Harleen Quinzel woke up before the alarm.
That, in itself, was progress.
For years—longer than she liked to count—her sleep had been governed by chaos. By sudden laughter that wasn't hers. By nightmares that didn't need images because the feelings were enough. Fear didn't always wear a face. Sometimes it was just a tightening in the chest, a sense of being watched even in locked rooms.
This morning, she woke up to silence.
Not peaceful silence. Not comforting. Just absence.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling of her small, rented apartment, counting the cracks she hadn't bothered to fix. Four above the light fixture. One that looked vaguely like a bird if you tilted your head. She focused on them because grounding techniques worked best when they were boring.
You are safe, she reminded herself.
No one is laughing.
No one is watching.
Her hands shook anyway.
Harley sat up slowly, feet touching the floor one at a time. She didn't bounce out of bed anymore. She didn't sing in the mornings. Those habits had faded—not because they were fake, but because they had been survival mechanisms twisted into performance. Recovery meant learning which parts of herself were real and which had been shaped to please a monster.
She made coffee. Burned it slightly. Didn't throw the mug.
Another win.
The case files waited on her kitchen table. She'd brought work home again, against her better judgment. Old habits died hard. She thumbed through notes on trauma responses, long-term psychological conditioning, identity fragmentation. Clinical language helped her keep distance. It turned memories into data.
Exposure to prolonged emotional manipulation often results in—
She stopped reading.
Her reflection stared back at her from the dark window. No makeup. Hair pulled back without theatrics. Just Harleen.
"Normal," she murmured, testing the word.
It didn't quite fit yet.
Arkham no longer smelled the same to her.
That surprised Harley more than it should have. For so long, the place had been defined by him—by his voice, his chaos, his gravity. Now, walking through its halls as a consultant rather than a patient or accomplice, she noticed the mundane details. The scuffed floors. The flickering lights. The tired guards who treated madness like paperwork.
Batman waited for her in the observation room.
He always stood the same way. Still. Watchful. Like if he stopped paying attention for even a second, the world might slip.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm five minutes early," Harley replied, glancing at the clock. "You just like bein' dramatic."
Batman didn't correct her.
They watched the patient behind reinforced glass—a man rocking gently, whispering to himself. No clown makeup. No theatrical flair. Just broken.
"Progress?" Batman asked.
"Slow," Harley said. "Which is normal. Recovery isn't a montage."
Batman turned slightly. "You're sure you're ready for this?"
She met his gaze. Didn't flinch. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
That wasn't entirely true. Some days she came because she needed to prove it to herself.
They moved through the ward together, discussing cases, patterns, red flags. Harley was sharp—still brilliant—but quieter now. Thoughtful. She no longer filled silence just to avoid it. That was another learned behavior she was unlearning.
Still, certain things triggered her.
A laugh echoing too sharply down the hall.
The smell of cleaning chemicals too close to acid.
A joke that cut just a little too deep.
She hid the flinches well. Too well.
Batman noticed anyway.
"You don't have to do this alone," he said, low enough that no one else could hear.
Harley smiled faintly. "Careful, Bats. That almost sounded like concern."
"It was."
She blinked, then looked away. "Yeah. Well. Baby steps."
Across Gotham, small things shifted.
Batman noticed patterns others missed. A gang fight ended without casualties where there should have been bodies. Fires controlled before emergency response arrived. Witnesses described a gray-skinned man who didn't threaten, didn't posture—just moved people out of danger and vanished.
Batman cataloged the reports without comment.
Something new was moving through his city. Something quiet.
Something choosing restraint.
Harley spent the afternoon with patients who didn't know who she was. That mattered. No nicknames. No expectations. Just a doctor listening.
One woman cried without knowing why.
A man refused to sit with his back to the door.
A teenager stared at the floor and whispered jokes under his breath, laughing at nothing.
Harley didn't judge. She recognized.
"You don't have to be funny," she told the teen gently.
He looked up, confused. "If I'm not funny, what am I?"
Harley hesitated. The question hit closer than she expected.
"Still someone," she said finally. "Even when you're quiet."
The teen nodded slowly, as if storing that away for later.
By the time Harley left Arkham, her head throbbed. Emotional labor had weight. She felt it in her shoulders, her spine. Healing wasn't just about moving forward—it was about carrying what remained without letting it define you.
Outside, Gotham breathed.
She walked instead of taking a cab. Needed the air. The city felt… unsettled. Not dangerous. Just alert. Like something beneath the streets had shifted its position.
She passed a small grocery store. Saw a gray-skinned man exiting, nodding politely to the owner. Their eyes met briefly.
Something about him made her pause.
Not fear. Recognition.
Not madness. Pressure.
He looked human. Tired. Thoughtful. Like someone holding something back with both hands.
Eli Mercer looked away first.
Harley continued walking, heart beating a little faster than before.
She didn't know why.
That night, Batman reviewed footage again.
And somewhere else in Gotham, Eli stood on his apartment roof, looking out over the city, feeling the faint pull beneath his feet and choosing—again—not to answer it.
Not yet.