Bang!
The moment the gun fired, Jack Kadere dropped into a deep backbend, his feet planted firmly on the floor. His torso leaned at an unnatural angle, his right hand touching the ground to stabilize himself. The bullet whizzed just above his face. In the same motion, he raised his left hand and fired back into the apartment.
"Infinite Stack: Ten times."
The shot cracked through the air, and a startled gasp followed from inside.
Jack flipped himself upright with a burst of movement and brushed invisible sweat from his brow. "Whew, that was close. Gotham really doesn't disappoint. I almost got my head ventilated."
He stepped inside and calmly shut the door behind him.
In the living room stood a teenage girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, dressed like a school student. She was trembling slightly, and a semi-automatic pistol lay at her feet—its barrel twisted and blackened from overpressure.
"Nice shooting," Jack said sincerely. He hadn't even needed to seek out someone to test his bullet-dodging abilities—she'd done it for him.
A shy, harmless-looking girl who didn't hesitate to shoot the moment the door burst open? He was starting to fall in love with Gotham.
"I don't have any money. This apartment isn't even mine," she stammered, her voice tight with fear.
Jack smiled and looked around casually. The place was small but decently kept. Two floors, street-facing, sparsely furnished. "It's fine. I just needed a temporary base of operations."
Bang!
Jack turned and fired without hesitation. The bullet shot past the girl's head and into the door frame just behind her. She froze in place.
"I didn't say you could leave," Jack said with a disarming grin.
She turned slowly, hands raised, trying not to tremble. "I—I won't leave. Just… please don't hurt me."
Jack smiled wider. His grin had an unnerving, almost hypnotic charm—equal parts boyish and unhinged. Instead of scaring her, it oddly reassured her.
Then he tossed her something.
She caught it reflexively: it was his gun.
Her eyes went wide. "Why… why would you give me this?" she whispered, stunned.
Jack didn't answer. He simply walked toward the bathroom.
"I'm going to take a shower and wash off the bad luck," he said casually. "You watch the door. Don't let anyone in."
The girl stood in the living room, stunned, holding the gun. She looked toward the bathroom as the water started running. A moment passed.
Then came a loud shout from outside.
Bang!
The door flew open, and without hesitating, she fired.
The bullet struck the intruder in the forehead. The man dropped instantly, groaning once before falling silent. She stared in disbelief, heart pounding. After a long pause, she dragged the body out of the doorway, closed the door, and returned to her position in the living room, eyes fixed on the entrance.
Inside the bathroom, Jack Kadere smiled as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair.
Once he was done, he dried off, pulled on his clothes—now fresh from the spin cycle—and stepped out into the living room. The girl was still standing guard, gripping the pistol like it was sacred.
Jack walked over, gave her a light pat on the shoulder, and held out his hand. After a brief pause, she handed him the gun. He tucked it into his waistband, then moved the living room sofa so it faced the door. He dropped onto it and gestured for her to sit.
She followed the unspoken order, legs crossed tightly, hands in her lap—sitting perfectly straight, like a schoolgirl meeting the principal.
Jack glanced at her sideways, then asked casually, "What's your name?"
"Harleen Quinzell," she answered quickly. Her tone was polite. Controlled. Like the name hadn't just come from someone who'd fired a bullet through a man's skull fifteen minutes earlier.
Jack narrowed his eyes and studied her more carefully. There was something unusual about her—besides the fact that she had excellent reflexes and didn't flinch under pressure.
Harleen sat frozen under his gaze. This guy was unpredictable. He looked like a college student—young, clean-cut, not even particularly intimidating. But the way he operated… handing her a gun, showering while she guarded the door, then casually reclaiming the space as if it were his… It all screamed unhinged.
She had considered escaping while he was in the bathroom. But curiosity had anchored her. His behavior didn't follow any logical pattern she could map. It intrigued her.
Her childhood hadn't exactly been normal either. Her father was a grifter—slick, charming, and gone before she hit middle school. Her mother was a domineering perfectionist who tried to sculpt Harleen into a prodigy, more for bragging rights than love. That's what had pushed her into psychology: the need to understand what drove people to abandon, control, or manipulate.
That same curiosity now pulled her toward Jack.
"I'll cooperate," she said, voice low but firm. "Just… don't hurt me."
Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How about I call you Harley Quinn?"
Harleen blinked. "Harley… Quinn?" She tensed again, bracing for something awful.
But there was no threat in his voice. Just a strange playfulness.
"You don't like it?" Jack tilted his head. "It fits. You've got some chaos in you—controlled chaos, for now. But I can see it."
"Why Quinn?" she asked, genuinely curious now. "Is there a reason behind it?"
Jack didn't answer right away. He just sat back, smiled, and looked at her like he was trying to read a book only he could understand.