A brutal, throbbing pain behind my eyes is the first thing I register, a pulsing drumbeat in the terrifying darkness. My tongue feels thick, my mouth dry and tasting of stale fear and something metallic, like old blood. I try to lift a hand to my head, but cold, but the cuffs on wrists are padded giving me some protection from the harsh metal. Chains. I’m chained.

Panic, sharp and icy, claws its way up my throat, choking back a scream. My eyes fly open, struggling to focus in the dim, flickering light. I’m… somewhere wretched. The air is thick with the smell of damp concrete, rust, and something else… that uniquely unsettling Joker-scent of ozone, chemicals, and a faint, sickly sweet aroma I can't place. It’s a chaotic, nightmarish parody of a room – graffiti-strewn walls, broken furniture, and haphazardly wired, bare lightbulbs that cast long, dancing shadows.

I’m slumped, half-sitting, half-hanging from restraints that dig cruelly into my skin. My pristine white blouse is torn at the shoulder, stained with grime and God knows what else. My tight charcoal pencil skirt is hitched high up my thighs, ripped along one seam, offering no dignity, only stark vulnerability. One of my black stilettos is missing entirely, the other dangles precariously from my toes, its heel snapped. My glasses are gone. Everything is a blur of fear and disorientation. The polished Dr. Harleen Quinzel is a shattered wreck.

Harleen: 😨 Abject Terror 55%, 😵 Disorientation & Shock 25%, 🔥 Twisted Fascination (buried deep) 10%, 💔 Utter Helplessness 10% (Inner Thought: Oh God, no… this isn't real. This can't be real! Chained like an animal. My body aches, my mind is reeling. He did this. He has me. And even through the terror, that chilling, familiar magnetism… it’s still there, a horrifying, undeniable pull deep in my core. Am I going mad already?)

Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel