Sitting in her chair, Harleen Quinzel went through the patient files of Arkham Asylum, her focus steady despite everything that had already happened.
Across from her—though not quite on anything—Daniel sat suspended in the air, idly flipping through another file. The pages moved without his hands fully touching them, stopping on one in particular.
Joker.
Bank robbery. Multiple homicides. Hostages executed without pattern or restraint.
Daniel glanced at it, unimpressed.
"Humor me," he said. "Why does the government spend money treating people like this instead of just executing them?"
Harleen didn't look up immediately, turning a page before answering.
"Because that's not how the system works," she said. "The law doesn't exist to eliminate people. It exists to regulate how we respond to them."
She marked a note in the file.
"Criminal responsibility changes when mental illness is involved," she continued. "If someone isn't considered fully responsible for their actions, punishment alone isn't the solution. Treatment is."
Daniel tilted his head slightly, still looking at the file.
"He killed hostages," he said. "More than once."
"And he's still alive," Harleen replied without hesitation. "Which means the system decided he wasn't fit for standard sentencing."
She finally looked up at him.
"You don't fix a broken mind by treating it like a normal one," she added.
Her attention returned to the files. She wasn't ignoring him because she was afraid.
She was prioritizing.
First day.
Performance mattered.
And whatever Daniel was—imaginary or not—he wasn't getting in the way of her work.
"I have a treatment," Daniel said, glancing down at the file in his hand. "Simple. Effective. You run enough current through the brain, it resets. No repeat offenses after that."
"I'm a doctor."
"I treat my patients. I don't decide who deserves to die."
Daniel's gaze lingered on her for a moment, unreadable. "Your patients won't return that courtesy," he replied. "Give them the chance, and they'll kill you without hesitation."
Harleen was about to respond when the entire floor shook beneath her feet, a violent tremor running through Arkham Asylum as alarms blared to life, sharp and relentless.
The shift from controlled silence to chaos was instant, the distant echo of gunfire following seconds later, uneven and spreading.
She was already moving before the sound settled, pushing out of the office and into the corridor, her pace quick but controlled, her mind adjusting from analysis to survival. "What's happening?" she asked, though the answer was already forming.
"What else?" Daniel said as he followed behind her, floating rather than walking. "Your patients are getting their freedom, and you might lose yours."
Harleen didn't slow. She turned down the hallway toward the nearest exit, ignoring him now, focusing on distance, direction, and the rising noise around her. The situation was clear—containment had failed, and if the worst inmates were loose, the building wasn't a hospital anymore.
It was a kill zone.
"You know how this goes," Daniel continued, almost casually. "First thing in a breakout—exits get blocked."
She reached the end of the corridor and stopped.
The exit had been destroyed, the reinforced doors blown inward and buried under collapsed concrete and twisted metal. The bodies of guards lay scattered near the wreckage, unmoving, their weapons discarded beside them. The path out was completely sealed.
Harleen took it in quickly, her breathing tightening for a moment before she forced it back under control. "Yeah," she said under her breath, more to herself than him. "I figured."
Footsteps echoed from behind her, heavy and uneven.
She turned.
Two men approached, both armed, and the moment they saw her, one of them let out a low laugh.
"Well, look at that," he said, his tone crude as his eyes ran over her. "A doctor. And not just any—this place has good taste."
The other smirked, stepping slightly to the side as if already thinking about cutting off space.
"Been a while since we had something interesting," he added, his grin widening as he slowed his approach.
"Don't come any closer," Harleen said as she bent quickly, grabbing the fallen guard's gun and bringing it up with both hands.
The men paused for half a second, more surprised than intimidated.
"Oh, this one fights," one of them said, amused, tilting his head as he looked at her stance.
"That just makes it better," the other replied, shifting his grip on the weapon without backing off.
"Last warning."
"If you're going to shoot," Daniel said from right behind her, his arms closing around hers as he adjusted her grip, "you need to take the safety off."
Her thumb moved—guided, not entirely her own—and the safety clicked free.
"Now steady," he murmured near her ear. "Close your eyes if you have to… and pull."
Her breath hitched. Her finger tightened.
The gun kicked in her hands.
The shot cracked through the air, sharp and loud, echoing off the buildings.
She flinched, eyes squeezed shut as the recoil traveled up her arms.
Silence followed.
When she opened her eyes again, both men were on the ground.
*****
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