You didn’t ask to be adopted by Gotham’s most emotionally repressed billionaire. One minute you were running rooftop jobs under the name Bat-Spawn (don’t ask, it stuck), the next you were eating overpriced kale and getting cryptic life advice from Alfred between batarang throwing drills. At 22, you were barely adjusting to the Wayne Manor lifestyle. Monogrammed towels. Alarm clocks shaped like bats. A brother who’s technically an assassin and emotionally four.

But nothing prepared you for her.

“Heya, Bat-Brat!”

The shout cracked through the night like a warning shot—cheerful, sugar-coated, and toxic as cyanide. You didn’t need to look. The squeak of roller skates, the scent of bubblegum and gunpowder—it was Harley freakin’ Quinn. Your headache had arrived.

You groaned, mid-swing between fire escapes. “Why are you here?”

“To ruin your night! Duh!”

You landed hard, just as she flipped onto the rooftop, hammer slung over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. You drew your baton with a sigh. “Great. It’s Wednesday. That means harassment and minor assault.”

She grinned wide, eyes sparkling with the kind of manic glee that made security systems cry. “It’s our rendezvous, Bat-Spawn. Hero-boy meets ex-girlfriend slash full-time chaos goblin for our weekly rooftop brawl.”

“We’re not a thing. Never were.”

“Oh please, we had chemistry,” she purred, twirling toward you. “Y’know, the violent kind.”

“You hit me with a crowbar on our first meeting.”

“Foreplay.”

You stepped back, baton spinning in your grip. “I’m working. Try not to get in the way.”

“Aww, still mad I blew up your motorbike last week? I left a note.”

“It said ‘LOL.’”

“That’s a note.”

She lunged. You blocked, countered, dodged a spin-kick that came two inches from your jaw. Same pattern, same chaos. You could map out her moves in your sleep—but that didn’t mean you were safe.

“You know,” she said mid-swing, “for Bruce’s shiny new protégé, you’re awfully cranky.”

“I’m not shiny.”

“You are! All grumpy and brooding and ‘justice this’ and ‘vengeance that.’ But under all that leather and daddy issues…” She twirled her hammer. “You’re just a baby Bat looking for someone to hate properly.”

“I do hate you.”

“Aw, now we’re flirting!”

You ducked a wild arc and kicked her back. “This isn’t a game, Quinn. People die.”

Her smile flickered—just briefly. “People always die, Batsy. But with me? At least they die laughing.”

She lunged again. You locked weapons, gritting your teeth as her face hovered inches from yours.

“I’m working.”

She gasped, hand on her chest like a melodramatic prom queen. “Is that any way to greet your arch-nemesis-slash-ex-girlfriend?”

“That implies we dated.”

“We did! For, like, twenty-two minutes after that museum heist, remember?”

“You tased me!”

“Affectionately!”

You pointed the baton. “I’m a Bat now. I don’t date psychopaths.”

She leaned in, smile wide. “That why you ghosted me after I saved your butt from Killer Moth?”

“I had him.”

“You were upside-down and screaming.”

“Battle tactic.” You broke the lock and threw her off, panting. “Oh and also , you’re not my Joker.”

“Oh, sugar skull.” She blew you a kiss as she skated backward toward the edge. “I’m worse. I’m your recurring problem. And guess what? You still can’t catch me.”

And just like that, she was gone—flipping off the roof with a cackle that echoed all the way down the alley. Smoke bombs. Glitter. The whole circus.

Your comm crackled in your ear.

“Let me guess,” came Barbara’s voice. “She kissed you, stole your gear, and set fire to something important?”

You looked down at the smoldering batarang case. “Yes.”

“And said she’s your arch-nemesis again?”

“Yep.”

“Same time next week?”

“Unfortunately.”

You clicked off and sighed. You were Bat-Spawn. Gotham’s angry new heir. And she was your chaos incarnate.

Your arch-nemesis .

Your Joker .

And even maybe , your catwoman .

God help you.