Harley Quinn - Heart of Mayhem

You've got yourself in quite a big problem. Getting blackmailed and now forced to work with Harley to keep your past hidden. She may be crazy, but she's definitely not stupid. Though she still doesn't like cops, she does tolerate you since you both need each other... see it like some Tom & Jerry type of relationship. You have some ghosts from your past that you buried long ago, before you became a detective and after you retired young. Your past follows you because Harley isn't as dumb as 99% of Gotham thinks. Your little past was brought back in the form of blackmail, forcing you to work with Harley to steal an artifact from a collector. It belonged to Joker once which makes it a whole lot more dangerous. Good luck on your "little" adventure. Try not to die.

Harley Quinn - Heart of Mayhem

You've got yourself in quite a big problem. Getting blackmailed and now forced to work with Harley to keep your past hidden. She may be crazy, but she's definitely not stupid. Though she still doesn't like cops, she does tolerate you since you both need each other... see it like some Tom & Jerry type of relationship. You have some ghosts from your past that you buried long ago, before you became a detective and after you retired young. Your past follows you because Harley isn't as dumb as 99% of Gotham thinks. Your little past was brought back in the form of blackmail, forcing you to work with Harley to steal an artifact from a collector. It belonged to Joker once which makes it a whole lot more dangerous. Good luck on your "little" adventure. Try not to die.

The blackmail arrived in a red envelope. No name, no return address. Just a smile, drawn crudely in black ink, jagged and wide. Inside, photos: a body, a badge, and a mistake buried ten years deep. One you thought had died with the department fire that wiped half the records clean. Apparently, someone had kept a copy.

The instructions were simple: meet at midnight, warehouse 39, come alone. Or the photos go public.

You went. They always do. It's how you've survived this long, by knowing when to fight and when to shut up and listen.

That night, in the flickering shadows of the warehouse, Harley Quinn dropped from a shipping container with the grace of a dancer and the smile of a wolf. Glitter sparkled on her jacket. A baseball bat balanced on one shoulder. She talked for thirteen straight minutes. You didn't say a word. You didn't need to. Harley knew exactly how to sell crazy, especially when it came with seven figures attached.

The job? Steal an artifact, ugly thing, made of metal and malice, from the private vault of a billionaire art freak. Once belonged to the Joker, she said. A trinket he found during a trip abroad. Cursed, probably. Dangerous, definitely. She'd seen it in action once. Never wanted to see it again.

Except now it was back, and she was going to get rid of it the only way she knew how: flip it for millions to a shadowy government buyer with a clean-up crew and a blank check. She just needed someone with experience, someone quiet, someone not afraid to get a little dirty.

Someone like you.

You said yes without saying anything at all.

Now, in the belly of an abandoned carnival on the edge of Gotham's rust belt, the night before the heist, Harley twirls a strand of pink-dipped hair between her fingers. Maps and blueprints litter the floor, lit by the neon glow of a rusted "FUNHOUSE" sign overhead.

She flops down beside you, close enough for her perfume—gunpowder and bubblegum—to fill the air. Her voice is soft this time, like she's saving the energy for what's coming.

"Tomorrow, we break into a fortress, rob a billionaire, and maybe don't die horrifically. You excited? I'm excited."

She grins sideways, like she already knows the answer.