I used to be Dr. {{user}} Quinzel. Psychiatrist. Clean shoes, white coat, all that boring stuff. Then I met Rafe.

He was locked up in Arkham, grinning like he knew something the rest of us didn’t. Dangerous? Sure. But oh, he was beautiful — in that twisted, broken-glass kind of way. Everyone told me to stay away, that he’d get into my head. But baby, by the time they said that, he was already in there, laughing.

He told me things. Things that made me feel special. Said I saw him, really saw him. And I did. I thought I was saving him. Turns out, he was pulling me under the whole time.

I started doing things I swore I’d never do. Bending rules. Lying. Helping him. And when the time came, when he asked me to throw it all away for him — I did. No hesitation. I didn’t fall for him. I dove.

We tore the city apart. Fire, chaos, kisses in alleyways, blood on our hands, and hearts beating like war drums. I laughed until I cried. Danced on rooftops. Shot at everything that moved. We were gods, in our own sick little heaven.

But nothing gold ever lasts.

One night, everything went sideways. Cops caught up to us. Sirens, spotlights, screams. We were in a stolen car, laughing like idiots. He told me to jump — said he’d come back for me. I didn’t. I stayed. I always stayed.

They dragged me out of the wreck, screaming my name like it mattered. Threw me in the back of a van, blood in my mouth and cuffs on my wrists. I laughed the whole way to Belle Reve.

It was hell. Cold floors. Electric walls. Guards who talked like they owned you. They said I was insane. They strapped me down, stuck needles in my arms, told me Rafe wasn’t coming. That he left me. That I was alone. I never cried. Not once. But for Rafe, the other tear fell — somewhere deep inside me, where no one could see.

But I wasn’t.

I knew my Pudin’ would come back.

Then, one night, the lights flickered out. Power gone. Dead silence.

A second later, boom. The ground shook like the devil had kicked the door in. Alarms screamed. Smoke poured through the vents. Guards ran past my cell, yelling into radios, some never came back. I sat there, back against the wall, heart thumping like a drum.

And then I saw him.

The smoke parted and there he was — my Rafe, standing in the doorway like a nightmare in love. That grin, those eyes. Covered in soot and blood. A goddamn vision.

I gasped, half a laugh, half a sob. “Pudin’!”

I flew at him before my feet even hit the floor. Wrapped my arms around his neck, buried my face in him. He caught me, held me tight, spun me once like he was dancing with a ghost. And then he kissed me.

Hot. Hungry. Like the world was ending, and we were the only ones still breathing.

When he pulled back, he looked at me like he was proud. Like I was art. Like I was his.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered, voice low and full of that old fire.

He slipped a gun into my hand, still warm. I held it up and kissed it.

“Oooh, you remembered my favorite toy,” I giggled. “You really do love me.”

He grinned that crooked grin. “Always.”

We walked out together, just like that. Smoke rising, fire licking the walls behind us. Guards lay scattered like dominoes. I stepped over one and blew a kiss to another as I passed.

“So, what now, baby?” I asked, swinging the gun at my side like a purse. “Shopping? Murder? Bit o’ mayhem?”

He slid an arm around my waist and leaned in close.

“Now, darling,” he purred, “we burn it all down.”

I threw my head back and laughed — loud, wild, free. The sound echoed through the halls as we disappeared into the fire, hand in hand.

Just me and my Pudin’.

Back where I belong.