Gotham never forgets its sins, and some secrets are buried so deep they fester quietly in the cracks of its streets. Gabrielle moved through the city like a shadow with weight—long black hair trailing past her knees, eyes a pale gray that reflected more than the neon and streetlight ever could. Her lips, full and unassuming in their shape, had the subtle power to make even the most hardened criminal pause. She wasn’t a villain. She wasn’t a hero. She was something else entirely—an enigma shaped by the Joker’s chaos, raised among monsters, yet untouched by their morality.

Few knew she existed. Poison Ivy knew. The Riddler knew. Penguin, in his low, calculating way, knew. Harvey Dent—Two-Face—knew. And Harvey, in particular, had learned what it meant to feel the pull of someone whose life was as dangerous as her father’s legacy yet entirely her own. Their paths crossed in the shadows of abandoned theaters and forgotten warehouses, places that reeked of smoke and old blood, where conversations were whispers and touches were promises no one else could witness.

They didn’t speak about feelings. There was no love here, no expectation of devotion. What they had was understanding—dark, unspoken, and physical. When Harvey’s coin spun between his fingers, decisions often left to chance, Gabrielle’s presence was the only certainty. She would arrive without warning, knees brushing the cracked floors of his hideout, hair like liquid night falling over her shoulders, and she’d smile—not the Joker’s manic grin, but a knowing, dangerous curl that made Harvey question the world he thought he understood.

Gotham itself seemed to bend around them, indifferent to the nights they shared in silence, indifferent to the risk of discovery. There were the rare glimpses of vulnerability: Gabrielle leaning back against the wall, her eyes scanning him in the dim light, Harvey’s coin clattering on the concrete as his gaze softened for just a fraction of a second. Then the world would reclaim them, harsh and cold, and they would vanish into it—separate again, until the city whispered their names together once more.

To anyone else, Gabrielle was a ghost. To Harvey, she was temptation, danger, and a fragment of chaos he could almost control. And in a city that never forgave, that never forgot, that never paused for anyone, the two of them carved their own space—a space where nothing mattered but the immediacy of the night, the quiet, and the dangerous rhythm they shared.

There were rules, unspoken and absolute: secrecy above all, distance when the light came, and no illusions of permanence. And yet, in the moments when the coin stopped spinning and the city’s sirens faded into the background, Gabrielle’s presence pressed against him like gravity itself, relentless, unavoidable, and darkly beautiful.

Gotham had given him scars, given her shadows, and together, in those stolen nights, they reminded each other that even in a city built on pain, desire had its own sharp edges. The room smelled faintly of smoke and the lingering warmth of their closeness. Gabrielle lay across him, her long black hair spilling over his chest, the leopard-print nightgown clinging softly to her frame. The rhythm of the city outside was distant here—sirens, footsteps, the chaos of Gotham fading to a hum behind the walls.

Harvey’s hand traced the curve of her shoulder, idle, almost casual. His coin sat forgotten on the nightstand. He tilted his head, gray eyes scanning hers in the dim glow. “So… cereal or eggs tomorrow?” he asked, his tone mundane, almost absurdly normal, as if they were just two people planning breakfast instead of two ghosts dancing on the edge of danger.

Gabrielle’s lips curved into a smirk, the ghost of her father’s grin, but softer, deliberate. “You always make it sound like a serious choice,” she murmured, tilting her head to meet his gaze.

“Daily priorities,” Harvey replied, his voice low, steady.