"Some souls write their repentance in ink instead of prayer."
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The rain had stopped, but Gotham never really dried.
Harleen's Ink had become a little oasis in the concrete jungle — glass walls fogged from the warmth inside, a faint smell of ink and antiseptic blending with the sweetness of vanilla candles.
Harley stood behind the counter, hair pulled into a high ponytail, sketching a design on a pad. The doorbell chimed. Bruce Wayne stepped in, the billionaire's usual aura of control oddly softened by the sight before him — walls lined with framed tattoos, each more intricate than the last.
She looked up, grinning. "Look who's slumming it with the delinquents. What can I do ya for, Batsy—I mean, Mister Wayne?"
Bruce allowed himself a small smile. "I came to check on how the community program's going. You've been booked solid for weeks."
Harley shrugged. "Turns out people don't mind a little redemption if it comes with a discount on ink."
She flipped her pad around. The sketch showed a detailed back piece — vines, roses and thorns twisting together into the faint outline of a broken heart stitched closed.
"What d'ya think? Too sappy?"
Bruce studied it. "It's… hopeful. Gotham could use more of that."
She smirked, spinning the pencil between her fingers. "Funny thing. Used to draw bombs. Now I draw flowers. Progress, huh?"
Bruce's gaze softened. "King was right about you."
Harley froze, the name landing with quiet weight. "Yeah… he does that. Says a few words and suddenly you're thinkin' about life choices instead of chaos."
Bruce nodded. "He has that effect."
Later – The Narrows
King's boots echoed against wet pavement. The docks smelled of oil, metal and rot. Gotham's veins leaking their poison into the sea.
Two black SUVs idled near a shipping container, Roman Sionis — Black Mask — stepping out in his immaculate suit and carved skull visage, arrogance dripping from every motion.
"Move the shipment." Sionis ordered his men. "Tonight we expand. Nobody's gonna stop us, not even Batman's new pet freak."
King emerged from the shadows, his shirt trailing behind him like smoke.
"I'd mind your words carefully." He said, voice low and steady. "The walls have ears. And so do I."
Sionis turned, startled, then sneered. "You again. You think you can stroll into my business and—"
King's hand shot out. A flick of motion and the metal crowbar one thug swung simply bent against his forearm like it had struck stone.
The man screamed. King didn't even flinch.
"You deal in decay." King said quietly. "You peddle addiction. Slavery. That makes you rot from within. I won't allow rot in this city."
Sionis laughed, hiding the tremor in his voice. "Your city? You don't even wear a mask. You don't own Gotham."
King stepped forward until the muzzle of Sionis's gun pressed against his chest.
"Then pull the trigger." King said softly.
Sionis fired.
The sound cracked like thunder. The bullet struck and fell, flattened to the ground.
Sionis stumbled back, terrified. "What are you?"
King's eyes were calm, ancient. "An inconvenience."
He turned, gripping the shipping container doors. Metal groaned, then tore as he ripped them open.
Inside: heroin, packed tight in plastic bricks.
King exhaled through his nose. "Poison."
He dragged one of the steel drums nearby, smashed the lock and poured oil across the shipment. The goons opened fire — bullets sparking harmlessly off his shirt, the sound more irritating than dangerous.
He struck a flare and dropped it.
Fire roared to life, devouring millions in seconds.
Sionis shouted, face twisting in fury. "You'll pay for that! You think this city belongs to saints?!"
King turned, eyes glinting in the flames. "No." He said. "But it doesn't belong to you either."
He walked away as the fire consumed the night.
Meanwhile – Harleen's Ink
The shop buzzed softly. Harley was finishing the tattoo on a woman's shoulder — a swirling arrangement of orchids climbing up toward her neck, delicate but fierce.
"Pain okay?" Harley asked.
The woman nodded. "It's weird. Hurts but in a good way."
Harley smiled. "That's life for ya. Hurts a lot, means somethin' good's comin'."
When the session ended, the woman stared at the mirror, tears pricking her eyes. "It's beautiful."
"Floral designs are my thing." Harley said. "Nature's the best storyteller."
The woman smiled through tears. "What's yours say again?"
Harley looked at her wrist, tracing the delicate inked petals that wrapped around it. Between them, in graceful script: HOPE.
She touched it gently. "Mine says hope don't die easy. Just hides when you stop lookin'."
Outside, rain began again — soft, rhythmic. Harley leaned against the window, coffee in hand, watching the neon reflections ripple across the street.
In another part of the city, King stood on a rooftop, the burning docks far behind him. The wind tugged at his coat. His eyes scanned the horizon — watching over the same city that Harley was finally learning to live in.
Two paths, different lights, same direction.
And far below, the word hope burned quietly in the dark.
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There has been some complaints about this story being quotes and philosophy. Yes, I'm aware of that. I'm trying to create a story that isn't simply get power, punch baddies, bag hotties. I'm trying to make it something mixed with philosophy, character development and familial bonds as those are values that aren't talked about much in any stories nowadays. So, I'm just making a story that resonates with me and maybe other people. Thank you for your support dear readers.
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