Two weeks had passed, and the city below still hadn't stopped bleeding.
From the floor-to-ceiling windows of their luxury penthouse, Gotham's skyline stretched out like a heartbeat monitor—jagged, erratic, always on the brink of flatlining. Sirens sang in the distance, a lullaby for the wicked, and in their California king bed—lined with wine-red silk sheets and pillows made of feather and foolish indulgence—two criminals lay basking in the aftermath of yet another beautiful disaster.
Harley Quinn was stretched out vertically on her side of the bed, one arm tucked under her head like a sleepy cat, platinum hair spilling everywhere like spun sugar and chaos. Her bump was just starting to peek through the thin tank top she wore to bed, subtle but present, like a whispered promise of madness to come.
Across from her, sitting on the edge of the bed by her feet, was Joker—shirtless, scarred, and sparkling with residual gunpowder glamour. His eyes were ringed with leftover eyeliner smudges from their "Banker's Ball Massacre," a crime so deliciously cruel the headlines still hadn't decided whether to call it terrorism, performance art, or both.
With a deep, dramatic groan, he threw himself back onto the bed, flinging his tattooed arm over his face like an actor in a silent film. "Ughhhh."
Harley blinked, amused. "What's the matter, puddin'?"
He flopped his wrist limply toward her without lifting his arm. "I'm horny, but you—" his hand made a vague gesture in her direction, "—you're all pregnant and shit." His voice was a mock whine, full of theatrical self-pity.
Harley let out a cackle, the kind that would rattle bones in cemeteries. "Pfft—really, Mister J?"
He peeked at her with one eye, expression deadpan. "Hey. I only like laughing when it's at other people's misery. Not mine."
Another groan. This one long and pitiful, followed by him flinging an arm dramatically across his stomach like he was dying of unfulfilled desire.
Harley rolled her eyes, biting her lip as she pushed herself up to her knees, straddling the plush mattress with that dangerous little smirk playing on her lips. "Puddin'... y'know pregnant women can have sex, right? Like... it's not illegal." She tilted her head coyly. "Some of the articles said it's even healthy. Therapeutic and stuff."
Joker turned his head toward her slowly, like a broken wind-up toy rebooting. "Yeah?"
She nodded, eyes glittering. "Mmhmm," she purred, crawling toward him on all fours like a lioness that had plans. "Says it releases endorphins and lowers stress... Real medical stuff."
He sat up slightly, intrigued, but before he could fully rise, Harley pushed him back down with both palms, firm but teasing. "Nope. No escaping. You said you were horny. I'm here to help."
"Oh, doctor, I think I'm ready for my treatment," he growled playfully, biting his lower lip with a grin that was all teeth and sin.
Harley giggled as she reached for his belt buckle, popping it open with practiced ease. "This one's on the house, baby."
The metal clinked as it slid through the loops, and Joker exhaled sharply as she dragged it away and tossed it across the bed. She looked up at him, eyes gleaming. "Just a lil' thank you for blowin' up that senator's yacht, puddin'. Real romantic gesture."
He smirked. "What can I say? I'm a sucker for fireworks..."
"Mmhm." She leaned in, voice low and wicked in his ear. "Let's make a few more sparks tonight."
Joker let out another one of his overly dramatic groans, the kind that made it sound like the world had personally wronged him. His pale chest rose and fell beneath the dim glow of their bedroom's custom chandelier—a luxurious thing with gold and diamonds embedded everywhere.
He peeked out from under his forearm, violet-ringed eyes catching Harley's as she climbed over him and straddled his chest like a jungle cat with a doctorate and a baby on the way.
"You're lucky you're pretty," he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Oh, I know, Puddin'," she cooed, dragging her nails lightly up his stomach. "Lucky I'm smart too, huh? And generous. Very generous. Especially to helpless little boys in need."
"Helpless—" he scoffed, sitting up just a bit, "I am not hel—"
But she pushed him back down with one finger on his chest. He hit the mattress with a little bounce and blinked in mock shock as she slid back onto his legs.
"Shh," she purred, "Doctor's orders."
Joker's head tilted. "Oh, we playing doctor again? Can I be the one who accidentally removes your spleen?"
She giggled and slapped his chest lightly. "No, I'm the doc, remember? I got the degree and everything."
"Oh, right," he said, feigning deep realization. "The one that led to electroshock therapy and murder sprees. That degree."
She grinned wide, wicked and sweet. "The very one."
Harley leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and slow. Joker didn't move for a moment—just stared up at her, dazed for the briefest of seconds. Then he gripped her hips gently, but firmly, grinding her hips back and forth over his cock until she fell forward into his shoulder.
"Mmm..." she moaned, pushing herself lower down his legs, brushing her nose against his. "Now where were we?"
"Somewhere between my belt coming off and the heavens opening up," he muttered, eyes dark and locked on hers.
"Well," she said, reaching down, voice dipped in honey and mayhem, "let's finish what we started."
The room was humming with tension, the kind that wrapped around your ribs and made you forget how to breathe. That chandelier above them swung gently, casting wild shadows over satin sheets and the pair tangled in them.
Joker lay sprawled across the bed like a deity of chaos mid-sacrifice, shirtless, panting lightly, pupils blown wide. His hands gripped at the sheets with clawed desperation, but Harley... oh, she was on a mission. A slow, taunting, deliciously evil mission.
She kissed down his torso like a woman worshiping a god she fully intended to bring to his knees. A kiss here. A nip there. A swirl of her tongue just beneath his ribs that made him shudder and mutter a shaky "Jesus—"
Harley just giggled. "Wrong name, Puddin'," she whispered, hot breath teasing his skin. "You only pray to me now."
She wrapped her mouth around his length. Refusing to move, not yet.
Joker's entire body arched, like a puppet yanked up by a cruel and glorious string. His hands flew to her thick, white hair, but she swatted them away with a playful glare, her eyes gleaming as she looked up at him and she took his cock out of her mouth.
"Uh-uh," she said, wagging a finger. "Doctor's in charge."
He dropped his head back to the mattress with a groan, the kind that rumbled up from somewhere deep, buried beneath a thousand layers of madness and bravado. Harley smirked as she lowered back down, taking him back in her mouth. She moaned in excitement as she slid her tongue up the side of his length. It's been a few months since Joker and Harley had sex, which for them is extremely unusual.
"Agh—fuhhh—" Joker gasped, head thrown back, veins visible in his neck, lips parted in some breathless curse or plea.
She stopped. Again.
Just like that. Slid up like a cat who'd lost interest in her toy. Licked the glistening precum off her lips with a smirk and blinked innocently at him.
Joker stared at her, mouth still open, chest rising and falling like he'd just run a marathon through hell.
"Wha—" he wheezed. "What the hell—"
"Oops," Harley sang, tracing a lazy line down his stomach with her finger. "Did I forget to finish? Silly me."
"You are literally evil," he growled, voice raw, cracking at the edges.
"Oh, I know," she cooed, tilting her head. "That's why you love me, remember?"
Joker's eyes fluttered closed as he ran a trembling hand over his face. "Staaaawwwp," he groaned, the word dragged out like a dying man begging for mercy.
But Harley? Harley just giggled and did not stop. She dipped back down, teasing him with kisses, drawing things out in the most infuriating, tantalizing way possible.
"I hate you," he whispered hoarsely.
"No ya don't," she purred against his skin.
And oh, he didn't. Not even a little.
Joker's eyes, still heavy-lidded from pleasure, suddenly flicker wide with mischief—and something darker. "Enough of the games you're playing, doll," he growled, voice low and frayed with want, his hand snapping up like a trap.
Before Harley could squeak out another cheeky line, he flipped them, fast, aggressive, full of need. One moment she was teasing him, the next she was under him, her white hair fanned across the satin pillows like twin rays of moonlight.
He loomed over her, pupils dilated, breath heavy, pants on the floor, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You think it's funny gettin' me all riled up and then stoppin'?" he whispered, his voice a razor-blade wrapped in velvet. "Now look what you've done. You broke me."
Harley batted her lashes, breath hitching, her hands sliding up his chest. "Then fix yourself, Puddin'."
His growl vibrated against her neck as he lowered his lips to the curve where her jaw met her throat. "Oh no, baby... You're gonna help me fix it."
Then he kissed her—hot, deep, rough and slow, like he was trying to melt her mouth into his. One hand slid under her thigh, lifting her leg up and wrapping it around his waist, while the other traced the soft curve of her growing bump with uncharacteristic gentleness.
But his eyes?
His eyes were wild. Lustful. Starving.
And with the flick of his wrist, he reached behind her, tugged at her lace panties, and growled—
"Let's see if all that research was right."
Joker's groan rolled out of him like thunder, low and wild. Harley smirked as she pulled back, her lips glistening with mischief and satisfaction. She tightened her legs around his chiseled torso, gripping his waist with her hands, white hair tumbling forward as her head flew up to look at him with a playful glint in her eyes.
"Puddin'..." she whispered, and he shushed her with another kiss, softer this time, but no less full of fire. He was both wildfire and home, danger and safety, chaos and comfort.
She gasped as Joker rubbed himself against her. She arched her back pressing her body into his that was hanging over her. He weakly chuckled, laced with pleasure.
"Holy shit, Puddin'," Harley moaned as she leaned forward watching his cock teased her entrance. He groaned as she rubbed a finger against either side of him
"Hurry up Puddin', I need you in me right now." she pleaded grabbing his hand and lying back.
Joker moaned at the plea, clearly satisfied with the reaction he had caused. "Do you need me, Babygirl?" He purred rolling his hips to tease her further. She nodded quickly as she squeezed his bicep.
"You need me that badly, Baby? Do you need me to please you? Fuck you senseless? Want me to give our baby a twin?" He asked into her ear while keeping the slow rolling pace of his hips, still teasing her.
Harley smacked his shoulder as she moaned. Almost unable to answer his question. The same question that turned her on more than she already was. "Yes!" She managed to screech out "Yes! Yes! Yes! All of it! Give me all of it!" She screamed as she pushed herself into his cock.
His moan was loud and guttural. Her begging fueled him. Gave him life, even. Joker had slept with many women in his life before he met Harley, but none had this effect on him, period, let alone with just their words. His cock jerked at her begging words.
"Good Girl" he purred as his body pressed against hers, warm and electric, a perfect contradiction of danger and devotion. Harley's fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth found the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of heat and wildness wherever it landed.
"You drive me mad, you know that?" he rasped against her skin, voice breaking in all the right ways.
She giggled, breathless. "Good. I like you mad. Now fuck me. Hard."
He groaned again—low, guttural, aching—and shoved his cock in her. Every inch of him was trembling on the edge, something about her made him loose all his sense of who he was. As soon as he started moving, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop.
"You're so fucking tight, Baby." he groaned into her chest, pressing kisses to it in between gasps and moans. Harley loved when he kissed her there, and that's why he did it.
His thrusts were raw. A confession of all the things he couldn't say out loud. He wasn't just taking her—he was fixing something in himself, one thrust at a time. Each moment melted the chaos that churned in his brain. Each heartbeat stitched the cracks in him back together.
Harley held onto him like a lifeline, whispering his name like a prayer and a dare. "Puddin'... baby..."
He looked down at her then—really looked. Like she was his whole world wrapped in silk and lipstick, the only thing that made sense in a life built on broken glass and gasoline.
"You're mine," he growled.
"All yours, Puddin'," she breathed back, arching into him, his large cock getting deeper and deeper.
It was fire, it was fever, it was salvation in the form of sweat and silk sheets. He moved with wild, focused need—like if he could just get close enough, deep enough, he could get everything he wanted. And he could.
And with each heavy thrust, with each ragged breath, with every cry muffled by lips and skin and love too messy to name, something settled in him.
Like maybe—just maybe—this kind of madness was healing.
The room pulsed with heat, every surface whispering secrets in shadows. The sheets clung to their skin, damp and wrinkled, catching memories in folds like pressed flowers from the wildest garden.
Harley's nails dragged slow, teasing lines down his spine. Joker shivered under her touch, not from fear—he feared nothing—but from the way she made him feel. Like maybe he didn't need to burn the world down to feel something... not when she set him ablaze so effortlessly.
"Mmm... baby," she purred, her voice honey-sweet and fire-hot. "You still look like you got steam to let off." She tightened herself around his cock, causing him to fall forward into her shoulder. He moaned. Loud. He both loved and hated when she did that. It felt so good, but he wouldn't last long.
He pushes himself back up and chuckled darkly, hair sticking to his temple, pupils dilated, lips red from her kisses. "You kidding, Harley? I'm just getting started."
Before she could shoot back a cheeky retort, he gripped her hips and slammed into her with that signature Joker flair—like everything he touched was a game and he was always one step ahead.
"You been playin' all night," he growled, voice husky, deliciously low. "Now it's my turn."
Harley gasped as his fingers tore through the last threads of lace that clung to her like fog. The delicate fabric snapped, discarded like caution in the wind. She writhed beneath him, grinning like a devil dressed in lipstick.
"Oh my god!" she screeched, eyes alight with wicked joy.
Joker didn't answer. He didn't need to. The way he moved said everything.
He drove back into her like a man starved, every motion purposeful—desperate in that unhinged, sacred way only he could be. Each thrust was a remedy, a rhythm, a worship. He wasn't making love; he was declaring war on every inch of insecurity, silencing every old wound with groans and gasps and the way her body said yes without a single word.
Harley clutched at his shoulders, her legs wrapping tight around him like she never wanted to let go.
"Puddin'," she whispered, breath catching. "God, I love you..."
He stilled for just a second, just long enough for the weight of her words to melt into his spine.
And then—he laughed. That beautiful, bone-deep Joker laugh, not mocking, not cruel... but something real. Even after all these years, all her I love yous always make him feel something. Something he didn't know he could feel until he met her all those years ago.
He kissed her—deep, messy, overwhelming. Then whispered right against her lips.
"Say it again, doll."
She grinned, pulling him closer. "I love you."
And this time, when he thrusted into her, it was slower, deeper, aching with meaning.
And neither of them wanted it to end.
The bedroom was drenched in shadows, soft and forgiving, the moonlight slipping through heavy curtains like a whispered secret. Bruce lay on his back, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the heat of Selina's body draped across his chest. Her hair spilled over his shoulder in a tangled cascade, and his fingers traced lazy, gentle circles on her bare skin—a silent lullaby against the chaos outside.
Selina's voice broke the quiet, low and teasing, "How's the night job, Bats? Any trouble in paradise?"
Bruce chuckled, the sound rumbling deep from somewhere raw and tired. "Pretty normal, actually. You know... criminals breaking and entering. Joker and Harley blowing up half the city. Just another Tuesday."
She smiled, warmth curling in her chest, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his skin. "Sounds exhausting."
"It is," he admitted, voice a little heavier now. "Alfred and I... we've been digging through everything. Searching for anything—anything at all—that might crack the Joker's true identity wide open."
Selina's eyes flickered with concern as she shifted, her cheek resting against his collarbone. "And?"
Bruce sighed, drawing her closer. "Nothing. Not a single lead. It's like he's a ghost—always one step ahead."
For a moment, silence wrapped around them like a fragile shield, two hearts beating in the quiet hum of the night.
Selina lifted her head, lips brushing his skin, voice soft as a vow. "Well, whatever happens out there... you're not alone."
Bruce's fingers tightened just a bit on her shoulder, a promise in the simple touch. "Not while you're here."
The flickering glow of the television bathed the dark bedroom in shifting colors—hues of blues, purples, the occasional burst of red from some late-night crime footage. Bruce barely noticed it. His world, for now, was the woman wrapped around him, skin to skin, breath to breath. The outside world could wait.
Selina's fingers were dancing across his ribs when the voice cut through.
"We interrupt this program for breaking news—this just in regarding Gotham's most notorious criminal couple, the Joker and Harley Quinn."
Selina's head lifted slowly from Bruce's chest, brows knitting. Bruce's hand stilled on her shoulder.
The anchorwoman's voice was crisp, urgent, and far too familiar.
"Rumors have been circulating for weeks, but today we have credible medical analysis that suggests Harley Quinn may, in fact, be pregnant."
Selina blinked. "Wait—what?"
Bruce exhaled quietly through his nose, the muscles in his jaw tightening.
The screen now showed a series of surveillance photos—grainy shots from rooftops, alley escapes, and one dramatic freeze-frame of Harley mid-heist, Joker's hand pulling her protectively behind him. A red circle was digitally drawn around her abdomen in each frame.
"We've compiled images captured over the past month," the anchor continued. "Multiple physicians and behavioral analysts have been brought in to assess these photos and videos. Among the growing consensus: Harley Quinn is exhibiting numerous signs consistent with a pregnancy in its second trimester—approximately four months along."
A panel of experts appeared on-screen: an OBGYN, a criminal psychologist, and a body language expert.
"The shift in her behavior is subtle but telling," the psychologist began. "We've observed a reduction in impulsive physical engagement and an increased tendency to remain behind cover during confrontations. This suggests a growing protective instinct—typical of women entering the second trimester, especially those in high-stress environments."
"Physically," the doctor added, "there are visible changes—particularly in her posture, the distribution of weight around the lower abdomen, and the emergence of a definitive baby bump. Given Harley Quinn's previously well-documented physique, the contrast is significant. I'd estimate she's around 16 to 18 weeks."
Bruce sat up against the headboard, posture stiffening like steel pulled taut.
Selina pulled the blanket higher, watching his face more than the screen now. "You knew," she said, barely a whisper.
He nodded once, eyes fixed on the footage as it replayed on loop. "I suspected. After I found out about the miscarriage in 2015, I started watching more closely. There were signs. I wasn't sure until now."
Selina's brow furrowed as her hand slid over his. "Is she... ready? I mean—Harley? A mother? Again?"
Bruce's lips parted, but the words were elusive, stuck between duty and disbelief. "I don't think she was ever unready. Just... unstable. But something's different now. He's protecting her more. She's—evolving. They both are."
Selina leaned back into Bruce, whispering, "Gotham's getting a new heir to the madness."
As the screen dimmed back to the glowing silence of the bedroom, Selina gave a soft sigh and curled closer against Bruce's chest again, letting her fingers trace slow, lazy lines over his ribs beneath the blanket.
But before their bodies could fully melt back into that soft quiet... RRRRRZZZZZ.
The sharp buzz of Bruce's phone rattled across the nightstand like an impatient bug.
They both groaned—Selina's was dramatic, muffled into his shoulder, while Bruce's was a low grumble of annoyance.
He reached over, flipping the phone up. The glowing screen read:
"ALFRED"
Underneath, a picture of Alfred standing between the two of them at some charity gala, mid-eye-roll. Bruce had set it ironically.
With a resigned sigh, he thumbed the green button and muttered, "Yes, Alfred?"
Alfred's voice came brisk and sharp on the other end. "Master Wayne, forgive the hour, but I believe I've found something. A lead. Something... tangible. On the Joker's identity."
Bruce's entire body stilled. Eyes widened. His jaw parted just slightly as the words soaked in like ink on fresh paper. He sat up straighter against the headboard, tension creeping up his spine like a live wire.
Selina blinked, sitting up beside him. "What is it?" she whispered, her catlike curiosity instantly on high alert. Her gaze bounced from Bruce to the phone and back.
"I'll be right down," Bruce said into the phone, his voice hushed but intense. He hung up.
Selina was already on her feet before his legs even hit the floor.
Bruce moved quickly, yanking on his black slacks and reaching for the grey shirt tossed over the foot of the bed. "Alfred found a lead," he said, not bothering to elaborate. He didn't need to. His face said it all.
Selina's eyes lit up like diamonds in the dark. "Really?! Finally?"
She pulled on her favorite dark sweatpants—black with a faded tear near the thigh—and zipped up a hoodie as she tossed the covers aside. "You're not going without me," she grinned, tugging her hair up into a messy bun.
Bruce glanced at her with the hint of a smile before opening the bedroom door. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And together, barefoot and buzzing with adrenaline, they disappeared into the hallway—chasing down a ghost in the dark.
The quiet hum of the elevator echoed through the underground lair, its sleek doors parting with a soft hiss. Bruce and Selina stepped out, still a little tousled from the abrupt wake-up call. Bruce's jaw was set, his shirt hastily buttoned and still slightly wrinkled from being thrown on minutes earlier. Selina trailed beside him, zipping up her hoodie mid-stride, hair in a loose bun, the air between them crackling with sleepy adrenaline.
"Alfred?" Bruce called out, voice cutting through the cave's cool air.
"I'm here, Master Wayne!" Alfred's voice echoed back from across the Batcomputer's console station, a familiar sound in the cavernous expanse. The older man turned from the screens, eyes slightly wild with the kind of excitement only deep digital excavation could bring. "I've found something. Or... rather, I've unburied something."
Bruce and Selina quickened their pace as they approached.
"I was scrubbing through a series of encrypted backup servers—off the grid types that Arkham was supposed to shut down after the '08 leak, but we both know how bureaucracies lie. It took a bit of finesse, and a hell of a lot of patience. The footage was deleted—buried under firewalls, metadata reroutes, even embedded virus traps meant to fry the system if anyone got too close. Took me ages, and a few grey hairs, mind you, but I managed to isolate a usable fragment."
"Alfred—" Bruce interrupted, brows raised. "The point?"
"Right, right. The point." Alfred pressed a key and the screen above them flickered to life.
Static danced for a moment, the image glitching in and out, like it was fighting for breath after being smothered for over a decade. Then it stabilized, and the room went utterly still.
The timestamp in the corner read: November 3rd, 2009. 9:41 PM.
The camera was angled from a corner of a cold, windowless room inside Arkham Asylum. One of the standard interview chambers. Steel table. Two chairs. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting everything in a faint yellow hue.
On the left side of the table sat him.
The man with green-tinted, messy hair—but not quite as vibrant as now. His face looked younger. The permanent grin carved into his soul hadn't fully rooted into his expression yet, but there was mischief in his eyes. Trouble. And danger.
Handcuffed. Slouching. But watching—intently.
Across from him was a woman. Early twenties, intelligent eyes behind stylish rectangular glasses, white coat over a red blouse, hair pulled back in a professional ponytail. Her pen was poised, but her body language was relaxed—comfortable even. Intrigued.
Dr. Harleen Quinzel.
"Subject appears calm today," she murmured, scribbling a note. "Though last night's incident in the cafeteria suggests he's still expressing violent impulses when presented with authority figures."
Joker smirked. "They overcooked the pasta."
"Yes, you said. Repeatedly."
"I don't like being ignored," he added, tongue clicking against his teeth like a metronome of chaos. "Especially by people in hats."
Selina arched an eyebrow. "That tracks."
Bruce said nothing. He was locked in.
Harleen leaned forward slightly, voice soft but clear. "Let's circle back to the conversation we started yesterday. I want to talk about your name again."
"Joker," she said gently, watching him. "Why that name?"
There was a pause.
He looked at her, then down at his cuffed hands, then back up.
And in a voice so quiet it made Bruce's spine go rigid, he murmured, "Jack."
Harleen blinked. "What?"
He looked up, this time holding her gaze. "Jack. That's my birth name."
A slow grin crept across his lips—nothing maniacal, nothing performative. Just a sliver of truth, tossed like a coin.
Harleen's pen stopped moving. "Really?"
He nodded once. "The name my father gave me."
A beat of silence.
Then, with a shift in her posture, her tone softened into something faintly flirtatious—curious, maybe a little charmed.
"Well... Jack," she said, offering a small smile, "what do you want to talk about tonight?"
Joker tilted his head, his eyes sparkling, like he'd just found a new game. "Surprise me, Doc."
Alfred pressed a key and the video froze. Harleen's face suspended mid-smile, Joker mid-lean.
Selina leaned in slightly, whispering, "He just gave it to her..."
Bruce smiled. "We finally, after all this time, have a first name.'
The click of Bruce's boots echoed through the Batcave like the toll of a bell. The air was tense, thick, humming with anticipation. He approached Alfred, who stood at the computer terminal, face bathed in a dull blue glow.
"I finally have it," Bruce said softly, breath barely catching in his throat. "After all this time... I have a first name."
Alfred didn't turn around. "Not only that, sir."
He began typing.
Lines of code flickered across the massive screen, scrolling like neon hieroglyphics. Bruce could barely keep up—cross-referenced identification protocols, birth year search brackets, civilian name registries, anomalous disappearance records, Arkham intake contradictions, social security inactivity, image-matching algorithms...
Bruce blinked. "Alfred—what are you doing?"
Alfred's fingers didn't stop moving. "I took the name Jack, which was given rather casually, mind you, and paired it with the age Miss Quinn shouted at a rather infamous birthday party this year—she said he was 30 years old. Which means he was born in 1989. A reasonable match to the Joker's physical appearance and aging patterns."
He pressed a final key, and the screen shifted.
A file opened.
It was simple. Clinical. Governmental.
But at the top, in bold font, it read:
Jack Malachi Napier.
Bruce froze. His lips parted but no words came.
Alfred kept talking, his voice cool and steady. "Based on the data we've collected, paired with several Arkham inconsistencies, a witness file, and a picture I might add... we're looking at the Joker's real name. Not just Jack. But Jack Malachi Napier."
He tapped again, and the full file expanded.
Name: Jack Malachi Napier
Birth Date: October 6th, 1989
Parents: Alexander Napier and Eliza Napier
Status (2007): Deceased
Age at Time of Death: 17
Cause of Death: Presumed drowned and/or dissolved in chemical vat following GCPD shootout.
A pause.
Bruce's breath caught in his chest. His hands rested on the back of the chair in front of him, knuckles whitening.
"That date," he murmured. "That night. The ACE Chemicals shootout. The one where Gordon thought one of the suspects went over the railing."
He looked up at Alfred, eyes wide.
"Oh my god... how did we never correlate these two? He fell in—and we just assumed he died. And then Joker appeared after."
Bruce stepped back, running a hand through his hair.
"I feel so stupid," he whispered. "So damn stupid."
"Hey! You're not stupid, Bruce. Joker wanted this hidden, he didn't want anyone to know about his past. He didn't want anyone to know anything that they could use against him. And he didn't rather well at hiding it. Just because you didn't figure it out sooner doesn't make you stupid." Selina said placing a delicate hand on Bruce's shoulder.
Bruce smiled slightly. "Still- How did I not notice?"
Alfred simply nodded, quiet but not unsympathetic. "You're not the only one, Master Wayne. The city didn't look either. The body was never recovered. Everyone thought he was gone... but no one thought to check what came out."
Bruce stared at the screen again.
"Jack Malachi Napier... why does that name sound familiar?"
Alfred tapped the keys again.
"Because it is, sir. In the criminal underworld, before the Joker existed... Jack Napier was well known. Not quite infamous. But certainly feared."
The screen blinked again, and up came an image.
A young man, sharp-faced with icy blue eyes, dark hair, wearing a burgundy vest and a gold chain. The look on his face said he'd seen more by age ten than most people saw by forty.
Alfred narrowed his eyes.
"His parents abandoned his sister first when he was 8," he said quietly, gesturing to the screen. "Left her a few hours away on a street corner. Her name is Maria Lynn Napier. His parent abandoned him two years later when he was just ten. According to neighbors he woke up one morning and they were gone."
Bruce stared, silent.
"They came back when he was thirteen," Alfred continued. "Not out of guilt, mind you. They were trying to avoid jail time. CPS had been circling them for years."
He leaned forward, his voice going colder.
"He killed them in their sleep that night."
Bruce blinked, slowly, like a man surfacing from underwater.
"And then?"
Alfred sighed. "And then he vanished into the city's belly. Ran with small-time gangs. Got clever. Got dangerous. He made money—fast, dirty money. And by fourteen, he was wanted by every precinct in the city. He was the youngest person to be put on the FBI's Most Wanted List"
He looked Bruce in the eye.
"And then, in 2007, he 'died.'" Alfred lifted his fingers and made air quotes around the word, his expression grim. "But clearly, death didn't take."
Bruce stepped closer to the screen. He stared at the photo. Stared into the face of a boy long dead—no, not dead. Reborn. Transformed. Resurrected in acid and madness and vengeance.
"That's him," Selina said quietly. "Those eyes, they're so cold. They haven't changed since."
Alfred nodded.
"That's the Joker before the laughter."
The Batcave fell silent. The only sound was the soft hum of the computer fans and the distant echo of water dripping in the cave beyond.
Bruce leaned forward.
"We know his identity," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
The thick silence in Amanda Waller's office was only disturbed by the rhythmic tick of the minimalist wall clock—a modern, art deco relic gifted by a senator who feared her more than he respected her. She stood by the tall windows, arms crossed behind her back, staring out at the Capitol skyline like a queen surveying a kingdom of pawns.
The double doors clicked open.
Dreyfus entered first, calm and precise as always, dressed in a slate-gray suit that made him look more analyst than assassin. Close behind him was Agent Hank Cash—Waller's hammer when a scalpel wouldn't do. He had a military jaw, a buzzcut that dared to be messed with, and eyes that had seen far too much and refused to blink anymore.
"Ma'am," Dreyfus began, holding up a sleek black tablet like a sacred offering. "We found her."
Amanda turned, eyes sharp. "Took you long enough."
"She was buried deep," Cash added. "Layers of privacy protection, ghosted addresses, disconnected phone lines. But we traced her back through financial records, and one gift gave her away."
Waller raised an eyebrow. "A gift?"
Dreyfus tapped the screen. The image flickered to life, showing a modest yet undeniably luxurious ranch-style home nestled on a five-acre stretch of green in the Texas countryside. A place of peace... serenity... and now, a target.
"A $2.8 million dollar estate. Paid for in full—no mortgage, no paper trail except one: Richard Flag. According to George, one of our IT guys that Flag was friends with, he bought it for her as a thank-you. For never abandoning him. For always being in his corner."
Amanda scoffed, her lips curling in faint amusement. "Touching."
"Name's Brianna Flag," Dreyfus said, sliding the tablet into her waiting hand. "Single mother. Her boyfriend bailed when he found out she was pregnant with Rick. She raised him alone. No criminal record, no politics, no real friends. Just her boy."
Amanda scrolled through the dossier with a cold efficiency, her gaze unreadable.
Then, she set the tablet down, adjusted the cuff of her jacket, and turned toward Hank.
"Initiate Project Red Vine."
Cash didn't flinch. "Understood. Want it clean or messy?"
"Clean," she said simply. "Quick. Quiet. Symbolic."
She paced slowly behind her desk, every step echoing off the marble. "He was warned. He knew the rules. You don't betray your people. You don't forget who you serve. And if you do... the world reminds you."
Dreyfus hesitated, just a tick.
"You never told Flag about Project Red Vine. That code wasn't in his clearance."
Amanda turned to him, her face flat as a blade. "Of course I didn't."
She waved her hand like swatting away smoke.
"Now stop whining and get your shit done."
The Gotham evening was hazy, humid, and humming with life—the kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made neon signs glow extra dirty. But for Joker and Harley, it was date night. The streets were cracked and crooked, but they were theirs.
Joker sauntered beside her, spooning up a swirl of black licorice-cherry froyo with edible glitter and a candy razor blade stuck on top for flair.
Harley's was... more chaotic. A towering concoction of peanut butter, hot Cheeto dust, rainbow sprinkles, sour gummi worms, and a hearty drizzle of pickle juice syrup. She was thrilled about it. Her pregnancy cravings are rather weird
"Y'know," she said between crunches and slurps, "I think this might be the best crime-date dessert I ever had. The Cheeto-pickle combo is sendin' my hormones into orbit."
Joker glanced over with a smirk. "Disgusting. I'm in love."
They giggled, brushing shoulders as they turned toward a dim alleyway. But just as they were about to slip into the shadows, a loud slurred voice called out behind them.
"Hey! Hey! Aren't you those freaks from the news?! The clown psycho and his crazy little girlfriend?! I should call the cops! Have you two arrested!"
Joker groaned, spoon pausing mid-air. "Oh, for crying out loud," he muttered, voice soaked in annoyance. He turned to Harley and kissed her forehead lightly. "Wait right here, my sweet and sour slushie. I'll be back before your froyo melts."
She nodded, barely fazed, already taking another bite.
He spun on his heels and stalked off toward the voice like a wolf annoyed someone stepped on his tail.
Harley took another mouthful, then blinked as a new voice broke through the alleyway air—slick, smug, and soaked in a phony kind of nostalgia.
"Harleen? Oh my god... Harleen is that you?"
Her head snapped around.
Standing just outside the alley's edge, wearing a linen button-down like he was pretending not to sweat, was a man she hadn't seen in nearly a decade.
Julian Cane.
Older now—about 53—with light brown hair streaked with silver, styled like he thought it made him look wise instead of greasy. His eyes were still sharp, but there was something hollow behind them, like an ego that had long outpaced talent. His tan had faded into pasty suburban professor, and the lines around his mouth looked carved from entitlement.
Harley groaned audibly. "You."
Julian smirked. "Well, that's no way to greet an old flame. I leave town for eight years and come back to find you've... really changed your look. Your hair's, uh, interestingly dyed. And what's going on with your skin? You used to be a lot more tan when we were together. You been livin' under a rock or what?"
She licked her spoon, unbothered. "Have you not looked at Gotham news in the last eight years?"
He wrinkled his nose. "No. You know I despise it."
Harley chuckled. "Then this next part's gonna be extra funny."
But Julian wasn't laughing. He stepped closer, a sleazy little glint in his eye. "Y'know, you're still really hot. I mean it. We should get back together. For old time's sake."
Harley's smile fell flat. "Nope. Absolutely not."
He kept walking, stepping into the alley now, and she instinctively backed up until her spine hit the cold brick wall.
"Come on, Harleen. You know our sex was good. Don't lie to yourself. Why wouldn't you want that again?"
Her lips tightened, froyo dripping down the side of her cup. She didn't move. Just sighed.
"I'm in a relationship. One I've been in for eight years."
Julian's hand slid down her bare shoulder, fingers cold and familiar in the worst way.
"So? You can dump him. I can dump that little 20-year-old I've got back at my new apartment."
Harley's knuckles whitened around her spoon.
Julian's hand slid across Harley's arm—until it froze.
Something cold and metallic had kissed the back of his head. There was a distinct click, the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.
Harley's whole body lit up like a string of fairy lights on Christmas Eve. "Puddin'!" she squealed, eyes sparkling, turning toward the sound like a sunflower following the sun.
Julian stiffened. His breath hitched as he turned his head ever so slightly and caught sight of exactly what he feared: white skin, green hair, that smile carved out of madness itself.
"J-Joker?! What are you doing here?" Julian blurted, stumbling back just a step.
And then the gears clicked in his aging brain. "Wait—puddin'?" he repeated, voice twisting into something desperate and offended. "Why the hell would you call him that?"
With a dreamy giggle, Harley slid around Julian like liquid moonlight, making her way to Joker's side and curling into his chest like she belonged there—which she did. She nuzzled him, nose brushing his collarbone, grinning so wide her cheeks could split.
"This," she purred, "is the man I'm in a relationship with."
Julian recoiled, horror painted across every line on his now-weathered face. "You're sleeping with THE JOKER?!" he barked, as if the entire world had just flipped upside down and kicked him in the ego. "Last I knew, you dumped me after ruining my career as a professor at Gotham University while he was your psycho patient! And now you're screwing him?!"
Joker burst into laughter—manic, explosive, fireworks-on-the-Fourth kind of laughter. "Hey man," he grinned wickedly, eyes dancing, "I was railing her long before you two ever broke up. Might wanna check your syllabus again, teach."
Julian's face twisted into something pitiful, crumpled, like a paper burned at the edges. His final, flimsy defense came out in a snarl. "Well—this maniac's sex can't be better than mine. Not when he spends most of his time blowing up banks!"
Harley gave an exaggerated cackle and turned her head slowly to look at him, eyes twinkling with cruel delight. "Oh, sugar," she said in a sing-song voice, "if we're bein' technical, he spends a lot more time railin' me than you think he does."
Joker let out another signature cackle, tossing his head back in delight. "Did her so good," he wheezed between laughs, "I knocked her up!"
And with zero hesitation and all the flair in the world, Harley lifted the hem of her baggy shirt just slightly—just enough to reveal the baby bump that, now that you were looking, was impossible to ignore.
It sat firm and undeniable above her jeans, the subtle curve of something new, something theirs.
Julian stared. Gasps and groans fought for space in his throat. His jaw twitched. His hand clenched.
Julian Cane's new apartment was tidy to the point of compulsion—every book stacked by height, every mug handle turned at a precise angle, and the carpet vacuumed to show not one footprint but his own. The space was upper-middle-class perfection, sterile and soulless. A fresh coat of beige paint. Laminate floors pretending to be oak. And on the far wall, above a modest electric fireplace, a flat screen TV that now spat venom directly into his face.
Julian sat rigid on his leather couch, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a half-empty glass of scotch sweating in his hand. His jaw was tight enough to snap, his knuckles white against the crystal. Across the screen, the Gotham News Network displayed its garish graphic with flashing red letters:
"THE MAD COUPLE: Joker and Harley – A Timeline of Terror and Love"
Julian scoffed, voice thick with bitter disbelief. "Terror and love? Try manipulation and psychosis."
Julian hated the news. Despised it, even. But something about what Harley had said early made him turn it on. "Have you not looked at Gotham news in the last eight years?"
The news anchor pressed on, tone crisp, all teeth and camera-trained charm.
"We begin tonight's special with an eleven-year journey. Joker and Harley Quinn—once a dangerous enigma, now Gotham's most infamous criminal empire couple, and future parents. But how did we get here? Let's rewind to where it all began..."
The screen flickered to grainy footage—black and white security camera angles, one focusing on Arkham Asylum. A much younger Dr. Harleen Quinzel walked briskly down a corridor, clipboard in hand, hair still in a clean blonde bun. The audio was matched with dramatic narration.
"They met in 2009. She was a bright, ambitious psychiatrist fresh out of graduate school. He was the most dangerous patient Arkham had ever held."
Julian's lip curled. "She was supposed to be mine."
The footage cut to testimonies from former Arkham guards—faces blurred, voices distorted.
"You could tell he was obsessed. He'd go missing from his cell, then show up in her office... just smiling. Like he belonged there."
"Caught them banging once. Then again. Then again. After a while, we just stopped writing the reports."
Julian stood now, pacing, seething.
"Joker had broken himself out of Arkham half a dozen times in two and a half years, but he always ended up back at Arkham. Guards say that there is no way he wasn't purposely getting himself caught just so he could come back and see her. Three years after meeting, in 2012, she broke him out. That very night, she dove into the chemical vat at Ace Chemicals. Security guards mentioned that when they watched the clip of her jump into the vat, they were rather shocked. Expecting the Joker to push her in or force her to jump, but according to the guards that's not the case. They say that Joker spent a few minutes telling her how painful the acid was after he fell and how it wasn't long before he passed out. He didn't even finish his story before Harley walked to the edge and told him to catch her, then leaned back and let herself fall off the edge.
The video changed again—news clippings, surveillance, flashing lights. The camera panned to drone footage of the Gotham skyline. Then came a close-up of a sprawling tower, its glinting peak slicing the sky.
"Shortly after, the couple moved into Gotham's most luxurious penthouse—a 14,000 square foot beast sitting atop one of the city's tallest towers. Price tag? Twenty million dollars."
Julian stopped pacing.
"The master bedroom alone is over 1,000 square feet, with four additional suites ranging between 700 and 900 square feet each. A 15-car private garage, a state-of-the-art gym, a 400-square-foot personal movie theater, and a chef's kitchen lined with imported marble and gold-accented appliances."
Julian threw his glass against the far wall. It shattered like his pride, whisky bleeding into the baseboards.
"The penthouse also includes an underground basement with biometric eye-scanners, stretching 100 feet below the surface. Only Joker, Harley, and a few trusted allies have access. Residents in the 450-unit building say the couple are surprisingly 'quiet neighbors.' That's thanks in part to their soundproof floors and walls."
Julian shouted at the screen, spit flying. "HOW?! You're telling me a couple of psychopaths can afford all that? I lost my tenure for one affair and they're living like royalty?!"
He slumped back onto the couch, breathing hard, eyes twitching as the anchor moved on to one of the more infamous chapters.
"In 2016, Task Force X was initiated. Harley Quinn was forcibly arresting and recruited by the government to do their dirty work. Harley and several other criminals including Deadshot, Captain Boomerang, and Killer Croc were all injected with bombs in their necks to keep them inline. Joker responded by hijacking a military helicopter and killing 25 trained and armed men to get her back."
Julian leaned forward as the screen showed a dazzling clip, a direct line from the archives of madness and love.
Joker stood atop the chopper, sleek in a black tuxedo, holding a gold machine gun like a king wielding a scepter. "Come on, baby!" he'd shouted, kicking down a rope.
Harley, dressed in her now-iconic "Daddy's Lil Monster" tee and glittering shorts, ran full-speed across the rooftop. Without hesitation, she leapt, catching the rope just in time before the rooftop's edge disappeared beneath her.
Nearby building security footage showed Joker hauling her up into the chopper, one hand gripping her waist as they collapsed together. They kissed hard, unbothered by the chaos below.
"You got all dressed up for me," Harley had giggled.
"Oh, you know I'd do anything for you," Joker had purred, pressing his lips to her cheek.
Julian was nearly foaming at the mouth now. "Pathetic. He's a war criminal in eyeliner!"
But the news segment wasn't done.
"Today, Joker and Harley are preparing for their next chapter. With a combined net worth of over $710 billion dollars—Harley at $312.8 billion, Joker at $397.6 billion—they've officially surpassed Gotham's former richest citizen: Bruce Wayne."
Julian choked on air.
"The couple, often dubbed Gotham's 'Crime Emperors,' have holdings in black-market tech, underground casinos, crypto laundering schemes, illegal real estate takeovers, and more. Despite their bloody history, their cult-like following continues to grow. And with their first child on the way—gender still unknown—the world waits to see what comes next."
Julian turned away from the TV. But the bile in his stomach churned like a swallowed storm.
"She was mine," he muttered, pacing again. "Mine."
But deep in his gut, even he didn't believe it anymore.
"And now, in a shocking turn of events..."
The news anchor's voice dipped into something just a little more salacious, like they'd been dying to say this next part all day. On-screen, a collage of edited photos scrolled by—blurry surveillance, red carpet shots, underground party clips from hidden lenses—all of them showing the Joker and Harley with a close-knit circle of familiar rogues and... a few unexpected faces.
"Let's take a look at some of the notorious allies standing behind the chaos duo of the century: Joker and Harley Quinn."
First up was Jonny Frost. His photo, a mugshot from 2012, slid onto the screen and then transitioned to a newer candid of him laughing with Joker on the rooftop of a penthouse, both holding absurdly expensive whiskey glasses and wearing velvet robes.
"Jonny Frost—once one of Gotham's most elusive drug lords—has taken a surprising step back from crime in recent years. Sources say he now spends the majority of his time with the Joker and Harley, often acting as an informal bodyguard and Joker's best friend. His net worth is estimated at $130 million."
Next up was Poison Ivy. A flash of green vines, the swirl of red hair, and a striking image of Ivy and Harley walking hand-in-hand at some hidden rave.
"Dr. Pamela Isley—better known as Poison Ivy—remains one of Harley Quinn's most loyal confidantes. Though her relationship with Joker has been, shall we say... thorny over the years, the two have managed to find common ground when it comes to Harley's wellbeing."
They paused for dramatic effect before the anchor leaned in.
"And in the most unexpected friendship on this list... Rick Flag."
A high-res image filled the screen—Rick Flag in military gear, standing next to Harley at some covert desert compound. She had her arm thrown over his shoulder, her face covered in sand but beaming. He was looking at her like an older brother who hadn't yet decided whether to kill her or protect her from the world.
"Commander Rick Flag, former special ops and long-time government asset, has become one of Harley's closest allies. Reportedly, he's also one of only three people—aside from Harley and Joker—who have access to the couple's heavily guarded penthouse basement lair. The others? Jonny Frost and Poison Ivy. Access is granted only through a biometric eye scanner, a level of clearance unmatched even by federal agents."
As the screen showed group photos—Harley and Ivy dancing on a rooftop, Joker and Jonny setting fire to a police cruiser, Rick leaning on Harley's car at a gas station—the scene cut to black, leaving only the GCN logo shimmering red and white.
Julian sat in his leather recliner, seething. His fists were clenched so hard his nails were nearly cutting his palms. The TV still flickered with residual light from the news, but he wasn't watching anymore. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. His chest heaved.
He muttered under his breath. "I used to control her. That girl did everything I told her to."
The door opened with a soft click behind him. A pair of light footsteps, a familiar rhythm, followed.
"Honey, I'm home!" Sophie's voice rang out sweet and singsong. She stepped into the entryway, a brown paper bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her bright blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands curling down around her temple. She was glowing—blue eyes sparkling, soft cheeks flushed from the heat outside. She paused when she saw his face.
"Hey... What's wrong?" she asked, instantly cautious. Julian looked... off.
He exhaled hard through his nose and turned to look at her. "It's this girl. Harley. I used to control her, Sophie. She listened to everything I said. I didn't even do anything that bad to her. Maybe I manipulated her a few times. Maybe I cheated—what man hasn't? Hell, I didn't even slap her that hard. Only when she acted up. If she'd just listened, she wouldn't've gotten hit."
Sophie froze, halfway through closing the door with her foot. For a moment, his words didn't quite land. They came at her too fast, too slick, buried in a tone too casual for the content.
She blinked. "Wait—what?"
He waved a hand dismissively, the rant rolling out of him like bile. "Now she's run off with him. The damn Joker. That freak. That laughing lunatic. I used to be a college professor, for God's sake! I had a reputation. And she destroyed it. For him."
Sophie stood still, the bags in her arms slowly beginning to sag. Her eyes flicked over his face. The red in his cheeks. The distant glint in his eyes. The way he spoke about someone who was supposed to be his ex.
"I think we should still do something for my birthday tomorrow," she said softly, her voice almost mechanical. "I turn twenty-four."
She moved past him like a ghost, drifting into the kitchen. She gently set the groceries on the counter. Her back was to him as she sorted out the milk, the eggs, the fruit. But her hands had gone still. Her fingers hovered above the bananas, motionless.
Behind her, Julian clicked the TV off and walked into the hallway without another word. She didn't even flinch.
Sophie stared down at the eggs, but she didn't see them. Her mind was somewhere else entirely, replaying his words, this time with clarity.
Manipulated her.
Cheated.
Slapped her.
She should've listened.
Only when she acted up.
Her throat tightened. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter.
And all she could think, as the air turned colder in the room, was—
What the hell did I just hear?
The black SUV turned off the country road and onto the gravel driveway, crunching over white stones like dry bones beneath thick tires. The sun had already dipped behind the pine trees crowding the back of the property, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn of the Flag estate. The ranch-style mansion ahead, with its stone walls and wrap-around porch, was still—too still.
Inside the vehicle, four agents sat in silence except for the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of a secure comm. The man in the front passenger seat checked his weapon again, fingers moving mechanically, like he'd done it a thousand times—and he had.
Agent Hank Cash, forty-two years old, no wife, no kids, no attachments. Just a file so clean it sparkled. He was the kind of man Amanda Waller trusted for things no one else should ever hear about. Things like this.
"Any doubts?" one of the younger agents asked from the back, voice quiet but tense.
"Project Redvine was greenlit two hours ago," Cash said without turning. "We're just the gardeners. Pull the roots, burn the evidence."
The other men nodded grimly.
As the SUV rolled up to the wide, semicircle drive, the house loomed like a monument to a quieter life. Soft light glowed in the front windows. From where they sat, they could see a woman through the glass—early sixties, graceful but weathered, with thick dirty blonde hair shot through with silver. She was settled on a plush couch, a heavy hardcover book resting on her lap, her feet tucked beneath her like a teenager. A little iPhone SE rested in her hand.
"Let's go," he said flatly. "Positions."
They moved like shadows, slipping out of the SUV and flanking the house with practiced ease. One by one, they entered through the side door—no alarm, no resistance. The security system had been conveniently "down" since yesterday. Courtesy of Waller's long reach.
Inside, the house smelled of jasmine and old books. The agents crouched in the hallway just past the foyer, where a corner wall kept them hidden from view. From here, they could hear her.
Rick Flag's voice echoed from the phone speaker, clear and boyish in tone even at thirty-four years old.
"Mom, you sure you're okay out there by yourself? You know Waller's got eyes everywhere. I wouldn't put it past her to—"
"Oh please," Brianna chuckled, flipping a page in her book with a graceful flick of her wrist. "Let her watch. If she wants to see me reading Danielle Steel in my robe, that's on her. I'm not scared of her, and you shouldn't be either."
Cash looked down at his phone again. He held it low, thumb hovering.
Cash pulled out his phone and typed one word:
"In. She's on the phone with Flag"
A moment later, it buzzed.
"Do it now. Before she hangs up. He needs to know."
Cash's jaw flexed. Even for Amanda, that was... poetic. Cruel, precise poetry.
"I know, I know," Rick's voice softened. "But I just worry. I don't... I don't want anything to happen to you."
Brianna smiled—such a warm smile it hurt to see from the dark.
"Baby, I'm tough. You know that better than anyone. And I'm so proud of you."
Her voice cracked just slightly.
"You're a good man, Rick. The best thing your father ever gave me."
"Now tell me, how is June doing? I haven't seen her in almost a year." She said delicately, shifting the book that sat in her lap.
"We broke up, Mama." He said, voice shallow and hurt. "She didn't want to be around me anymore. My friends are too much for her, apparently. Happened last week." He sighed through the phone. "I've been spending a lot of time with Jonny and Harley. They are really good with distractions." He chuckled
"Oh, I'm sorry hunny. I know that's not easy. But I am so glad you have friends to keep you happy!" She smiled at the thought of her son smiling happily with his friends.
Cash's hand raised signaling the men to prepare.
"Get ready." He whispered.
The men raised their silenced pistols.
"I love you, Rick." Brianna said softly. "I always will."
Cash snapped his fingers. Go time.
"Now."
"I love you too, Mom. I can't wait to see you this weekend! You'll have to meet all my frien-" Rick was cut off with that one unmistakable sound.
The shots were soft. Pop, pop, pop—four in rapid succession. Precision work. Brianna Flag's body jerked, once, twice—then slumped over the side of the couch, her book sliding to the carpet with a soft thud. Blood bloomed like ink across her robe, spilling quietly down the cushion.
The phone clattered to the floor but didn't hang up. Rick's voice was still coming through.
"Mom? ...Mom?"
There was a pause—just a beat of silence too long.
"Mom?! ...MOM?!"
His voice rose, thick with panic. The agents didn't move.
"SOMEONE TALK TO ME—MOM—MOM PLEASE, ANSWER ME—HELLO?!"
Cash knelt down and picked up the phone. He didn't speak. He just looked at the screen for a moment, then placed it gently on the coffee table beside the couch, speaker still on. Rick's voice kept calling, breaking, reaching across states for a woman who could no longer answer.
"No, no—no no no no no—MOM!!!"
Cash stood.
"Let's go."
They left without a word.
Outside, the sun had fully set. The house behind them was quiet once more.
Inside, on the carpet, the little iPhone SE blinked with Rick's name still on the screen, lighting up Brianna's bloodstained robe one last time.