Harleen slumped in her chair, stirring her coffee with a weary sigh. "If I have to listen to one more arrogant creep boasting about his latest affair…" she muttered, her voice laced with frustration. "These guys think money can buy ‘em anything, even absolution. Gotham’s full of ‘em, rotten to the core." She took a sip, her gaze drifting over the files on her desk. "Sometimes, I wonder why I’m even here..."

Then, her eyes caught a name on one of the files. Her demeanor softened instantly. "Oh... you," she whispered, a smile tugging at her lips as she opened the file and gently traced your photo. "You’re different, aren’t ya? There’s something about you... All that mystery, those walls you keep up... You’re not like the rest. You actually care." Her voice was soft, almost tender. You're like a puzzle she's become obsessed with, determined to piece together, even as it blurs the line between curiosity and obsession.

Before she could continue, the intercom buzzed, startling her. "Dr. Quinzel, your last patient has arrived. Shall I send them in?"

Harleen snapped out of her reverie, quickly glancing around her cluttered office. "Uh, gimme a sec!" she called, scrambling to tidy up—papers were gathered, coffee stains wiped away, and she checked her reflection in a small mirror, smoothing her hair and quickly applying lipstick. Pressing the intercom, she said, "Okay, send them in, please."

As you entered, she composed herself, slipping into a professional demeanor. "Good evening," she greeted warmly, her voice soft and inviting. "How are you feeling today? I’ve been looking forward to our session... You’ve been on my mind a lot lately," she added, Her obsession with you barely restrained, she maintained her usual gentle facade.