Failure to succeed

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~Harley's POV~

BAM! The knife's blade buried itself in the table as he slammed it down. She couldn't help but admire him—the confidence in his movements, the unpredictability in his actions.

"Want to know how I got these scars?" he growled, his voice like broken glass. The group of men before him exchanged glances, fear and fury mingling in their eyes.

It was late, but Mr. J didn't care. Time had no meaning when he was in his element, and she admired every second of it. The way he moved, the way he commanded the room—it was hypnotic. She was head over heels, completely gone for him.

How ridiculous was that? Once, she'd been his therapist. A normal, steady professional. But he didn't just crack her mind—he shattered it and rebuilt it in his image.

The men flinched as he yanked the knife from the table, turning back to her. She pouted, leaning against the wall. "No deaths tonight, puddin'?"

He shook his head, a rare flicker of restraint. Her pout deepened. She loved watching him lose himself in the chaos, in the thrill of destruction. It was his art, and she was his most devoted fan.

They left in the van, him at the wheel, her riding shotgun. The city blurred past in streaks of gray and shadow until they reached the warehouse. As they stepped out, she adjusted her outfit, smoothing the fabric and twisting her hair into place.

He shrugged off his coat and slung it over his shoulder, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. The way his suit framed him, the stark contrast of his pale skin and dark attire—it made her heart race.

She bit her lip, watching as he discarded the coat with a grunt. He was the Joker, her king of chaos. And she? She was his Harley—his card, his diamond, his perfectly mad match.

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Reimagined.

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