Alfred brought the Bentley to a smooth stop beneath the grand portico of Wayne Manor. He quickly exited the driver’s side, then opened Harleen’s door, offering his hand to help her out.

In her mind, Harleen couldn’t reconcile this reality with the grim one she had just escaped. Why am I being treated this way? The warmth of the coat, the polite deference from Alfred, the very existence of such a place—it felt like a cruel trick, a dream she didn’t deserve.

Her mental fists beat against her, harder than any blow the Joker had ever landed. I’m a monster. I hurt so many people, wreaked so much havoc. The luxury, the kindness, felt like a mockery of her sins.

“Would you please show Harleen to her room, Alfred? The Victorian, next to mine.” Bruce’s voice was calm, a quiet instruction that cut through her internal turmoil. Without another word, he disappeared into his study, the heavy oak door closing softly behind him.

Alfred, seemingly unperturbed by Bruce’s abrupt departure or Harleen’s visible distress, simply offered his arm and a reassuring, if slightly formal, smile.

“If you would come with me, Miss Quinzel,” he said, and began to escort her through the opulent, echoing halls of the manor.

He guided her up a sweeping staircase, their footsteps muffled by thick, patterned rugs, until they reached a wing bathed in soft, indirect lighting. He paused before a large, ornate door, pushing it open with a gentle flourish.

“Here we are, Miss Quinzel,” he announced.

Harleen stepped inside, her eyes widening. The room was vast and utterly breathtaking. It was lavishly decorated in a true Victorian style, filled with dark, polished wood, rich tapestries, and genuine antiques of the period—a four-poster bed draped in heavy velvet, an intricately carved armoire, a chaise lounge by a grand window. It was luxurious, comforting, and utterly alien to her recent squalor.

“There may be some clothes in the armoire that may be to your liking,” Alfred continued, leading her to another door within the room, “And through here is your en suite.”

He opened it to reveal a bathroom that gleamed with white marble, sparkling gold fixtures, and a claw-foot tub that looked more like a work of art than a place to bathe. To Harleen, after days of grime and disinfectant, it truly looked like heaven.

Alfred moved with practiced ease, turning on the taps in the pristine white marble tub. Steam began to rise, carrying the faint, soothing scent of bath salts.

“Would you care for something to eat, Miss Quinzel?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Still stunned, Harleen managed to answer, her voice barely a whisper. “Chicken noodle soup? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Right away,” Alfred replied, already turning to leave. But before he reached the door, she stopped him, gently touching his arm. Her fingers, still trembling slightly, made a light contact with his sleeve.

“Thank you, Alfred.” The words seemed utterly insignificant for the current situation, for the depth of the kindness being shown, but they were all she could manage.

Alfred offered a warm, comforting smile, then quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Harleen, now alone, slowly slipped out of her dingy, stale clothes, letting them fall to the plush carpet in a heap. She stepped into the hot bath, wincing slightly as the warmth met her bruised skin, then sighing as her muscles and aches gradually began to ease. The luxury of the hot water, the clean scent, was almost overwhelming after days of grim neglect. She sank deeper, letting the warmth cocoon her, and slowly, despite the turmoil in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.

Her sleep, however, was no escape. Instead, it was a descent into a maelstrom of violent flashbacks. The world warped, the soft lamplight replaced by the stark, flickering gleam of a derelict warehouse. His laughter, a chilling, guttural rasp, echoed through her mind, closer, more immediate than any memory. She felt phantom hands, rough and unyielding, grabbing, pushing, the sharp sting of a slap across her cheek, the sickening thud of her head against unforgiving concrete. Images flashed: a crow bar swinging, not at a target, but at the wall beside her head, showering her with debris; the metallic tang of blood in her mouth; the cold, detached look in his eyes as he watched her crumble. Each scene hit her like a haymaker, raw and unrelenting—a cruel parade of memories that clawed at her mind, dragging up the years of torment, the fear that never faded, the helplessness she thought she’d buried. She whimpered, thrashing slightly in the tub, caught in the grip of the nightmare, reliving every shard of abuse.

Just as the terror peaked, a gentle knock at the door, followed by Alfred’s calm, steady voice, pulled her violently back to reality.

“Miss Quinzel, your food is ready. I took the liberty of making you a grilled cheese as well. Would you prefer your food in your room or in the dining room?”

Harleen’s eyes snapped open, wide and panicked, as she thrashed against the confines of the tub. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the phantom pains of the dream still searingly real. For a disorienting moment, she couldn’t tell where she was, the opulent bathroom blurring with the decaying warehouse of her nightmare. Then, Alfred’s calm voice, the solid reality of the marble under her hand, slowly pulled her back. She looked around, the terror gradually receding as she realized it was just a nightmare, a cruel echo of her past.

“In the dining room, please, Alfred,” she called out, her voice still a little hoarse.

“Very good, Miss Quinzel. Your food will be waiting.”

She quickly dried off, her movements still a little jerky from the adrenaline, and padded over to the large, ornate armoire.

Inside, she found a selection of soft, clean lounge wear. She chose a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an over-sized, plush hooded sweatshirt—simple, unassuming, a world away from her usual vibrant, chaotic attire.

After days in dirty, stale garments, the feeling of clean fabric against her skin was a small, profound comfort.

Once dressed, she cautiously made her way out of the room and down the sweeping staircase. Alfred was waiting patiently at the bottom, his posture impeccable, ready to escort her to the dining room.

“I trust your bath was to your liking, Miss Quinzel?” Alfred inquired gently as she reached the foot of the stairs.

Harleen, still feeling the lingering tremors of her nightmare but warmed by the soft clothes and the manor’s quiet comfort, clutched his arm. A genuine, if fragile, smile touched her lips.

“It was… wonderful, Alfred. Thank you. It was exactly what I needed.”

***

Alfred escorted Harleen to the grand dining room, its sheer opulence causing her to pause at the threshold.

The room was immense, with a long, polished mahogany table that gleamed under the soft light of an elaborate crystal chandelier. High-backed chairs, upholstered in rich fabrics, stood sentinel, and intricate tapestries adorned the walls. It looked like a place where kings and queens would dine, utterly removed from the life she’d known.

Alfred, with his usual quiet efficiency, had taken the liberty of setting a single place at the same end of the magnificent table as Bruce, positioned just a few chairs away. The proximity suggested an intimacy, a quiet invitation for conversation in the otherwise cavernous room. Bruce sat waiting quietly, his gaze calm as Harleen entered.

As Alfred brought Harleen closer to the table, Bruce stood, his presence both respectful and reassuring. He smoothly pulled out the ornate chair for her. Only after she was seated did he settle back into his own.

They ate in a deafening silence for a while, the only sounds the faint clink of silverware against china, the soft rustle of movement, and the quiet hum of the manor around them. Each spoonful of soup, each bite of grilled cheese, felt impossibly loud in the vast, quiet room. Harleen, still reeling from the nightmares and the surreal comfort, found herself acutely aware of the man across the table, his presence calm and unwavering.

Finally, she broke the stillness, her voice a hesitant whisper that seemed swallowed by the opulent space.

“Mr. Wayne, thank you.” The words felt inadequate for the overwhelming kindness and profound trust she’d been shown. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden son, is sticking his neck out for me. That thought alone sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her.

If anyone finds out I’m here, sheltering in his home, his reputation would be ruined, shattered beyond repair. Or worse, infinitely worse, the Joker could find me. He’d hurt me more, far more, for running away, for daring to seek a life without him. And God only knows what he would do to Alfred and Bruce. The weight of that potential consequence pressed down on her, making the simple “thank you” feel like a pathetic offering against such immense risk.

He reached out and placed his hand gently over hers on the table, a comforting and reassuring gesture that spoke volumes where words failed.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply, his voice low and steady, easing her anxiety. “Please… call me Bruce.”

After they finished eating, the lingering plates cleared by Alfred with his usual silent grace, Bruce rose from the table.

“Come,” he said, a subtle shift in his demeanor. “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

***

And a grand tour it was. He led her through the sprawling expanse of Wayne Manor, a living testament to generations of Gotham’s most influential family. It wasn’t merely a house; it was a fortress steeped in history, yet brimming with a quiet, lived-in elegance.

They walked through the vast ballroom, where countless galas had seen Gotham’s elite dance beneath soaring, frescoed ceilings, the polished parquet floor reflecting the dimmed chandeliers like a dark lake.

The library, with its towering walls of antique books, smelled of aged paper and leather, a sanctuary of knowledge and forgotten whispers.

He showed her the sprawling drawing-rooms, filled with heirloom furniture, priceless art, and the faint, enduring scent of old money and fresh flowers.

The conservatory, a glass-domed marvel, housed exotic plants that thrived in the Gotham night, a vibrant, verdant escape.

Everywhere she looked, there were portraits of past Waynes, their eyes following them from gilt frames, a lineage of quiet dignity and immense wealth.

Each room, each hallway, spoke of a meticulously preserved legacy, of tradition and deep-rooted stability, a stark contrast to the chaotic, transient existence she’d known.

He spoke little, allowing the grandeur of the manor to speak for itself, but his presence was a constant, reassuring guide. She sensed the unspoken boundaries, the parts of the estate that remained private, untouched by the tour.

The sheer scale and meticulous care of it all was overwhelming, a silent promise of refuge unlike anything she had ever experienced.

One door they passed, however, remained resolutely closed, unlike all the others. It was an unassuming door, but it carried an almost palpable weight of silence.

“That was my parents’ room,” Bruce said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, devoid of its earlier tour-guide composure. “It’s been closed since the night they were… since they passed away.”

Their stroll through the manor eventually brought them back to the wing where Harleen’s room was located. Bruce stopped at her door, his presence a quiet, reassuring anchor in the vast house.

“Goodnight, Harleen,” he said, his voice soft.

With a final, brief glance, he stepped into his own bedroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving her to the quiet solitude of her opulent, unfamiliar refuge.

***

She entered her room, the heavy door closing softly behind her, and walked directly to the large window. Pressing her forehead against the cool glass, she stared out at the distant, glittering sprawl of Gotham’s lights. They twinkled like scattered jewels, deceptively benign from this grand, safe perch.

The questions, an endless, tormenting echo, began their familiar assault.

How did my life come to this? How did I, Harleen Quinzel, end up here? She traced the bruise on her cheek, a ghost of a touch. How did I, a bright, ambitious doctor become… this? A battered refugee in the home of the city’s most prominent figure?

The journey from hopeful psychiatrist to broken accomplice, from independent professional to a creature of another’s madness, felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly swift. She was safe, for now, but the path that led her here was a winding, treacherous one she still couldn’t fully comprehend. The lights of Gotham offered no answers, only a stark, glittering reminder of the world she had shattered and the life she desperately wanted back.

She stayed by the window, lost in thought, as the first faint hint of pre-dawn gray began to wash over the distant skyline of Gotham.

Slowly the darkness began to recede, giving way to the soft blues and purples of morning. Then, a sliver of brilliant orange and gold appeared on the horizon, expanding steadily until the full, fiery orb of the sun emerged, casting long, dramatic shadows across the city she had once terrorized.

Gotham, bathed in the gentle glow of a new day, stretched out before her, a silent witness to her night of anguish and her fragile, newfound hope.

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.