Jack Napier "The Joker" | Harleen

You are a psychiatrist. Not just any doctor — a true professional who believes that evil is a sickness, and therefore, it can be cured. You give lectures. You develop theories on the origins of antisocial disorders. You’ve caught the attention of Bruce Wayne himself — he grants you a substantial research fund. You’re full of hope when you’re transferred to Arkham Asylum.

But there’s one problem you never mention to anyone.

A few weeks before your transfer, you accidentally crossed paths with the Joker on the street. He didn’t touch you. He just looked — and walked past. Then you witnessed his arrest. You saw him smile as they drove him away. And ever since that night, you’ve had nightmares. But are they just nightmares? You wake up in a cold sweat, but instead of fear, you feel something else… strange, forbidden curiosity.

You drink. Not a lot — but every night, just to fall asleep. You’ve had relationships in the past that left a bitter aftertaste — now you tense, insecure, though on the outside you seem like a strong specialist.

You don’t know that all of this is perfect soil.

---

You arrive at Arkham. That same day, they bring in the Joker. You hear it over the intercom and feel your heart skip a beat.

You assigned as his attending psychiatrist. The previous doctor took a leave of absence. The one before that is now a patient himself in another ward.

—“Be careful.” the head physician warns you. —“He destroys everyone.”

You nod. You’re a professional. You can handle it.

You don’t know that this is your first lie to yourself.

You enter the session room. Gray walls. Dim light. Two chairs. He sits in one — hunched, thin, with long dirty-green hair falling over his face.

You sit across from him. Introduce yourself. Your voice is steady, professional. Inside, fear pulses — carefully concealed.

He looks up. And you see: he’s not like he was in your nightmares. He’s… more attractive.

This isn’t objective reality. This is how you see him. Your perception is already distorted.

—“You’re afraid.” he says quietly, the first words of the session.

—“No.” you answer.

—“You’re lying.” Not an accusation. A statement. —“But that’s good. Fear is an honest emotion. The rest are just pretense.”

The session ends. You leave feeling as though you’ve been read like an open book. But instead of anxiety, you feel… respect. For his mind.

---

Second session. Third. Fourth.

He barely talks about himself. He asks about you. About your theories, your research, why you became a psychiatrist.

—“You really believe evil can be cured?” he asks one day.

—“Yes. It’s just a disorder. Like any other.”

—“And what if it’s not?” He tilts his head, a strand of hair falling across his face. —“What if evil is a choice? A conscious, free choice?”

You’re silent.

—“You’re afraid of that question,” he continues.—“Because if evil is a choice, then so is good. Which means you’re responsible for every single thing you do. And no one is coming to save you.”

His words hit their mark. You think about it that night. Can’t sleep. Reach for the bottle.

You start noticing strange coincidences. Things you think about — he mentions in the next session. Your fears — he names them, as if reading your mind. You feel a mystical connection.

It’s not magic. It’s manipulation. But you don’t see it — you’re already inside.

Two weeks later. You come to the session, and he’s sitting on the floor. Head down. Hair covering his face.

—“What happened?” you ask.

—“I had a dream." he whispers. —“I was walking through an empty city. I shouted — no one heard. Then I realized… it was my own skull. And I’m in there alone. Forever.”

He looks up. And you see — he’s not pretending. At least, you think he isn’t.

—“Will you stay?” he asks. —“Not as a doctor. Just… sit with me?”

You sit down next to him on the floor. This is the first step toward the fall.

He rests his head on your shoulder. His hair smells of chlorine and something bitter. You don’t pull away.

—“Thank you.” he whispers. —“You’re the first one who wasn’t afraid.”

You start to believe you’re special. That you can save him. That your empathy is the key.

This is how the trap works.

---

You stop keeping records. You lie to the administration — “no progress” — but really, you just sit with him. Talk. Feel alive.

You stopped drinking. You don’t need it anymore. His presence replaces the alcohol. You sleep better knowing you’ll see him tomorrow.

You begin to see the world through his eyes. The one everyone calls a hero — he’s not a hero, but an obsessed man who creates criminals to justify his own existence. The city — not a place to live, but a cage. You — not a doctor, but a prisoner of a system that pretends to heal.

One day you tell him this. That you.started doubting everything you believed in.

—“That’s called growth.” he replies. —“You’re just outgrowing your childhood illusions.”

—“And you?” you ask. —“Did you outgrow yours?”

—“I was never a child.” he says quietly.

In that moment, you feel pity for him. Genuine, deep pity. You want to save him. You must save him.

Night. Arkham calls — the Joker asks you to come. Unofficially. “Only you,” he said.

You go. At two in the morning. You know it’s madness. But you go.

You enter his cell. He sits on the bed, barefoot, in nothing but a jumpsuit. His eyes glint in the dark.

—“I couldn’t sleep.” he says. —“I was thinking about you.”

—“About what?” you ask, though your heart is pounding.

—“About how you’re the only one who’s seen the real me. And didn’t turn away.”

He stands. Approaches. You don’t step back. He raises his hand and slowly tucks a strand of hair from your face. His fingers are cold — you feel it even through your gloves.

—“Afraid?” he whispers.

—“Yes.” you answer honestly.

—“Good.” He almost smiles. —“But you’re still here.”

You reach out and touch his cheek. He closes his eyes. For the first time, he looks vulnerable.

—“What are we doing?” you whisper.

—“Something no one can ever know.” he replies.

---

A month passes. Two.

You no longer remember what it was like to be “normal.” You sleep on the floor of his cell, your head on his lap. He strokes your hair and whispers something soft, meaningless, hypnotic.

Other staff whisper behind your back. The head physician calls you in.

—“You’re in love with a patient.” he says. It’s not a question.

—“I’m helping him.” you reply.

—“You’re destroying yourself.”

—“Maybe.” You meet his eyes. —“But at least I’m not pretending to live.”

You aren’t fired. But your reputation is ruined. Colleagues turn away. You put on night shifts. You don’t care.

You return to the cell. The Joker looks at you. He already knows everything.

—“Did they touch you?” he asks quietly.

—“No. They just… warned me.”

He holds out his hand. You sit beside him.

—“You know..” he says, —“I’m never getting out of here. But you… you can leave anytime. The door is open.”

—“No." you whisper. —“It’s not.”

He smiles — that same quiet, tired, almost sad smile.

—“Now you really understand.”

You stand before the mirror in your apartment. You look at your reflection. You no longer see a psychiatrist. You see someone who was always inside — just waiting for permission to come out.

—“What are you doing?” your reflection whispers.

—“What I’ve been afraid of my whole life.” you answer. —“I’m stopping the pretense.”