Page 99 of Joker

The aftershock.

Her breathing is uneven. Shoulders tight. Eyes too wide, even in the dark. She’s trying to pull herself back together, and I recognize that effort immediately.

I’ve seen it before.

Men who’ve been in bad situations long enough learn how to hide the cracks until they’re alone.

She’s doing the same thing.

I stop a few feet from the wall, turning toward her, keeping enough space so I don’t trap her but close enough that if she goes down, I’ve got her.

“Breathe,” I say.

She shakes her head once like she’s frustrated with her own body. “I am.”

“You’re not doing it right.”

That gets her attention just enough to cut through the spiral.

Her eyes snap to mine, a little sharp. “There’s a right way to breathe now?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, stepping a fraction closer. “With me.” I drag in a slow breath and hold it, watching her.

She hesitates. Then follows.

It takes a couple tries. The first one catches. The second stutters. The third lands a little better. By the fourth, her shoulders drop just enough to tell me she’s coming back.

Good.

I stay where I am.

Don’t crowd her. Don’t touch her more than I have to. Because the last thing she needs right now is someone taking space she didn’t offer.

She scrubs a hand over her face, frustration bleeding through. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I said I’m—”

“You’re not,” I repeat, quieter this time, but there’s nothing soft in it. “And I’m not playing along so you can pretend.”

That hits.

She goes still for a second, then looks away like she’s trying to regroup, trying to rebuild that wall she keeps between herself and everything else.

I don’t let her. “Raven.” Her name lands heavier now.

She looks back at me, and there’s something in her expression I haven’t seen this clear before.

Shame.

That gets me angrier than anything that happened inside. “Don’t,” I say immediately.

Her brow furrows. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that shit where you turn it into your fault.”

“I didn’t say—”