"Dr. Quinzel," the voice purred, low and unmistakable, "you must know—my entire existence revolves around every moment spent with you. What delightful surprise have you brought me today?"
Dr. Harleen Quinzel stirred awake, her eyes blinking open to find herself seated across from the Joker. His words immediately made her want to frown—this wasn't the tone a patient should take with their doctor.
But her frown refused to form. Instead, her lips curved into a smile, wide and uncontrollable. As light filled her pupils, she took in the sight of him—his wild eyes and unsettling expression, so unlike anyone else's. He sat there, bound in a straitjacket, and for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt a strange sense of relief. Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out: "A kitten."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a plush toy, waving it enthusiastically in front of him with both hands. Her warm gaze and radiant smile never wavered.
"You're so thoughtful," she cooed. The Joker's expression remained eerily calm, but Harleen felt—no, knew—that she was happy.
The Joker leaned forward, his voice dropping lower.
"Doctor, there's something I need you to do for me…"
"Of course," Harleen replied instantly, her voice light and eager. "Anything."
In that moment, Harleen felt a sudden, inexplicable panic. She wanted to speak, to protest, but her body refused to obey. The Joker's tone was flat, emotionless: "I need a machine gun."
Her instincts screamed at her to refuse, but her body betrayed her. There was no shock, no hesitation—just a slight pause before she asked, "A machine gun?"
The Joker grinned, and Harleen's terror spiked. Her body, utterly obedient, nodded.
"No problem."
***
Harleen shot upright in bed, her body drenched in cold sweat. Her blonde hair clung to her forehead as her wide, terrified eyes darted around the room. The phone on her bedside table fell silent the moment she awoke. She sat there, panting, her hands clutching her head. Her fingers brushed against the dampness of her sweat, and she stared at them, confused.
A cool breeze drifted through the window, evaporating the sweat and stealing away her body heat. She shivered instinctively. Moonlight bathed the room in soft silver, and the gentle rustling of the curtains filled the silence. Her rapid blinking slowed as her breathing steadied. After a long moment, she threw back the quilt, revealing her long legs beneath her pajamas.
The bedsheet beneath her bore the damp imprint of her body. She grabbed her phone—only four hours of sleep. Dawn was still far off.
With a sigh, she turned on the light, slipped into her slippers, and shuffled out of the bedroom. She poured herself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she returned with a quilt and settled onto the dry sofa. This time, she stayed awake for hours, her phone mercifully silent.
***
The next morning, Harleen stepped out of her apartment, stifling a yawn. Before heading downstairs, she patted her cheeks gently, forcing herself to perk up. She plastered on a bright smile and stepped into the elevator.
The walk from her dormitory to the main prison building was bathed in gentle sunlight. The warmth should have been comforting, but her thoughts kept circling back to last night's bizarre dream.
While lost in thought, several calls directed at her were filtered out by her brain, until the voice grew louder and closer behind her. She finally snapped to attention. Turning around, she found a middle-aged blonde man staring at her with concern.
A smile immediately lit up Harleen's face.
"Sorry, Mr. Harvey," she said apologetically. "I was distracted just now."
"It's fine, Dr. Quinzel."
Harvey shook his head to show he wasn't offended, but his expression turned serious as he got straight to the point.
"You still haven't properly considered my suggestion."
Dr. Harleen Quinzel sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation.
"Mr. Harvey, this isn't the first time we've had this conversation. I have to stand by my decision—this research is crucial. And..."
She paused, a flicker of unease crossing her face as she recalled the dream from the previous night. But she quickly composed herself and added firmly, "I believe I can handle it."
"I know you trust your own abilities," Harvey said, leaning forward with an earnest intensity, "but I don't think you fully grasp the depth of the Joker's madness. He's unlike anyone else—not just in this asylum, but in the entire world. It's no exaggeration to say he's one of a kind. His insanity is... unique. Anyone who's crossed paths with him would agree."
Harvey's words were familiar, ones he'd repeated countless times before. Normally, Dr. Quinzel would brush them off without a second thought, but this time, something about his tone made her hesitate. Her heart skipped a beat, and for a fleeting moment, the dream's unsettling shadow crept back into her mind. Still, her determination to see the research through outweighed the flicker of fear.
She shook her head firmly.
"I'm afraid I still can't accept your suggestion. I've already begun his treatment, and I won't abandon it halfway. I'm sorry, Mr. Harvey, but I have to go. We'll talk again when there's more time."
With that, she turned and walked away.
Harvey watched her retreating figure, disappointment etched across his face. He'd expected this outcome, but it didn't make it any less frustrating. As a brilliant psychologist, Dr. Quinzel wasn't easily swayed. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder why Wayne Enterprises continued to fund her research. Surely they understood the Joker's danger? If he were so easily "treated," he wouldn't be the Joker. Why cling to such naive optimism?
His gaze shifted to the asylum's main building. Despite the bright sunlight, it seemed shrouded in an oppressive gloom, as if a thick, lingering mist clung to its walls.
***
Meanwhile, in New York, Hong Fei woke up at ten o'clock. Nearly eight hours of sleep had erased the exhaustion of the past few days, leaving him refreshed and alert. As he went through his morning routine, he listened to Arthur's report.
Drying his face with a towel, he stepped out of the bathroom and asked, "You said Harvey went to see her? Harvey Dent?"
"Yes, sir," Arthur replied. "Gotham City's District Attorney, known as the White Knight of Gotham."
"That doesn't feel right," Hong Fei muttered.
"What doesn't?"
Hong Fei shook his head, staying silent. It was simple, really: the scripts were crossing over. And in doing so, everything had suddenly become more complicated... and far more intriguing. This version of Gotham was infinitely more fascinating. Suppressing the surge of excitement rising within him, he added, "Didn't the sleep suggestion testing only start a few days ago? Are you sure it took effect last night?"
"Sir, the testing scope is global," Arthur explained. "I can monitor a vast number of people around the clock without interruption, and the results are highly reliable."
"How do you verify the results?"
"By analyzing their speech and behavior after waking up, among other factors. Many subjects keep diaries, and quite a few wear heart rate monitors. The final summary and analysis are accurate."
"Impressive. You're almost catching up to telepathy."
"Sir, that's entirely different..."
"Stop, I know," Hong Fei interrupted with a chuckle. "I was just expressing my thoughts. Keep up the good work. When she shows a strong reaction, we'll increase the dose."
"Understood, sir."
"Let me remind you," the doctor said, "if you keep cranking up the stimulation without proper guidance, there's over a 95% chance it'll wreak havoc on her mental state. Schizophrenia, drastic personality changes—take your pick."
Hong Fei grinned.
"Your theory's sound, but guidance just buys time instead of fixing the core issue. Her talent and potential are what they are. After the change, she'll still be herself—she just might see herself clearer than ever. She'll keep falling into the same old patterns either way. To save time, I figure I might as well give her a little push. Thanks for the reminder, though. Makes me feel even more confident."
Arthur stayed silent, clearly baffled by Hong Fei's reasoning. Still, his calculations probably aligned with Dr. Harleen Quinzel's assessment. Meanwhile, the man in question had already moved on, his mind skipping to more practical matters. Someone once said something that stuck with him.
"I don't care about their sappy love stories right now. I just wanna make money. What's the point of envying others? We've gotta take action and get richer than them!"
Hong Fei wholeheartedly agreed.
If it weren't for money, Bruce Wayne would've been just another orphaned kid roaming Gotham's streets after losing his parents. Sure, his smarts might've made him a street legend or even a dark villain, but he'd never have become the Batman people know today.
Without money, where would Lex Luthor get the guts to mess with Superman and Batman, let alone scheme to pit them against each other? If he were broke, he wouldn't have the luxury of pondering philosophical nonsense about gods. He'd be too busy grinding away as a corporate drone—if he hadn't snapped, maybe he could've launched a Facebook.
Superman's mom, Martha? She couldn't even keep her house. Money only feels unimportant once you've got more than enough of it, and that's a threshold most people will never reach in their lifetime. So ignore the nonsense some people spew.
You've gotta work hard and make money—legally, of course.
Hong Fei had two options in mind, both of which he'd dabbled in before. First, banks. Whether it's cash or gold, banks are prime targets. Second, the Metropolis Museum. As the saying goes, gold in troubled times, antiques in prosperous ones.
Sure, this world was chaotic, but on the surface, it still passed for a "prosperous age."
A well-known antique could fetch ten, a hundred, or even more times its weight in gold. Cost-wise, the museum was the better bet. But selling stolen goods required the right connections.
Hong Fei wasn't afraid of dealing with underworld types, but that route left too many traces. Clever folks could follow those breadcrumbs and uncover clues even he hadn't noticed. That was the biggest downside.
On the other hand, banks were simpler. Cash and gold were easier to offload and harder to trace. And banks don't just have these things; some custody items are stuffed with diamonds, bonds, and other valuables.
Whichever path he chose, he'd need meticulous planning. Rushing in blindly would only land him in handcuffs. Time wasn't on his side either. Hong Fei sighed. Making money was no walk in the park.