"I mean what I say, ghost. I don't stick around that long." And, because of that choice, neither do her cards. Her sentient night light might not like the idea of calming the fuck down a little, but Joker is the one going out, Joker is the one using the cards, and so Joker is the one who gets to make those judgment calls.

Before she can say much else, however, there's the faint sound of metal sliding against medal. There's no horrendous screech, like rust skittering across itself, but more like half a dozen knives being pulled out all at once. "Oh," she says conversationally. "That would be it. It sounds more menacin' than it is, if it makes ya feel better."