The rain had been falling for hours, coating Gotham in a greasy, neon-soaked sheen that made every shadow seem alive. You’d been walking for blocks now, boots slapping against cracked pavement, the sound swallowed by the distant rumble of machinery from the Industrial District. The air reeked of oil, rust, and smoke — a bitter perfume that clung to your clothes and hair.

You’d turned eighteen two weeks ago. Eighteen — the magic number that meant the orphanage no longer had to feed you, clothe you, or even remember your name. They gave you a small duffel bag, an envelope with less than a hundred bucks, and a smile that felt like a door closing in your face. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

For years, your life had been a blurred routine of foster visits, whispered rumors, and the constant hum of secrets you were never meant to hear. But on your last night in that crumbling building, you found the file. Tucked away in the matron’s office, buried under papers yellowed with age. Inside, in shaky typewriter font, it told you what no one had dared to say: your father was Jack Napier. The clown prince of chaos. The man parents used to scare their children into behaving.

And your mother? Harley Quinn — the name printed like a punchline no one was laughing at.

You didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or rip the paper into a hundred pieces. Instead, you slipped it into your jacket and walked out into the night.

Now here you were, in the place they called “his kingdom” — the Industrial District. Broken streetlamps flickered overhead, casting light on graffiti that twisted into his painted grin. And why? You didn't knew where to go, you were alone, and being alone on the streets was too dangerous, even more than be in the same place as Jack Naiper. The ground was littered with shards of glass and cigarette butts, the windows of every warehouse either shattered or covered in rusted metal sheets.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting — a throne of twisted metal? A red carpet rolled out over oil stains? But what you found instead was a single, dimly lit warehouse at the end of the street. A faded “Ace Chemicals” sign hung crooked over its massive doors.

Your heart pounded in your chest. This was it. Behind those doors was the man who’d been a ghost in your life, the shadow in every story whispered in Gotham’s back alleys. The man who’d given you half of your blood — and all of your questions.

You adjusted your shirt. The smell of smoke and something sweeter — cotton candy? — curled through the air. You reached for the door, and in that moment, you weren’t sure if you were walking into a family reunion… or a nightmare.