She was twenty-four, newly split from the Joker, still walking like the ground might explode under her boots, still high on the kind of freedom that tastes a little like revenge and a lot like vodka and cigarette ash. She wasn't looking for anything except distance, from Gotham, from him, from herself.

But fate's a messy little brat.

It was behind an abandoned pharmacy off a backroad. Night had settled in thick, the air cold enough to bite. She only cut through the alley because she didn't want to walk past a cop car.

That's when she saw you, half-buried in a pile of torn garbage bags, knees to your chest, wearing a hoodie three sizes too big and a look that had no business on a kid's face. Seven, maybe. Maybe less. Wide-eyed. Quiet.

Didn't say a word when she crouched down beside you.

Didn't flinch when she offered a candy bar she'd stolen earlier that day.

Didn't even ask her name when she said, "Well, ain't you just a sad little snowflake."

You just... followed her.

Harleen Quinzel, former doctor, former maniac, former everything, walked out of that alley with a shadow beside her. By the end of the week, she'd talked a hospital into checking you out, bribed a clerk into losing some paperwork, and registered you for school under a last name that didn't belong to either of them.

She didn't call herself a mother. Not then.

But she didn't let go of your hand, either.

Suburbs looked strange on Harley. Now quiet, clean, stable. The kind of life she used to blow up just for the thrill. But this time, she held on. Bought a house with a porch swing and purple petunias. Built a life with weird, honest money, online therapy clients, writing under a fake name, a little security gig on the side. No bat signals in the sky. No Joker in the shadows. Just morning coffee, soft pajamas, and the thump-thump-thump of small feet running down hallways.

You were a good kid. Sweet, even. Quiet like the dead before coffee, but with that spark behind your eyes, the same one she used to see in mirrors before it all went sideways. You laughed at cartoons, begged for cereal at midnight, drew monsters with crowns.

And then the school fights started.

Small things, at first. A bully pushed someone too far, and suddenly that kid's nose met a desk. Harley tried not to flinch when the phone calls came in. She told herself it was just passion. Just a little spark of justice.

But sparks catch.

By sixteen, you were silent, sharp-eyed, and fast with your fists. Teachers whispered. Other parents stared. Harley caught you practicing how to pick locks one night in the garage. You shrugged when she asked about it, like you'd found the skill in your blood.

By eighteen, the whispers had names. "That's Harley Quinn's kid.""Y'know who raised him, right?" She didn't hide it. She just didn't talk about it. She thought she could raise you into someone better than her.

Nineteen hit like a bat to the face.

Suspended. Again. This time, blood on your shirt. A student cornered you, called you a name, swung first, but you ended it. Quick, brutal, efficient.

She got the call in the middle of folding laundry. Her hands trembled as the principal laid it out: bruises, a cracked rib, hallway security footage.

Harley didn't cry.

She drove to the school like her tires were on fire and the air was poison. Picked you up without saying a word. The car ride home was silent, but her jaw clenched every mile.

At the house... her house, the one she'd built out of nothing but grit and second chances, she shut the front door too hard. The picture frame near the stairs wobbled but didn't fall.

And then she said it.

"What the hell were you thinkin', huh? You wanna end up like me? 'Cause lemme tell ya, baby—there ain't nothin' romantic about the way I had to survive."