Chapter 868: I Am the Joker

James Holmes pushed open his car door and slung a worn, elongated backpack over his shoulder. Inside was an AR-15 Rifle. Adjusting the bag, he left the parking lot and walked unhindered into the brightly lit Santa Monica Commercial Square.

It was past midnight, and the square was sparse. Even the few people he passed thought nothing of his bizarre Joker costume—too many people had shown up dressed exactly like that tonight.

He had already visited the Santa Monica Commercial Square before nine o'clock to select the theater and the exact auditorium for his attack. Now, without hesitation, he strode down the long corridor and straight into the open-style cinema.

The lobby was nearly empty. The Dark Knight Rises had been playing for almost thirty minutes, and the vast majority of fans had long since hurried inside.

A staff member behind the ticket counter glanced at James Holmes before lowering his head to continue working. To him, this was just another fanatic.

As a top-tier student with a master's degree from a prestigious university, James Holmes had a brilliant mind. He made no attempt to hide, walking openly toward his chosen auditorium. Halfway down the hall, taking advantage of a moment when no one was looking, he slipped out of the corridor and ducked into an adjacent emergency stairwell. Checking his surroundings, he unzipped his backpack, pulled out the AR-15 Rifle, and flipped off the safety.

Patting the Colt Pistol concealed beneath his purple jacket, James Holmes took wide strides toward the emergency exit of an IMAX auditorium.

Standing outside the security door, he could hear the thrilling score playing inside, making his blood boil with anticipation.

James Holmes pulled the security door open without much effort, slipping into the auditorium with the tactical posture of a special forces operative. His past military training paid off; his movements were clean and crisp, failing to draw the slightest attention.

No one noticed him at all. Every spectator was completely engrossed in The Dark Knight Rises.

Perhaps by coincidence, James Holmes entered the theater the exact moment the first gunfight in The Dark Knight Rises began.

James Holmes took out a prepared tear gas grenade, pulled the pin, and lobbed it toward the center of the auditorium. Then he raised the muzzle of his rifle, aimed at the nearest people, and used his "burst-fire" technique to effortlessly cause brilliant crimson flowers of blood to bloom across their bodies.

The gunshots rang out, but they still went unnoticed. Jessica Ghawi heard the gunfire but assumed it was just part of the film's sound effects. Only when the choking smoke drifted over and terrified screams erupted did she realize—having survived a shooting once before—that she was caught in this nightmare all over again.

Gunshots, shrieks, agonizing wails—these finally drowned out the movie. Countless people scrambled desperately for their lives, their blind panic triggering a tragic stampede.

Seeing the spurting blood, hearing the terrified screams, and watching the panicked crowd made James Holmes ecstatic. In this moment, he felt he was the Joker. Even though the great Joker had been murdered by Batman's fans, within his blazing flames of revenge, the Joker was reborn in his body.

"I am the Joker!"

Mixed in with the gunfire was James Holmes's savage laughter.

"I am the Joker! The Joker has returned!"

The auditorium was too chaotic, packed with too many people. James Holmes abandoned his burst-fire technique and began wildly spraying the AR-15 Rifle. He had no idea how many people he hit; after emptying the magazine, he whipped out his Colt Pistol and fired repeatedly into the crowd.

Amid the chaotic noise around her, Jessica Ghawi was lying on the ground. A fiery agony radiated from her leg and head. As she stared up at the ceiling, the patterns above her grew increasingly blurred, and she could faintly hear a man yelling in her ear, telling her to hold on.

A wave of darkness washed over her vision. For some unknown reason, Jessica Ghawi suddenly thought of Final Destination. She had narrowly escaped death in Toronto, but was it truly impossible to outrun the Grim Reaper in the end?

Then, she lost consciousness.

By the emergency exit, James Holmes had already emptied his pistol's magazine. He knew the cinema had certainly called the police by now, and the cops would arrive shortly. Without a moment's hesitation, he turned, slipped out the security door, and sprinted down the long corridor toward the outside of the commercial square.

Whether it was sheer bad luck or destined fate, the escape route James Holmes had scouted hit a snag. Because of the late hour, one of the commercial center's doors had been locked. Forced to take a detour, he finally made his way back to where his car was parked. Before he even had the chance to start the engine, several police cruisers swarmed him.

Against unarmed, ordinary moviegoers, James Holmes had been as arrogantly invincible as the Joker. But against the police?

Reality, after all, was not a movie. James Holmes, who believed he was the Joker reborn, didn't even last until SWAT arrived. Without putting up any real resistance, he found himself handcuffed by a handful of officers.

"I am the Joker!"

Even as he was shoved into the back of a police cruiser, James Holmes continued to scream like a maniac.

Before the police cars even left the Santa Monica Commercial Square, hordes of reporters and paparazzi had already swarmed the scene. It didn't take them long to sniff out the news of the "Joker's" crazed massacre. In this internet age, no one could suppress this kind of news—at least not on this soil.

Not far from Santa Monica, Malibu was unusually peaceful. The Eye-Shaped Villa at Duke Manor was completely dark. Up in the top-floor master bedroom, Duke was sound asleep. In his dreams, he seemed to fly across the Pacific Ocean, finding the version of himself who had lived in this exact same era.

Back then, he had been the head of the pyrotechnics team for a mid-sized production crew. He harbored grand ambitions of becoming a director, planning to first make a name for himself in television before transitioning to film, striving to become a relatively successful movie director by the time he turned fifty.

If he could manage to gain a certain level of international fame, it would be the kind of achievement that could wake him up laughing in his sleep.

He even dreamed of leading Chinese cinema onto the world stage, though he knew very well that such a dream was not something any one person could accomplish alone.

Perhaps the dream had brushed too close to reality, because Duke suddenly woke up. He opened his eyes and glanced to the side; Scarlett Johansson was fast asleep.

Turning to look out the pitch-black window, Duke couldn't help but think about his dream. If he weren't in Hollywood but back in China, he might still have become a top-tier member of the industry, but leading Chinese cinema to global dominance would have been impossible.

He used to see many people suggesting ideas like simply copying Hollywood films to make Chinese films.

Oh... it was a beautiful notion, but cultural differences weren't as simple as just talking about them. Even ignoring the cultural divide, and ignoring the fact that this was a world dominated by Western culture and values, China lacked a prominent industrial chain effect, a comprehensive agency system, a mature production framework, an advanced special effects industry, and a robust financing environment...

These were absolutely not things a single person could establish.

Shaking his head, Duke dispelled those thoughts and fully grounded himself in reality, shifting his mind back to the much more practical Hollywood.

Hollywood had enjoyed smooth development for years, but it had actually hit a ceiling—the capacity of the North American market simply could not expand any further.

To break through this ceiling, Hollywood was visibly taking measures. The international market was becoming increasingly crucial, especially the ever-expanding Chinese market. To win over Chinese audiences, it was now standard practice for the core creative teams behind Hollywood blockbusters to host premieres in China, rolling out an endless stream of marketing gimmicks.

At the same time, Hollywood was drawing closer to Silicon Valley. Netflix, Amazon, and even Apple had become its partners.

From channel licensing to content collaboration to technological innovation, Silicon Valley and its new technologies were directly influencing Hollywood's development.

Of course, even hitting its ceiling, Hollywood was still the most advanced film industry in the world.

Unwilling to be left out, many professional critics were now voicing their concerns, arguing that the mature genre-film and blockbuster models had become a prison for innovation. They claimed Hollywood increasingly lacked originality and creative ability—that blockbusters, massive productions, cinematic universes, and sequels had completely monopolized the mainstream, while films attempting to innovate in subject matter or format were suffering disastrous failures.

However, these critics deliberately ignored the fact that the disastrous failures of those supposedly innovative films were not the studios' choice, but the market's choice—or, more precisely, the choice of the audience!

Hollywood simply catered to whatever the mainstream audience wanted to watch and whatever genres they were willing to open their wallets for. If the mainstream audience loved art-house films, Duke could guarantee there wouldn't be many big commercial productions in the coming summer seasons; instead, a long line of art-house films would be queuing up for release.

Box office returns were only a fraction of a Hollywood movie's total revenue. Almost everyone understood this, but some ignored the fact that, in this era, box office performance was the foundation for all subsequent income.

If a movie was a massive hit in theaters, its subsequent DVD, streaming, and television rights could all be sold for top dollar. Merchandise naturally found buyers, and character licensing would simply fall into place naturally.

If a film only grossed a few million dollars at the box office, could anyone really expect its DVD, streaming, and TV rights to fetch a high price?

Few of the merchants orbiting this industry were fools, and the dollar was constantly depreciating. If a studio had to sell merchandise for a dozen years just to turn a profit, like certain films did, the producers would likely be crying without tears.

Just as Duke was letting his thoughts wander and drifting back to sleep, a frantic knocking suddenly echoed at his door.

The knocking woke Scarlett Johansson. She rolled over and mumbled, "Who is it?"

To be knocking on his door this late, it had to be either the housekeeper, Emma, or Tina Fey, who often stayed at Duke Manor. For them to seek him out now, it had to be an emergency.