too white. When his eyelids cracked open, he didn't see plaster or concrete. He saw marble. He tasted dust. His wrists ached. His legs throbbed from chains. Panic kicked like cold hands in his ribs.
A voice cut through the room—calm, measured, a blade wrapped in silk.
"Hussain, you stupid—I gave you one work to do," the man repeated, but this time he leaned in, letting those words land close, like a verdict on history. "And you couldn't do that."
Rodey flinched. The name landed harder than an uppercut. Hussain. His father's name was a raw wound he had learned to carry. He tried to pull himself upright; the ropes bit.
The man in black finished smoothing down his cuff and smiled at the sight of Rodey fighting the binds. "The name's Dylan Dicosta," he said finally, as if that solved everything. "And Rodey Flash… you've been brought into a very private ledger."
Rodey's mouth went dry. "What do you mean—how do you know my father?" he rasped. And under the question, a quieter, angrier demand: where was Alikae?
Dylan's smile deepened. "We have time," he said, and the room felt as if it were closing in. "We have all the time in the world."
Dylan clasped his hands behind his back and began to circle slowly, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
"Your father… Hussain Flash," Dylan said, tasting the name as if it was a relic. "To the world, he was a hero of speed. The man who broke records, who lived and breathed velocity. But to me…" He tilted his head, lips curling. "He was an old friend. And a fool."
Rodey's jaw tightened. "You're lying."
Dylan chuckled low, as though the word amused him. He leaned closer, eyes gleaming with a cruel memory. "Hussain wanted to stay the fastest in a world that kept evolving. And when nature began to slow him down, he turned to something else. Enhancers. Drugs. Chemicals that tore into his lungs so his legs could keep flying. Each victory was stolen fuel… and each breath was a death sentence."
The words stabbed into Rodey's chest like splinters. He shook his head violently. "Shut up. My father wasn't—"
"—a junkie?" Dylan cut in smoothly. "Oh, he was. You think cancer just appears out of nowhere? He killed himself one dose at a time. And in the end, all he had to show for it… was a son who doesn't even know the debts he left behind."
Rodey's muscles screamed as he jerked against the ropes, veins bulging in his arms. The chair groaned under his weight, but the bindings held firm. His eyes burned, fury dripping from every word.
"If I wasn't tied right now…" he growled through clenched teeth, his voice raw and sharp, "you'd already be dead."
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the room. Dylan only smiled—unshaken, amused, as if Rodey's rage was a child's tantrum.
"Good," Dylan said, stepping back with the calm of a man who had expected this. "Keep that fire. You'll need it when I tell you why you're really here."
Dylan tilted his head, studying Rodey the way a predator studies prey. "You burn just like him," he said softly. "That same stubborn fire. But fire without direction only eats itself alive."
He snapped his fingers. One of the guards stepped forward, blade in hand, and with a quick slice the ropes fell loose from Rodey's wrists and ankles.
Rodey stumbled to his feet, his body aching, blood rushing through his hands where the cords had cut him raw. His fists clenched instantly, eyes narrowing at Dylan.
"You wanted me free?" Rodey growled. "Fine. Let's see how much of a fool you think I am."
Dylan spread his arms, inviting him in with a taunting smile. "Show me, Rodey Flash. Show me what Hussain taught you."
Rage blurred everything else. Rodey lunged—fast, faster than most eyes could follow. His fists cut the air like knives, his feet moving with the rhythm drilled into him since childhood. For a moment, he felt the echo of his father's training, the fire in his legs, the speed that once made Hussain a legend.
But Dylan wasn't most men.
Every strike missed by a breath, every punch met empty air. Dylan slipped past him effortlessly, his movements sharper, quicker—like Rodey was chasing a shadow. Then the counter came: a fist like iron to his gut, a kick that sent him sprawling across the marble.
Pain exploded through his ribs. Rodey gasped, forcing himself back up, charging again, faster, desperate—but Dylan's knee collided with his jaw, dropping him hard.
Rodey lay there, chest heaving, the taste of blood sharp in his mouth. He had given everything—his speed, his anger, his father's legacy—and it wasn't enough.
Dylan crouched beside him, his voice smooth but cold. "That's the problem, boy. Hussain gave you speed, but not strength."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming like a blade pressed against Rodey's throat. "Tell me… what do you desire most?"
Rodey spat blood to the side, glaring up at him through the haze of pain. His voice cracked, but the words came burning hot.
"Justice. For all. For every coward, every thief, every system that let people like my family die."
For a moment, Dylan was silent. Then he laughed—a deep, low laugh that echoed against the marble walls.
"Justice," he said, savoring the word. "Such a beautiful lie. Justice has its own price, Rodey. And only the strong can afford to pay it."
He straightened, looking down at the broken young man on the floor. "But I like that fire in you. Maybe… you're not worthless after all."
Rodey's breath rattled as he wiped blood from his mouth. He forced himself to stand straight, refusing to let Dylan see him buckle.
Dylan strolled across the marble floor like a man lecturing a classroom. "You want justice? Then prove it. Start low, claw your way up, and maybe—just maybe—you'll reach the Joker rank."
His eyes glinted. "Joker is omnipresent. Joker is not just a title—it's the hand on every string. Politics, money, crime, order. The Joker doesn't answer to anyone… except me."
Rodey frowned, teeth grinding. "Why me? Why push me toward that seat?"
Dylan ignored the question, his tone shifting like smoke. "Of course… there's another path. A simpler one. Marry Alikae. My legacy stays intact, and you gain everything without the climb."
Rodey's eyes flared. "We're not lovers. We're not even close. She's my friend, nothing more. Keep her out of this."
Dylan smirked at the anger sparking in his voice. "So, not the marriage. Not the Joker. Then what?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping into a whisper sharp as a blade. "Tell me, Rodey Flash—what do you think I want?"
The question hung in the air like a guillotine.
Rodey's chest heaved. For the first time since this encounter began, his fury wavered into unease. Dylan wasn't bargaining, he wasn't offering—he was playing. Every word was a step in some unseen game, and Rodey couldn't see the board.
"Justice," Dylan murmured almost to himself, pacing again. "Power. Marriage. Or maybe none of these. Maybe I just want to see if Hussain's son breaks faster than Hussain ever did."
He stopped suddenly, his smile razor-thin. "So tell me, boy. Which poison tastes sweeter to you?"
Rodey's hands curled into fists, rage burning but confusion choking him. For the first time, the thought crawled into his skull—the thought the viewers would share:
What the hell does Dylan Dicosta actually want?
Rodey's jaw tightened. His breath was ragged, but his voice was steady.
"I don't care about your Joker rank. I don't care about your money or your throne. And Alikae—she's not your pawn. If you think I'll bend to you, Dylan, then you don't know me at all."
The words rang across the hall like a gunshot.
For a moment, Dylan only stared. Silent. Still. Then—he laughed. A slow, dark, humorless sound that seemed to stretch forever.
"Stubborn. Just like Hussain," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye as though the laughter pained him. "But tell me, boy… when you deny all roads, do you really believe there is no cost?"
Rodey's fists clenched. "Say what you mean."
Dylan's smile sharpened. "If you deny me, she dies."
The words dropped like ice water down Rodey's spine.
He tried to move, tried to lunge, but Dylan raised a finger and a huge screen flickered alive at the far wall. Alikae's image filled it—bound, gagged, her eyes wide with fury rather than fear. She was fighting against ropes, muffled curses spilling through cloth, her hair wild.
"You see," Dylan continued, his tone maddeningly calm, "I never ask for loyalty without leverage. One decision from you and the girl is erased. No loose ends. No distractions. Clean. Efficient."
Rodey's breathing quickened. His mind screamed, but the ties on his wrists felt heavier than chains of iron.
"She's not yours to take!" he snarled.
Dylan tilted his head. "She was mine the moment you walked into my world. And until you make a choice… her life hangs on my patience."
The room closed in, suffocating, the sound of Alikae's muffled struggle echoing in his ears.
For the first time, Rodey Flash had no ground to stand on—only an impossible decision.
And Dylan Dicosta was smiling, waiting, knowing the boy's rage was his greatest weapon… and his greatest weakness.
The hall felt colder than death itself. Rodey's breath came shallow, his fists bleeding from struggling against the ropes. His heart screamed at him to resist, to spit in Dylan's face—but then the screen flickered.
Alikae. Bound, gagged, her eyes blazing with fury but filled with terror.
Dylan's words echoed like a sentence: If you deny all, she dies.
Rodey dropped his head, his voice breaking through clenched teeth.
"…I'll do it. I'll climb your ranks. I'll wear the Joker's mask. If marriage is what it takes, fine. Just let her go."
On the screen, Alikae's ropes fell free. She ripped the gag off, screaming at him, "YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT!" before the screen went black.
Dylan clapped slowly, his smirk widening.
"Good. Flash's son still knows when to bend." His tone shifted, mockingly paternal. "I'm proud of you, boy… my son—no… Flash's son."
Rodey's glare could have burned a hole through stone.
Dylan lifted a hand, and his men rolled in a massive iron board. Painted across it were rows of playing cards, their symbols sharp as blades.
"Do you know what the world runs on?" Dylan asked. "Order. Power. And the Deck is power."
He pointed to the bottom row. "Numbers. They're dirt. Replaceable pawns. They fight, they bleed, and the streets forget them by morning."
His finger slid upward. "Jacks. Queens. Kings. They are the faces—the ones who lead, manipulate, command. They keep the game alive."
Then he tapped the gleaming Ace at the top. His voice dropped lower, reverent.
"The Ace. The so-called omnipresent rulers. They hold cities in their grip, puppeteers of blood and money. But don't be fooled…"
He leaned closer, his eyes drilling into Rodey's.
"Above the Ace… are the Fools. The last barrier. They are nameless, faceless, unholy. They exist only to guard the Joker's path. To protect the chaos from collapsing before it begins."
Rodey's breath caught. "…And the Joker?"
Dylan grinned, a wolf's grin.
"The Joker is beyond the Deck. Neither number, nor face, nor Ace. The Joker is wild—chaos itself. If he climbs, the world bends. If he falls, everything burns."
He stepped back, spreading his arms like a preacher.
"You, Rodey Flash, will be my Joker."
The silence throbbed with tension. Rodey's jaw tightened, rage simmering in his veins.
From somewhere in the dark, Alikae's muffled voice echoed faintly, "RODEY, YOU DUMBASS—" before the sound cut again.
Dylan leaned in, whispering.
"Your game begins now, Joker. And every step you take will bring you closer to justice… or damnation."