The instant the gun fired, Jack leaned back sharply—feet planted, spine bending at an impossible angle while his right palm struck the floor for balance. The bullet passed over his face. His left hand came up and fired into the room.
Infinite Superposition, ten times.
A surprised cry echoed from inside.
He flipped himself upright, wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, and exhaled. "That was close. Gotham doesn't disappoint."
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
A young woman stood in the living room, trembling slightly. She looked like she could have stepped out of any lecture hall—neat, unassuming, every inch the studious type. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.
At her feet lay a handgun, its barrel split open.
"Nice shot," Jack said.
He had planned to find someone to shoot at him. Now he didn't need to.
What could he say about a girl with that kind of aim, who fired without hesitation the moment her door was kicked in?
Only that he liked Gotham more and more.
"I don't have any money," she said, voice shaking. "This apartment isn't mine."
"Doesn't matter. I just need a place to stay for a while." Jack smiled, glancing around with casual interest.
The place was small—two floors, simply furnished, nothing of value.
Bang!
Jack spun and fired. The bullet grazed the girl's hair and punched through the door panel.
Her body went rigid.
"I didn't say you could leave." He smiled at her, watching as she slowly turned back around.
She drew a deep breath. Still frightened, but steadier now. She raised her hands.
"I won't leave. You can do whatever you want—just don't hurt me."
Jack studied her. Then he smiled—a strange, unsettling smile that somehow carried a thread of reassurance.
Something flew toward her. She caught it instinctively.
A gun. Her gun.
Her eyes went wide. He gave it back?
Why?
Wasn't he worried she'd shoot?
She gripped the gun and aimed it at him but didn't fire, staring in bewilderment.
"I'm going to take a shower," Jack said, already walking toward the bathroom. His tone was light, familiar, as though they'd known each other for years. "Watch the door. Don't let anyone in."
She stood frozen, listening to the water start running inside.
Voices erupted outside. The door burst open—
She turned and fired before she even saw who it was.
Bang!
The bullet struck center forehead. A muffled grunt, and the body dropped.
She paused. Stood in silence for a moment.
Then she walked over, dragged the corpse outside, and pulled the door shut again. She stayed in the living room, gun raised, watching the entrance.
Inside the bathroom, Jack heard the shot and chuckled softly. He continued his shower without hurry.
When he finished, he dried off, retrieved his clothes from the washing machine, and dressed. Fully clothed, he pushed the door open.
The girl stood exactly where he'd left her, gun in hand. Perfectly disciplined.
Jack walked over and patted her shoulder. He held out his hand.
She hesitated, then returned the gun.
He tucked it into his waistband, moved to the sofa, pushed it out, and angled it toward the door. He sat and gestured for her to join him.
She sat with her knees pressed together, hands folded in her lap. Prim. Obedient.
"What's your name?" Jack asked.
"Harleen Quinzel."
He narrowed his eyes, watching her.
Harley didn't dare move.
He looked young. Harmless, even—almost boyish. But nothing he had done since kicking down that door made any sense.
Who breaks into someone's home, hands the victim a gun, and tells her to guard the door while he showers?
Even if he was confident enough not to fear her, wasn't that reckless?
He seemed unstable.
She had considered running. But curiosity won out.
She wanted to understand what he was thinking. What drove him.
Her father was a con man who had abandoned her and her mother. Her mother was a controlling perfectionist who dictated every word and action, desperate to mold Harley into a trophy she could parade in front of others.
That family had made Harley want to escape—and to understand. Why had her father left? What went through his mind?
That question led her to psychology. And now it made her curious about this stranger who was clearly nothing like ordinary people.
"Don't hurt me," she said again. "I'll cooperate with whatever you want."
"How about I call you Harley Quinn?" Jack said, eyes still narrowed.
Harley Quinn?
She had expected something else entirely. In a city like Gotham—especially now, with order collapsed—almost no woman dared go out alone at night. Even during the day wasn't safe.
But instead of what she'd feared, he just changed her name?
"Why?" she asked, curiosity overtaking caution. "Why Quinn? Does it mean something to you?"