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Boom!
Allen abruptly leaned back the moment the gunshot rang out from inside the apartment.
His feet remained planted firmly on the ground, but his body bent backward at an almost impossible angle, narrowly dodging the bullet by just a hair's breadth.
His right hand touched the floor to stabilize himself as the shot zipped past his head, missing by mere inches.
At the same time, his left hand snapped forward with precision.
"Mimic."
With a swift flick of his hand, he pulled the trigger and fired his own shot in return.
A surprised yelp echoed from inside the apartment, followed by a sharp gasp of pain.
With a slight push from his arms and a twist of his waist, Allen flipped back onto his feet in one smooth, practiced motion.
Wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead with theatrical flair, he let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"That was close. Typical Gotham welcome, huh? Almost got my head blown off before I even stepped inside."
He stepped forward into the apartment, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
His gaze fell upon a young girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen, standing frozen.
She had the appearance of a studious, well-behaved student, but her trembling hands told another story.
A pistol lay at her feet, the barrel visibly damaged.
"Not bad shooting," Allen said, giving her a small round of applause, genuinely impressed.
He had been meaning to mimic someone's shooting, and this girl had kindly volunteered without even knowing it.
A girl this young, firing so quickly and precisely the moment the door was kicked open? Gotham really was something else.
"I don't have any money, and this apartment isn't mine," the girl stammered quickly, her voice shaking but still audible.
"Doesn't matter to me," Allen replied casually, walking past her while scanning the modest space.
"I just need a place to crash for now."
The apartment was facing the street, but it was nothing special, small, plain, and mostly bare.
A simple two, story layout, with no sign of valuables, decorations, or signs of long-term living.
Suddenly, Allen spun on his heel and fired another shot at the front door without warning.
The bullet whizzed past the girl's head, close enough to graze a few strands of her hair, and pierced into the wooden frame with a dull, sharp thud.
Her entire body tensed on instinct.
"I didn't say you could leave," Allen said with a sly grin, eyes locked on her.
The girl took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.
Though visibly shaken, she slowly raised both hands, fingers twitching slightly.
"I won't run. Do whatever you want, just… don't hurt me."
Allen studied her expression for a moment, then let out a low chuckle.
His smile was strange, but oddly enough, it didn't feel threatening.
If anything, it seemed to put her slightly at ease, as confusing as that was.
The girl blinked in confusion when something was suddenly tossed her way.
On instinct, she reached out and caught it, a gun.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
'He… gave me his gun? Why?'
Wasn't he afraid she might shoot him again? And he didn't have a gun now…
She hesitated, raising the weapon halfway toward him, hands trembling slightly, but she couldn't pull the trigger.
Her wide eyes stayed locked on him in complete disbelief.
"I'm gonna take a shower. Gotta wash off the bad luck," Allen said with complete nonchalance, already walking toward the bathroom which he located earlier when he was scanning the house.
"Keep an eye on the door. Don't let anyone in."
His tone was so casual, and natural, like he was talking to an old friend he trusted completely.
The girl remained frozen, struggling to process what had just happened.
A few minutes went by…
The sound of running water in the bathroom finally pulled her back to reality like a slap to the face.
Then…
"I saw someone come inside earlier, there must be something in the house"
A voice was heard from outside, and the door was shoved open with force.
Before she even saw who it was, the girl spun, aimed, and fired.
Boom!
The bullet hit the intruder dead center in the forehead.
A muffled grunt escaped their lips, and the body crumpled to the floor with a heavy, lifeless thud.
She stared down at the unmoving corpse for a moment, heart pounding, then calmly stepped forward.
Without a word, she grabbed the body by the legs and dragged it outside.
She then went back inside, and kicked the door with her leg without even turning.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Standing in the center of the living room, gun in hand, she kept her eyes locked on the entrance, silent, focused and alert.
Inside the bathroom, Allen smirked at the sound of the gunshot, then resumed his leisurely shower as if nothing unusual had occurred.
When he was finished, he dried off with a clean towel from the cabinet, retrieved his freshly washed clothes from the laundry machine he had set earlier, and dressed without rushing.
Once fully clothed, he stepped back into the living room.
The girl was still there, standing in the exact same position, gun clutched tightly in her hands, eyes never straying from the door.
Allen walked over to her, gave her a light pat on the shoulder in approval, and held out his hand.
After a brief moment of hesitation, she handed the weapon back to him.
Allen tucked it into his waistband without a word and walked over to the couch.
He adjusted it so it faced the front door, then sat down with a relaxed sigh and gestured for the girl to join him.
She did so without protest, sitting down neatly beside him.
Her legs were pressed together, hands resting stiffly on her lap, posture straight and almost formal.
"What's your name?" Allen asked casually, eyes focused ahead.
"Harleen Quinzel," she answered smoothly, her voice calm and controlled, as if she hadn't just killed someone moments earlier.
Allen narrowed his eyes slightly, giving her a more thoughtful look.
Harleen tensed, but she didn't flinch or break eye contact.
There was something deeply unsettling about this guy.
He looked young, almost innocent, like the kind of friendly neighbor who offered to carry your groceries.
But nothing about his actions lined up with that image.
Who the hell gives a loaded gun to someone who just tried to shoot them?
Who leaves a complete stranger to guard the door while they take a long, relaxing bath?
He was either recklessly stupid… or terrifyingly confident.
Maybe even completely insane.
Harleen had considered escaping when he first disappeared into the bathroom.
But now? Now she was too intrigued to leave.
She needed to understand him. To figure out how someone like this functioned.
Her father had been a conman, a charismatic liar who skipped out on her and her mother without warning.
Her mother was a rigid control freak, obsessed with turning Harleen into a perfect, brag-worthy doll.
That suffocating home life had driven Harleen to study psychology.
She had to understand people.
She had to understand why her father left, and why her mother never changed.
And now, she wanted to understand him.
Allen's gaze stayed on her, calm and unreadable.
After a long pause, Harleen broke the silence again.
"Please don't hurt me," she said softly.
"I'll do whatever you say."
Allen just smiled.
"How about I call you Harley Quinn?"
Harleen's breath caught in her throat.
'Harley Quinn?'
For a brief, terrifying second, his staring at her, made her scared.
What did he want from her?
This was Gotham, after all.
A city where things rarely ended well for women, especially when they were alone with strangers.
But… he wasn't threatening her.
He wasn't making demands or laying down control.
He was giving her a new name?
"Why?" she asked carefully, her voice quiet but steady.
"Does that name mean something special to you?"