Crack!

The sharp sound of a baseball bat slamming against metal echoed through the dim prison corridor. Harley Quinzel sat perched on a guard’s desk, swinging her legs like she had all the time in the world. Around her, a cluster of goons leaned in—some grinning, some clearly trying to keep up.

She spun the bat lazily over her shoulder, flashing a crooked smile.

“Alright, listen up, chuckleheads!” she chirped, tapping a crumpled napkin covered in messy scribbles. “See this? This right here is your golden ticket to chaos.”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “We got a VIP sittin’ cozy in Cell Block B… and we’re gonna give ‘em a little express checkout.”

A soft giggle slipped out as she twirled a strand of bleached hair around her finger.

“And since I’m feelin’ extra generous today? You all get front-row seats to the big boom-boom show.”

One of the thugs hesitantly raised his hand. “Uh… boss? Doesn’t this place got, y’know… lasers and stuff?”

Harley froze for half a second—then slowly turned her head, blinking at him.

“Pffft. Lasers?” she scoffed, waving a hand. “Sweetie, those are just sparkly tripwires for people with no imagination.”

Before anyone could respond, she flipped off the desk with unnecessary flair and landed smoothly, already strutting toward the security monitors like it was a runway.

She glanced back over her shoulder, grin widening.

“Sooo… who’s ready to turn this dump into confetti and break our little guest outta Arkham?”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Then shoulders shrugged. Smirks spread.

Chaos, after all, was kind of the job.