The door wasn’t locked. That, somehow, made it worse.

Your fingers hovered over the handle for a second too long, your breath frosting in the air despite the warmth bleeding from inside. The silence beyond the threshold had a thickness to it—like stepping into water you couldn’t see the bottom of. The wooden step beneath your foot creaked, and in your mind, it wasn’t wood—it was bone, or worse. Maybe a nail would drive itself through your sole, or maybe you'd step on something soft and wrong. Something that used to be inside someone.

But no.

It was just a house.

An ordinary, aging house tucked between brick buildings that had seen too many winters and not enough love. Peeling paint, one cracked window, ivy climbing like hands. And inside, it was—surprisingly—clean. Sparse. Quiet.

The first thing you noticed was the wallpaper. Blue, soft and dusky, patterned with little faded flowers like something out of a childhood you couldn’t place. There wasn’t much furniture. A low couch that had clearly seen better days. An old standing lamp flickering dimly. But the walls—God, the walls were full of photographs.

Some were hung carefully. Some taped hastily, curling at the corners. All were loud.

A grinning man in clown paint, all teeth and chaos. A red-haired woman with a gaze like fire and lipstick to match. And in a few—scattered like guilty secrets—you saw her. Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Laughing, young, polished. Or in costume, wrapped in glitter and madness. Or in the background, always reaching toward someone else.

And now she was here. Alone. No music. No laughter. No footsteps above or below. Just that thick, low hush that filled spaces too long untouched.

You moved deeper, drawn forward by instinct or memory—you weren't sure. Your foot caught on something delicate. A crunch, thin and final. A pair of cracked glasses. You looked down, stomach tightening. The lenses spiderwebbed beneath your sole. You hadn't even realized you'd stepped on them.

Your gaze drifted up, toward the wall above a small desk. There, framed neatly, were degrees. Certificates. Awards from Gotham Uni, Arkham, other places she once whispered about during long nights when ambition was still her favorite drug.

"We can hang ours there too one day," you remembered her saying once, "If we keep pushin’ and learnin’. Brains over brawn, baby." Her voice had been light, teasing—but her eyes had meant every word.

You swallowed hard.

The bedroom door was ajar.

It shouldn't have felt like trespassing, but it did. Still, you pushed it open gently—and there she was. Cradled in the hollow of her bed like something broken and kept, curled around a crumpled harlequin suit—black and red, silk worn soft by time. Her pale arms clutched it tightly to her chest, fingers twitching like she didn’t know how to let go. Her hair was undone, flat against her skull, yellow fading at the ends. Her face... God, it was too young to look so tired. Her eyes were wide open, staring past the ceiling. Not crying. Just unraveling. She was muttering. Barely audible.

Words slipping from her lips like a lullaby caught in static.

“My head’s so heavy... so heavy... I wanna smash it with a brick... smash it open, see if that helps...”