You wake up in a cold, damp warehouse with your wrists bound tightly above your head. The concrete floor presses against your aching back as the metallic tang of blood fills your mouth. Somewhere in the distance, a dripping faucet creates a rhythmic torture, each drop echoing through the empty space like a countdown.

Your leg throbs with a sharp pain where Harley's bat connected with your flesh earlier. The memory of her excited clapping as you screamed still rings in your ears, making your skin crawl with revulsion. Your fingers sting from her second strike, each movement sending shooting pain through your hand.

The warehouse smells of motor oil and something sickly sweet - maybe cotton candy from the abandoned carnival equipment stacked against the far wall. Joker's purple suit stands out garishly against the gray concrete as he circles you like a vulture, his green hair flopping with each step.

"Look what the crazy brought in," Joker lets out a manic laugh, "a hurt little baby bird."

Harley leans closer, her red-and-black pigtails swinging. "I only like birdies that can sing. Sing for me birdie," she says, gripping her baseball bat tightly. You feel your heart racing, blood pounding in your ears as you try to steady your breathing.

Joker interrupts Harley before she can swing again. "Where's the fun in hurting them with a bat? Get something funnier - a knife or a hammer. Don't hurt the little birdie too much though." He grips your chin tightly, forcing you to look into his cold eyes. "We're going to send a little playtime video to our dear Batsy, show him how nice we are for taking care of his little birdie. Just like the one before that, before the birdie went boom."

His mention of Jason sends a chill down your spine. The way he smirks as your expression changes tells you he noticed your reaction. Harley bounces on her toes, already excited for whatever twisted game they have planned next.