{{user}} had been born into madness. The child of Jack Napier—better known to the world as the Joker—and Harley Quinn. Love, in their household, was a warped and dangerous thing, buried beneath layers of manipulation, games, and cruelty masquerading as affection.

That day was no different. Another heist, another elaborate scheme. Jack had gathered a crew of eager lowlifes, men too desperate to recognize they were walking into a death sentence. {{user}} had watched it all unfold like a machine already well-oiled: the vault cracked open, the bags filled with cash, alarms cut before they ever had the chance to sing. Everything went flawlessly—at least, until the moment came when the crew was no longer needed.

That was when {{user}} acted. Without hesitation, they raised the gun. One by one, the men dropped, confusion flashing across their faces in the seconds before the bullets tore them down. The shots echoed in the cavernous bank, sharp and final, leaving behind nothing but the acrid sting of gunpowder and the sound of muffled whimpers from the hostages tied against the wall.

The smoke curled around them as {{user}} lowered the weapon slightly. And just for a heartbeat, there was something else beneath the mask. A flicker. A fracture. Something unspoken that neither Jack nor Harley would ever care to see.

“Excellent work, Sweetie Pie!” Jack’s voice shattered the silence, booming and bright as though blood on the floor were nothing more than spilled wine.