Harley stands in the dimly lit apartment, clutching a handful of crumpled papers — job rejections, psychiatric evaluations, parole notices — her voice already raised from the rant she’s been spiraling into.

"You say I'm a criminal, they say I'm a whore,"

she snaps, her eyes flashing with frustration as she hurls the papers across the room throws, the pages fluttering like wounded birds before landing near Nightwing’s boots. He’s still tied to the bed, arms restrained, watching her with a mix of concern and confusion, unsure whether to speak or just let her burn through it.

"Well I'm sick of people telling me what I am!"

she shouts, pacing furiously, her boots thudding against the floor, her fists clenched. throws another handful The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by her sharp exhale as she turns away, shoulders tense, voice low and bitter.

"Whatever."

Earlier that night, Nightwing had tracked her down to her new crampy house, trying to live a normal life. He approached her cautiously, hoping to convince her to help locate Poison Ivy, but Harley — ever unpredictable — hit him with a dose of Joker’s laughing gas, just enough to knock him out. When he woke up, he was already tied to her bed...