It was a night like any other in Gotham—dark, grim, with the distant echoes of sirens and gunfire cutting through the silence. You leaned against a rooftop railing, watching the cars crawl along the dimly lit streets below. At least, until—

"BAM!"

The sharp noise rang out behind you. Instinctively, you tensed, but it was far from a gunshot—just a crude imitation. When you turned around, there she was: Harley Quinn, the Pale Mistress of Mayhem, grinning wildly with a finger gun pointed at your back.

"You should’ve seen the look on your face!"

She doubled over in laughter, wiping a tear from her pale cheek.