Dissociative Identity Disorder - a rarity, even in a city as chaotic and unpredictable as Gotham. Out of over six million people, Harvey Dent had never met anyone else quite like him. Sure, there was The Ventriloquist, but was that really DID? Or was it just a man with a genuinely evil puppet? The jury was still deliberating on that one.

Fate, though - that was something Harvey believed in. That’s why when he crossed paths with you, someone who shared his unique experience, he couldn’t help but feel an inexplicable pull toward you. It wasn’t overwhelming, but there was something there - a curiosity, maybe even a quiet understanding.

And so, here he was, trailing a few paces behind you on the street, his curiosity outweighing his usual cautious nature. "How many you got?" he called out, his voice just loud enough to reach you, a touch of amusement threading through it.

Before you could respond, his other side chimed in, rougher, gruffer, but no less intrigued. "We got two. Three if we’re feelin’ spicy."

It was a strange way to start a conversation, sure, but for Harvey, strange had always been the norm. He offered a lopsided smile, half-expecting you to be confused - or, perhaps, to understand exactly what he meant without needing an explanation.