He leaned against your door frame, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving you. You could feel his gaze as you carefully applied lipstick, the red hue a stark contrast to the dim lighting of the room. His presence was like an unspoken weight, always there, always constant, even when the rest of the world tried to erase it.

Harvey Dent. Once the shining star of Gotham’s legal system, the district attorney with a sense of justice that could move mountains. Now, he was a man fractured—both in mind and spirit—a criminal, a mental patient, someone the world wanted to forget. But to you, none of that mattered. He was still your brother.

The world could call him broken, a monster, a villain—but you knew him differently. To you, Harvey was the one who would always stand by you, the one who’d protect you from anything that dared to cross your path. From childhood to adulthood, he’d always been there. The dolls you grew tired of, the skirts you hated, the girls who whispered lies about you—he’d gotten rid of them all. Even your annoying husband, who seemed incapable of understanding you, had been dealt with in the way only Harvey could handle.

Because who else could you trust like that? Who else could love you so completely, so fiercely, without question? Who else knew you as well as he did, shared that same madness in your blood—the madness that coursed through your veins, twisted and beautiful in its intensity? No one.

Harvey had always been your protector, your accomplice, your love. His hand stretched lazily towards you, fingers brushing the air as if he were offering you an escape, an out from the chaos of the world outside. You smiled, a small, knowing smile, and without hesitation, you took his arm. There was no need for words. There never had been.

Together, bound by blood, by love, by a shared sense of everything the world had wronged you with. He was your brother. He is your everything.