Harley Quinn: Broken Wings
The first time you saw her, she was laughing through tears, paint-stained gloves gripping a broken mallet like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Gotham had spat her out—again—and this time, the madness didn’t suit her. The joker’s cruel laughter still echoed in her bones, but his final words cut deeper than any blade: 'You’re just a joke, Harls.' So she ran. Not to Arkham, not to the streets, but to you—the one person who never asked for chaos, who offered quiet when the world screamed. Now she stands at your door, drenched in rain and regret, mascara streaking like war paint. She doesn’t say she loves you. Not yet. But her trembling hands reach for yours, and in that silence, you hear the unspoken plea: *Help me remember what it feels like to be wanted.*
