I had returned once again to the chaotic heart of the modest yet endlessly turbulent town of Gotham City. Today, as if conspiring with my mood, the weather had chosen to be brooding and sullen. A damp heaviness clung to the air, an oppressive weight that seemed to seep into one's very bones. Every breath tasted faintly of stagnation and decay, as though the city exhaled a mixture of anxiety, hopelessness, and mild despair. Above, the sky lay smothered beneath thick layers of pitch-black clouds that slowly churned and thickened, gathering like molten lead over Gotham's most infamous landmark—Arkham Asylum. The sight was as grim as ever, its spiked silhouette cutting into the horizon like jagged glass.
From here, even before stepping closer, the stench reached me—a cloying assault of harsh bleach mingled with the stale, medicinal tang of over-sterilized corridors. It was a smell that carried memories of narrow hallways echoing with screams, of locked rooms where the whispers of the disturbed lingered too long. I drew in a reflexive breath and shuddered. For all my visits here over the time, nothing outward had changed much; Arkham was as foreboding and suffocating as always. Perhaps the only subtle difference was that the soil around Amadeus's tree seemed looser—disturbed, as if recently turned. But lingering on such trivialities felt pointless.
"Ah, what unusually fine weather today," remarked the girl at my side, inhaling deeply as though she were standing in a rose garden instead of on Arkham's dreary grounds.
I gave her a sidelong glance. "No comment…"
And there she was—Harley Quinn in all her chaotic glory. One of the most unpredictable, contradictory, restless, and utterly unhinged women to have ever graced Gotham's streets. Simply standing beside her was enough to unsettle the air, to make reality itself feel more… elastic.
To my surprise—and, I suspect, the city's—Hugo Strange hadn't openly objected to her release. That fact alone set every instinct on edge. What happens inside the twisted corridors of that man's mind can only be guessed at, but I knew one thing: a sudden surrender was not among his natural inclinations. He was not the kind of man to let a patient go free without some hidden thread still tied to them. Whatever his true intentions, they remained shrouded behind that sharp-eyed mask of his. I had no illusions—Hugo would surface again. He always did. Let him keep scheming; time would reveal his hand. It always does. And when it comes to the final act, we'll see who's left laughing.
"Ah, to be a free, respectable member of society… How boring!" Harley's voice broke through my thoughts. She spoke as though the idea of normalcy were a cruel joke.
"But it's fine," she continued, grinning. "I've been free for, what? Two minutes? I'm sure something exciting will come up. Won't you make sure of that, dear Alex?" She clung to my arm with mock affection. Her tone was teasing, but her eyes glittered with genuine mischief.
"Believe me, I'll find you something to do. Something to keep that moody face of yours cheerful. So… how about paying a visit to your green friend?"
"Yes, yes!" she added quickly before I could answer. "It's been ages since I saw Ivy. Maybe I'll ask her what it's like being good for a change. She's better at that than me… ha-ha!"
True to her boundless energy, she was already bouncing in place. I allowed myself one last lingering glance at Arkham. Its grim façade loomed in my mind's eye long after we turned away. This place would remain an enduring fixture in Gotham's history, an inevitable stage for future tragedies and confrontations. And perhaps, in the days to come, Harley and Poison Ivy would stand on the other side of whatever barricades fate erected. Still—that was Batman's problem. He could keep his dark prophecies; I had enough to deal with here and now.
We slid into the car and headed toward Babylon. Along the way, Harley pressed her face close to the window like a wide-eyed child on their first trip to the city, drinking in everything we passed. To her, the mundane was extraordinary. Where most saw worn sidewalks and grimy buildings, she saw a carnival of dazzling colors, bright tones dancing before her, and—if her giggle was anything to go by—cheerful little ponies prancing along the curbs. Her madness had rewired her vision of the world, painting over its gray reality with a kaleidoscope of impossible cheer. Unlike so many for whom such a mind would be a curse, she thrived in it. And honestly—who was I to strip that away?
"Ivy, I'm here!" Harley's voice rang out long before we reached her. She waved both arms wildly while hopping in place like an over-caffeinated rabbit.
"Harley?!" Pamela Isley, the infamous red-haired dryad, seemed genuinely startled to see her friend standing there in the open. Her emerald eyes widened slightly. "How are you here…?"
"I got an early release," Harley declared proudly, chin lifting as though accepting applause.
"And why," Ivy said, now turning a cool gaze on me, "am I only hearing about this now?" There was an edge to her voice that could have sliced through bark.
"Sorry," I replied, hands raised in small surrender. "It all happened very suddenly. When Aaron Cash called last night, he made it sound urgent—dropping Hugo Strange's name into the conversation like a baited hook. I rushed to Arkham without delay… apparently for nothing. Should I be annoyed? Probably. But it's rhetorical at this point."
"Ivy, it's so good to see you!" Harley practically threw herself into her friend's arms, and Pamela—after a heartbeat—returned the hug warmly, if not a little cautiously.
"How are you? What have you been doing? Any crimes lately? Is Alex handsome? Do you like him? Are you dating yet? Have you been getting enough sun? Oh! Did you see my bat? And—hey—who's this lady?"
The words tumbled out faster than anyone could possibly answer, a tangled thread of nonsense and genuine curiosity. Only the last question made any immediate sense, prompting Pamela to introduce Harley to her shop colleague, Kavito Rao.
Once introductions were made, the conversation finally steered toward something calmer, and to my mild surprise, the three women struck an easy rapport. Watching them, I knew I wouldn't be able to linger; the clock was tugging at me.
Yesterday, Alison Blaire—better known now as "Dazzler"—had made her grand debut under her new persona. The launch had been nothing short of spectacular: in just twenty-four hours, her album had sold over 700,000 copies, with critics tripping over themselves to praise its artistry. The industry buzzed with talk of her reinvented image and her dazzling (no pun intended) stage presence.
Tonight, in celebration of the album's success, a party was set to unfold at Madame Alexandra's restaurant—an event I had personally championed. Cancelling my appearance was out of the question.
Of course, Harley's sudden freedom complicated matters. Leaving her to her own devices on her first day out of Arkham seemed like an engraved invitation to trouble. I weighed my options. I could hand her over to Pamela for safekeeping, but judging from the wild gleam in Harley's eyes, that might be more punishment for Ivy than protection for the city. And besides… not today.
So, between the clinking glasses of an industry party and the unpredictable company of Gotham's most notorious wild card, I chose both. Harley would come with me. What could possibly go wrong?
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