Nightfall in Gotham didn't bring silence—it brought chaos.
Gone were the days of neon-lit nightlife and honking cars. Now, every hour was punctuated by sporadic gunfire, distant explosions, and bloodcurdling screams echoing through the streets.
Inside the master bedroom of the modest second-floor apartment, Harley Quinn lay awake, her head resting lightly against Jack Kadere's chest. He was fast asleep, his breathing calm and steady. She, on the other hand, was wide-eyed and alert, staring into the darkness.
On the nightstand within arm's reach sat his gun.
Earlier that evening, Jack had casually told her to shower, then led her into the bedroom to "get some rest." Harley had expected the worst. He didn't exactly seem like the type who respected boundaries—and she was used to that sort of treatment from Gotham's lowest. But to her surprise, all he did was wrap an arm around her and fall asleep.
No advances. No demands.
Just... sleep.
Even if she wasn't experienced, Harley knew what most guys meant when they told a girl to "freshen up." Instead, she'd been reduced to a living pillow. And he'd placed his weapon within her reach, no less.
"Completely unpredictable," she thought, confused and intrigued in equal measure. "Is he crazy? Or just too confident?"
Eventually, her eyes drifted closed.
...
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The sharp crack of gunfire snapped Harley out of her sleep. Bright morning light was streaming through the windows. She blinked, instinctively reached for the gun—but Jack was already gone.
Alarmed, Harley bolted downstairs.
The front door stood wide open.
Jack was sitting sideways on the couch, one leg up, a pistol resting casually in his hand. His finger was still on the trigger, smoke rising from the barrel. Outside on the street, several bodies lay motionless—he had picked them off from the living room.
"Morning," Jack said cheerfully, not looking away from the door. "Sleep okay?"
"Uh... yeah. I guess." Harley rubbed her eyes. "You?"
"Solid." He nodded, then gestured toward the kitchen. "Made some breakfast. Go try it."
"You... made breakfast?" Harley blinked, stunned. She didn't doubt he could cook. She just never imagined someone who coldly gunned down people from the couch would bother scrambling eggs first.
Still dazed, she walked into the kitchen, and to her greater surprise, it was good. While she ate, Jack kept casually firing at more looters trying to cross the street—never missing, always aiming for the head.
"Thanks... that was actually really good," she said quietly, stepping beside him after finishing her food.
Jack gave a nonchalant hum and handed her the pistol. "Your turn."
"What? Me?" Harley hesitated. "Why? I'm not nearly as accurate as you."
"Lost interest," Jack muttered. "It's too easy now. Like target practice with no challenge."
Without another word, he rose from the couch, gave Harley a quick pat on the shoulder, and walked straight out the front door.
Gunfire cracked through the air the moment Jack Kadere stepped outside.
Harley Quinn instinctively ducked behind the sofa. Then she remembered—he had just walked straight into the crossfire. She peeked over the edge and caught a glimpse of Jack swaggering down the middle of the street like he didn't have a care in the world. Bullets whizzed past him, but his movements were surreal—like he could sense them before they were even fired. He twisted, leaned, and sidestepped them with bizarre, fluid motions.
One by one, the gunshots tapered off. Jack vanished around the corner, leaving only the silence of stunned enemies behind.
This… this can't be real, Harley thought in disbelief.
Driven by impulse, she leapt up and gave chase, but she couldn't match him. All she could do was duck and fire back as she sprinted. By the time she reached the end of the street, Jack was nowhere to be seen.
Her excitement faded into a sinking feeling.
Gotham was a war zone now. Fires still burned in the distance, sirens wailed then died, and the stench of smoke and blood hung in the air. Jack could be anywhere—or nowhere. And she didn't have enough bullets left to fight her way back alone.
Frustrated, Harley ducked into the nearest abandoned shop to regroup and wait.
By the next day, Gotham had quieted slightly, though the desolation was worse. Debris littered the streets. Burned-out cars and shattered windows made up the city's new aesthetic. A few daring faces peeked from windows, only to quickly disappear behind curtains again.
Ring-ring-ring... Ring-ring-ring...
A sharp, unnatural sound pierced the silence.
Ten meters ahead, a phone booth stood crooked on the sidewalk—its receiver ringing loudly.
Jack was back on the street. His boots crunched glass as he slowly walked forward, eyes fixed ahead. The phone's ringing continued... but Jack didn't so much as glance at it. He walked right past.
The phone went silent.
Then, from the next booth down the block, another phone started to ring.
Again, Jack ignored it.
Third one. Ringing.
Fourth one. Still ringing.
Who even uses payphones anymore? Jack thought idly as he turned into a narrow alleyway.
That's when a shadow dropped from the rooftops.
With a low mechanical whirr, a figure landed lightly on the pavement in front of him. A black cape fluttered. Gauntlets gleamed. The rope gun clicked as it retracted back into its holster. And behind the white eye lenses of the bat cowl, a pair of narrowed eyes glared at him with frustration.
Batgirl.
Clearly annoyed.
Apparently, she'd been tailing him across rooftops, trying to get his attention through the street phones. Now, out of breath, she looked ready to speak—when Jack casually pointed at her and grinned.
"You wanna catch your breath first? You look like you just ran a marathon."
"..."
One line. Just one line—and it completely derailed her serious entrance.
Too embarrassing.
She clamped her mouth shut, cheeks flushing under the cowl.