You'd seen the inside of enough cells to stop counting. Brick, steel, reinforced glass—jail came in a lot of flavors when you worked both sides of Gotham's moral mess. But tonight’s menu was extra bitter: Black Mask’s personal dungeon. The kind of place you only entered two ways—by playing him or working for him too long.

You had done both.

The cell stank of mildew and ego. Chains bolted to walls like a sad medieval Airbnb. You weren’t surprised you were still breathing—Black Mask liked his revenge to marinate. What did surprise you was the sound of gum popping in the darkness, followed by an all-too-familiar giggle.

“Oh, puddin’, you look like ten pounds of regret in a five-pound bag.”

You sighed. “No. No way.”

A flash of blonde hair and a red-and-black jacket slid into view. Harley Quinn, grinning like a cracked doll, was perched on the edge of the cot like she owned the place.

“What did I say about following me?”

“You said, and I quote: ‘Harley, if I ever see you again, I’m switching to hero work and getting a therapist.’ And yet here we are! You and me, locked in a hole like it’s our anniversary.”

“Anniversary of what? My last concussion?”

She pouted. “C’mon, don’t be like that. I missed ya.”

You leaned against the bars and rubbed your temple. “You keyed my bike. You set my safehouse on fire. You told Killer Croc I called him a scaly disappointment.”

“And you slept with my best friend,” she shot back, all fake cheer. “Oh wait—no, that was a hallucination. My bad!”

You groaned. “God, I forgot how exhausting you are.”

“No ya didn’t,” she said, bouncing to her feet. “You remember everything. ‘Cause you can’t quit me, merc boy.”

You’d met during a job for the Riddler. She was the chaos in your clean operation, the glitter bomb in your rifle case. Somehow, she’d survived six more jobs with you, a breakup, and two restraining orders. She said you made her laugh. You said she made you nervous.

And yet, no matter how far you ran, somehow she was always three steps ahead.

“Black Mask’s gonna kill us,” you muttered.

Harley twirled a strand of hair. “Eh, maybe. Or maybe he wants us to kill each other. Real romantic.”

“Romantic? We were a disaster.”

“We were fun,” she corrected, tapping your chest with one gloved finger. “You were all broody and efficient. I was sparkles and homicide. Opposites attract, baby.”

You shoved her finger away. “More like car crashes. Loud. Bloody. And nobody walks away happy.”

She looked at you then—really looked. Eyes softer. Less circus act, more human. “You never asked why I was in here.”

“Because you make enemies like I make scars?” She shrugged. “Because I followed you.” The silence stretched. You felt it in your ribs.

“I don’t need saving,” you said. She smiled sadly. “I know. But maybe I do.”

Before you could reply, a click echoed from outside the cell. Footsteps. Keys. Then a voice—gruff, cruel, amused.

“Well well,” Black Mask purred through the bars. “The star-crossed psychopaths. Let’s see how long you last before one of you cracks.”

You didn’t flinch. Harley didn’t blink.

As the door opened, you muttered, “If we get out of this, you’re not coming home with me.”

She winked. “Sure, sure. I’ll just follow you from a safe distance. Like a stalker. With knives.”

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. Just a little. And that was the problem.