Thanks to the Airbus's ridiculous speed, it didn't take long to reach Gotham City.
So, just a few dozen minutes after hanging up on Bruce Wayne, Dante was standing face to face with the legendary Arkham Asylum.
He'd only ever seen it in comics and games before—but now, in person, it was way larger than he'd imagined.
Even though the Airbus could take off and land vertically, the sheer size of it was no joke. And yet, Arkham had more than enough space to accommodate the landing without so much as a traffic cone in sight.
But the moment his boots hit the ground, Dante frowned.
Where were all the guards?
Wasn't this place supposed to be crawling with security?
Instead, it looked more like an abandoned film set.
"Welcome, welcome! I'm the Vice Warden of Arkham Asylum. Mr. Wayne already gave us a heads-up. You must be Agent Dante, right?"
"That's me," Dante said, shaking the Vice Warden's hand. "Let's cut to the chase. I want to take Harley Quinn with me immediately—less time here, less risk. You know her connection to Gotham's most delightful chaos gremlin."
"You're right. The Joker—pure madness incarnate. Who knows what he's capable of."
The Vice Warden wiped sweat from his forehead, nodding vigorously as he led Dante and Ada deeper into the facility.
He babbled about Arkham's architecture and history as they walked, clearly desperate to fill the silence.
Meanwhile, Dante had his WFBI-issued personal terminal out, quietly connected to the Bureau's network to run a few background checks. Level 7 agent privileges had their perks.
Due to Harley's unique risk level, her room was located in the deepest, most fortified sector of Arkham. Even with the Vice Warden's guidance, it took them quite a hike to get there.
At last, they arrived at a thick iron door with a nameplate: Harley Quinn.
"No guards? Seriously? Not even one watching this hallway?" Dante raised an eyebrow. "You're really leaving a high-risk patient like Harley Quinn completely unmonitored?"
"Oh, but this ward is the guard," the Vice Warden said proudly. "If she manages to break out of that room, no guard on payroll's going to stop her anyway."
"...Fair point."
Dante humored the excuse, but he wasn't buying it.
Harley wasn't just some deranged gymnast. She had the physicality of an elite athlete, the training of a provisional Agent, and after she snapped, it was like she'd unlocked her inner anime villain. Pain tolerance through the roof. Physical limits? Ignored.
"Also, best to leave any weapons outside. If she gets her hands on one, it won't end well."
"We're just here to transfer a patient. What kind of weapons would we possibly be carrying?"
Dante casually patted his suit, hiding the very real Magnum nestled underneath.
Before he transmigrated, he'd only gotten to use that thing in shooter games.
Now? He slept with it under his pillow.
"Alright then. Please be very cautious," the Vice Warden said, beginning the unlock sequence.
The door looked less like a medical ward and more like a bank vault—constructed of heavy alloy, with gears turning audibly as it disengaged.
And when it finally opened—
"...This is how you treat high-risk patients?"
Dante's mouth twitched as he fought back the urge to ask if this was some kind of prank.
This wasn't a cell.
It wasn't even a ward.
This was a princess bedroom.
Complete set of luxury furniture and appliances, every item either pastel pink or ridiculously plush. The vibe was less psychiatric containment and more YouTuber influencer's aesthetic bunker.
A literal hyena—yes, a hyena—wearing a princess dress was snoring on a velvet cushion.
Aside from the obvious lack of external communication or freedom of movement…
This was an otaku's dream suite.
"More extravagant than my bedroom," Dante muttered.
Even the ever-composed Ada couldn't help but mutter, "This is insane."
"Shouldn't your bedroom be pitch black?" Dante teased. "No light source. Just moonlight spilling in from tall windows as you sit on a throne made of skulls, sipping blood-red wine and laughing coldly into the night."
"Interested in my bedroom?" Ada raised an eyebrow. "Want to come see it for yourself tonight?"
"Nope, I'm good. I'd rather not end up sliced into three hundred equal pieces, each weighing exactly 250 grams, and cooked according to your mood."
"What kind of monster do you think I am?"
Dante chuckled. But the question lingered in his mind.
Was Ada being too friendly?
There was something oddly… affectionate in her tone. It didn't feel fake, but it didn't quite line up with her usual aloofness either.
Inside the room, Harley Quinn took notice of her guests. She removed her oversized, glittery pink cat-ear headphones and peered over with interest.
"Judging by your deadly-serious faces, you must be with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. So how's that baldy doing these days?"
"You know Fury?"
"Not super well," Harley said cheerfully. "He was my grad school advisor for criminal psychology. Helped me complete my provisional Agent training too."
Dante blinked. Then looked over at Ada.
She gave him the I told you to read the file look.
Was the interweaving of world backgrounds really this deep?
No wonder Fury wanted her on the team so badly—Harley Quinn wasn't just some random pick. She was Fury's pupil. A personal project.
Like Quake was to Coulson in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Even Bruce Wayne had said she was one of the few people he considered a real friend.
Between them, they probably outfitted this ridiculous penthouse-cell.
But… something didn't add up.
Harley didn't seem crazy.
In fact, Dante felt like he was talking to Dr. Harleen Quinzel, not her chaotic alter ego.
"Well, don't just stand there in the doorway," Harley said brightly. "Come in and make yourselves at home."
She sprang off her oversized armchair, landing gracefully with a gymnast's flair.
"What would you like to drink? Coffee? Tennessee whiskey? Maybe a sinfully neon green soda that looks like it should be illegal?"
"Whatever works."
"Coffee it is!"
She bustled around like a perfectly normal host with houseguests.
But Ada, already inside, wasn't so easily convinced.
Her sharp eyes darted to the rest of the room—and Dante followed her gaze.
The side of the room visible from the door was all pink frills and plushies.
But the other walls…
Every inch was covered with photos of one man.
Green hair. Ghost-white foundation. Blood-red lips carved into a grotesque smile.
The Joker. Gotham's Clown Prince of Crime.
Mr. J.
There were many names. All of them terrifying.
But something was… off.
Every photo had been vandalized. Scratched, defaced, or half-blacked out. Like she was trying to erase him—while still keeping him close.
A psychological tug-of-war in wallpaper form.
Unless Harley had recently taken acting lessons from Two-Face, this was a clear sign of inner conflict.
"I know this scene is a little weird," Harley said, brewing coffee with her back turned. "But trust me, it's not even the weirdest part. Ever see fireworks and confetti burst out of someone's wounds? Harley Quinn sees a lot of things like that."
…She just used her own name in the third person.
"Doctor Quinzel?"
"That's right. For now, at least. But just call me Harley Quinn—I'm used to it."
She turned around, tray in hand.
"All four of you, please have a seat. The sofa's big enough."
Four?
Dante immediately spun and drew his Magnum, aiming it at the back of the room.
There, standing motionless like he'd always been there, was a figure clad in a black cape and cowl.
The kind of presence that could silence a room just by existing.
Even with an elephant-stopping Magnum aimed square at his head, he didn't flinch.
"Batman," Dante muttered. "When did you start flying out of your cave during daylight hours?"
(To be continued.)