He was selling gashapon toys in Marvel Studios, and at the beginning, Tony turned into Kuuga.

Collapse begins with cognition.

When you witness your companion vanish into thin air right before your eyes, but your brain tells you that person never existed...

That sense of contradiction is enough to tear anyone's reason apart.

Some people were firing wildly into the air, while others were pulling the trigger on their own men.

"Don't come any closer! Don't touch me!"

One of the henchmen suffered a mental breakdown and opened fire with his submachine gun in a 360-degree arc, bullets piercing the bodies of two of his comrades.

"Fuck you, don't you dare shoot randomly!" another thug who had been shot roared back.

mutual firing.

The hall turned into hell.

The dolls continued their tireless advance, firing, biting, and dragging.

Corpses and toys were mixed together, making it impossible to distinguish which were recently deceased people and which were newly "born" toys.

The clown danced a waltz amidst the chaos.

Solo dance.

Stepping over corpses and broken glass, amidst gunshots and screams, he spun, bowed, and spun again.

"La la la~ Tick-tock~"

He hummed a tune that was out of tune.

On his deathly pale face, the crimson smile stood out starkly against the smoke of battle.

The entire massacre lasted less than four minutes from start to finish.

drop!

The final countdown began.

Everyone was so frightened that they lay flat on the ground.

But there was no explosion as expected.

The "bombs" hidden under the dining table popped open, and springs propelled clown dolls out one by one.

They waved small flags with a line of crooked words written on them.

"HAHAHA!"

There was no bomb at all from beginning to end.

Only fear.

The smoke from the gunpowder had dissipated in the hall.

A dozen or so corpses lay scattered on the carpet, while the remaining "people" had all been turned into toys.

A wind-up frog hopped around in a pool of blood, a teddy bear sat upright on the sofa holding a submachine gun, and a tin robot slumped next to a barrel of wine.

In the vast banquet hall, only three living beings remained.

clown.

Oswald.

And Carmine Falcone, who was slumped on the ground.

Falcone's gilded pistol fell two steps away, and he didn't even have the strength to pick it up.

He stared at the plastic toys scattered all over the floor, his pupils unfocused.

The green wind-up frog hopped to his feet and started winding itself up with a creaking sound.

But he couldn't remember who the frog was.

Falcone opened his mouth and let out a muffled groan.

He has survived assassinations, gang warfare, and direct confrontations with Batman.

But he had never experienced anything like this before.

The empire he built over thirty years, stepping over countless corpses, turned into a pile of broken toys in minutes.

It's not a failure.

It wasn't that we were defeated.

The entire empire, along with all the people within it, was erased from the concept of "existence".

Falcone's hands trembled violently, his lips turned purple, and his eyes were empty.

that power?

gun?

money?

In the face of such power, everything is a joke.

Da da da.

The sound of leather shoes stepping over toys scattered on the floor.

The clown bent down, tilted his head, and leaned close to Falcone.

"What is it, Lord Carmine?"

The clown tilted his head, his scarlet mouth almost splitting to his ears.

"Wasn't this performance amazing enough?"

Falcone didn't speak; he was speechless.

The clown looked at him for two seconds, then straightened up and lost interest.

He turned around and strode toward Oswald, who was huddled behind the metal barrel.

Oswald was trembling all over; his trousers were already soaked.

He watched the clown approach step by step, his lips trembling violently.

"Jay... Mr. Clown... we promised... the Penguin Gang..."

"Shh!"

The clown raised a pale finger and pressed it to his lips.

Then he picked up the gold-plated revolver that Falcone had dropped from the ground.

He turned the magazine, listening to the crisp, metallic clicking sound.

He shoved the gun into Oswald's trembling hand.

Oswald was stunned.

"What are you standing there for?"

The clown patted Oswald on the shoulder and gestured behind him with his chin.

In that direction, slumped over, sat Gotham's former underground king.

"Your throne is now empty, Oswald."

The clown's voice was extremely low, hoarse, and scalding.

"Go sit down."

Oswald knelt in the banquet hall, which was filled with toys, clutching the gilded revolver in his hand.

Falcone was just three steps away, slumped on the ground, his eyes vacant, his lips moving but no sound coming out.

"What are you waiting for?"

The clown crouched down, his pale face close to Oswald's ear.

The voice was so soft it was almost unbelievable, yet it sent chills down your spine more than any roar.

"Oswald, you laundered money for him, ran errands for him, and took the beatings for him."

"How did he repay you? He put you in that stinking chemical plant and made you count change for those corrupt cops."

The clown reached out a finger and gently straightened Oswald's crooked bow tie.

"Don't you find it ridiculous? Oswald Cobblepot, the most business-savvy shrewd man in Gotham, has lived his whole life under someone else's thumb."

Oswald's Adam's apple bobbed violently, and beads of sweat slid down his temples.

He glanced down at the gun, then looked up at Falcone.

"Cooper! If you dare lay a finger on me, my men will chop you into mincemeat!"

Falcone finally came to his senses, saw the direction of the gun barrel, and a twisted, ferocious expression appeared on his face.

"Your people?"

The clown stood up, spread his arms, and spun around.

"Who are they?"

He kicked the wind-up frog on the ground with his toe.

The frog hopped twice with a croaking sound, bumping into Falcone's leather shoes.

Falcone looked down at the frog, his lips twitching uncontrollably.

Who is this frog?

No, he couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember anything.

"Your empire is gone, Carmine."

The clown bent down and patted Falcone's cheek, his tone chillingly gentle.

"It turned into a pile of broken toys."

Falcone's pupils began to dilate.

The clown stopped looking at him, turned back to Oswald, and pointed his index finger at the gold-plated revolver.

"Come on, little penguin."

"Let me see if you're worthy of sitting in that chair."

Oswald was trembling all over.

The revolver wobbled violently in his hands, the clanging of metal echoing intermittently in the empty hall.

He was terrified.

But at the same time, a fire was burning in his chest.

All the humiliation of being trampled underfoot, ordered around, and made a joke over the past few years surged up at this moment.

"Coppert!" Falcone sensed danger, his voice turning shrill.

"Put down your gun! You coward! You think killing me will make you the boss? Dream on!"

"Do you think my family only has this much business? If you lay a hand on me..."

"Coward," Oswald muttered, repeating himself.

The expression on his face began to change.

From fear to pain to distortion, it finally settles on a bizarre, almost clown-like madness.

"ha."

A dry laugh was squeezed out of his throat.

"Ha ha."

The laughter grew louder.

"Hahahaha!"

Oswald tilted his head back and burst into laughter.

Spit sprayed out, tears smeared his face, and snot stretched out from his nose.

He laughed so hard his whole body convulsed, he was breathless from laughing, and he could barely hold his gun steady.

But his finger was firmly hooked on the trigger.

"Coward... Hahahaha! I'm a coward!"

boom!