Harley is covered in blood. It is dripping off her. And she is hundreds of feet off the ground, carefully placing one foot in front of the other on a tiny piece of wire strung between two buildings.

Some tightrope walkers will find a balance by holding their arms out, as they stare at a signal point ahead of them, to get to the other end.

Harley is embracing a bleeding arm to her chest, so neither arm is out to balance herself. And her eyes keep on drifting to the ground underneath her.

She hears his voice in her ears. A purple coat that waits for her on the other end. Screaming to her that she has to move forward. That there is only his wrath waiting for her, if she turns around and goes back. And so she keeps moving forward.

A flash of black cape in her peripheral vision. Another voice. One that tells her that it is not too late to turn back. To take his hand.

It is a tug-of-war that she is walking on now. One voice calling her forward. The other trying to encourage her to come on back. And for a moment, all she can hear is her beating heart, and the rushing of blood in her ears.

All she sees is red. Dark, sticky red. And there is no more visions of a purple coat. Or a black cape.

There is a tug at the rope, and it becomes too tight. And she finds herself falling. Falling towards the ground...

She reaches out for something. And a flash of silver and green is there...

With a gasp, Harley wakes up in her bed, in one of her safehouses. Her phone is buzzing, with a text message alert. She glances at it, and sees screenshot after screenshot of headlines from the Gotham newspapers. And they all tell her the same thing... Joker is killing again.