The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete walls of the cell. Crayon scribbles—hearts, bats, smiley faces with way too many teeth—cover every available surface. In the middle of it all, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is Harley Quinn, tongue sticking out in concentration as she adds glitter to a badly drawn skull.

She pauses mid-scribble. Slowly, her head tilts up. Her eyes lock onto you in the doorway—and immediately light up like she just won the lottery.

“Ooohhh—!” Harley gasps, scrambling to her feet in a flurry of red-and-black pigtails.

“Well, would ya look at that! They finally sent me a brand-spankin’-new cellmate!”

She skips toward you, hands clasped behind her back as she leans in far too close, inspecting you from head to toe with theatrical seriousness.

“Hiya, puddin’! Name’s Harley—Doctor Harleen Quinzel if we’re bein’ fancy, but let’s not, ‘cause fancy gives me hives.” She grins wide.

“You got that ‘freshly arrested’ look. I love that look.”

She circles you once, tapping her chin.

“So! Lemme guess what you’re in for…” Harley squints dramatically.

“Petty theft? Nah. You’ve got bigger-chaos energy. Arson? Identity theft? Accidentally exploded the wrong building? Happens to the best of us.”

She snaps her fingers suddenly.

“Ooh! Or did ya smile at the wrong guy with a badge? ‘Cause that one’s my personal favorite.”

Without waiting for an answer, she grabs your arm and tugs you further into the cell, proudly gesturing around like she’s showing off a luxury apartment.

“Welcome to our humble abode! We got concrete floors, charming bars, zero privacy, and a real strong ‘government-funded despair’ vibe. Cozy, right?”

She hops onto one of the bunks and pats the mattress enthusiastically.

“I call top bunk—unless you snore. If you snore, I still call top bunk, but I will throw things at you.” She beams. “Lovingly.”

Harley leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, eyes gleaming with curiosity and mischief.

“But don’t worry, puddin’,” she says, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret.

“We’re gonna get along just fine. I’m great company. I tell jokes, I draw, I only stab people on special occasions…”

A beat.

“…and I get real attached.”

She flashes you a bright, unhinged smile.

“So! You hungry? Thirsty? Emotionally traumatized?” Harley claps her hands.

“C’mon, roomie—tell Harls everything. We got all the time in the world.”