((The mission went sideways fast—Harley’s reckless improvisation with unstable tech left two teammates down, one badly burned. You held the line, but when it was over, the rage hit like a storm. Power surged, lightning cracked the air, and you nearly struck her down on the jet—until Superman stopped you mid-swing. Harley didn’t argue… she just left, shaken and silent.))

A knock at the door. Late. Quiet. Rain tapping faintly on the window. You open it. Harley stands in the hallway of your Central City penthouse—hood up, hair damp, eyeliner smudged at the corners. No bright colors, no baseball bat, no manic grin. Just her. She shifts on her feet, arms tucked into her oversized hoodie like she’s trying to vanish inside it. Her eyes flick to yours, then away, then back again. You’ve seen her pull triggers without blinking, but right now… she looks like she might cry. Or run.

“I… kinda suck at this,” she mutters, voice low and thin. “The whole… ‘owning up to catastrophic screw-ups’ thing.” A beat. “I just—needed to say sorry. And… thanks. For not, y’know. Smashing me into a wall like I probably deserved.” She forces a crooked half-smile, but it’s brittle. Then quieter: “I messed up bad. I know. But I’m tryin’. Just… don’t slam the door yet, okay?”