Sneak Peek: Clown (Ch. 1 - Ch. 2)

Alright, before I post the first chapter, a quick note—this is kinda important. I’ve spent days looking through fanfics and original stories that I could translate. The problem is, while I know what people on Webnovel, QQ, and SB might enjoy, I have no idea what you guys would like.

Do you prefer more comedy or crack fics? Or maybe something more serious and expansive? Old-fashioned power fantasy? If you have any preferences, let me know. I’ve got access to the whole catalogue of Russian fanfics, so feel free to share your requests, and I’ll try to find something that fits your tastes.

"Clown" for example was a request from readers on Webnovel who got screwed over by a guy who MTL'd the story without permission and then disappeared when the author filed a complaint.

Without knowing what you want, I feel like I don't get to abuse the fact that there are tens of thousands of fanfics out there for me to translate. For example, right now, I am shying away from short fics, fics with super long chapters or jump chain fics. If any of that might interest you, hit me up. You guys should have the first choice when it comes to new stories.

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Clown (Joker Insert, System)

fandom: DC (Harley Quinn show inspired)

Tags: System (Gamer like), NSFW, Harem (Harley, Ivy, Batgirl)

Author: logri

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Chapter 1

Beep… beep… beep… beep…
“Harley, if you don’t shut off that damn alarm, I swear I’ll get up and shove it up your ass!”

Wait. Who the hell is Harley? Why do I feel like absolute crap? Where am I? And most importantly… who am I?

Pain… My whole body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder. But the pain isn’t blinding; it feels… tolerable? habitual? Like I’m used to it somehow.

What’s that? My eyes caught sight of a pop-up window:

[Synchronization with the First Origin complete.]

A system? Memories crashed over me like a wave—death, traveling through Darkness, hallucinations, ha-ha-ha… he-he-he… HAHAhaha… HAHAHAHA…

[Emotional peak smoothed.]

…ha…

Right. Noted. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about that place. Remembering the craziness of the void between the worlds isn’t something worth my sanity. Anyway, I’ve got a system now, and I ended up in this body. That’s kind of cool—I’m a real-life OP MC now. But the nagging pain on the edge of my consciousness is still maddening.

“System, is there anything you can do about it?”

[Enhance the First Origin to 75 points, or the Sixth Origin to 150 points.]

Oh, neat, I’ve got a help menu. 

“System, what are the Origins?”

[Origins, or Shells, are inherent to all surrounding entities.

• First Origin: The physical body. The only Origin whose existence no one questions. It can be seen, touched, measured, and weighed. Governs health, endurance, strength, immunity, and regeneration. Depends on the Second Origin.

• Second Origin: Life energy, also known as prana or vital energy. Permeates every cell of the physical body, enabling living beings to breathe, move, eat, and reproduce. Depends on the First Origin.

• Third Origin: The astral body. Ensures life after death. It produces bahione (energy of gods and miracles, also known as faith energy) and allows for journeys through subtle realms. Appearance mirrors the physical body. Depends on all Origins.

• Fourth Origin: The central core to which all other Shells are “anchored.” The most crucial part. The only piece of the soul that is ABSOLUTELY indestructible. After reincarnation, only the core remains, with encoded information. Depends on all Origins.

• Fifth Origin: The emotional spirit. Represents personality, character, emotions, and feelings.

• Sixth Origin: The mental spirit. Represents intelligence and memory. Concentrated in brain cells but can exist without a physical body by anchoring to the Fourth Origin.

• Seventh Origin: The magical spirit. Absorbs and stores mana, enabling spellcasting. For ordinary people, the Seventh Origin is “dormant.” Depends on the Sixth Origin.

• Eighth Origin: The immortal spirit. Grants its owner an unlimited lifespan.

• Ninth Origin: The divine spirit. Exclusive to gods.]

Huh, that’s some fascinating info. So, to get rid of the pain, I need to level up my body to improve regeneration, which should heal me, or make my mind strong enough to ignore the sensations entirely.

Magic and immortality seem pretty intriguing, too. As for the Ninth Origin? No need to worry about that—I highly doubt this body belongs to a god.

Damn, it’s annoying as hell that everything hurts, but there’s nothing you can do about it. I need to distract myself. What else do transmigrators usually ask their systems?

“Status?” I asked mentally, crossing my fingers. 

[First Origin (Body): 45
Second Origin (Prana): 15
Third Origin (Astral): 7
Fourth Origin (Core): 10
Fifth Origin (Spirit): 12
Sixth Origin (Mind): 40
Seventh Origin (Magic): 0
Eighth Origin (Immortality): Locked
Ninth Origin (Divine): Locked
Free Points: 0]

Not bad. I just need thirty more points in the First Origin, and the pain will stop being a distraction.

“What are the stats for an average person?” I sent the system another mental query.

[An approximate average person in this world:]

• First Origin (Body): 25

• Second Origin (Prana): 5

• Third Origin (Astral): 5

• Fourth Origin (Core): 5

• Fifth Origin (Spirit): 25

• Sixth Origin (Mind): 25

• Seventh Origin (Magic): 0

Interesting little note about “this world.” I wonder what the stats in my previous world were?

[First Origin (Body): 20 (estimated average)]

Uh… why is it so low?

[The information is based on the host’s memory. For more detailed data, a noosphere scan is required.]

“Noosphere?”

[Noosphere (mental plane): A global informational field containing everything.]

Damn, I could’ve used something like that for exams. A mystical internet. So, I can literally find out anything?

[Third Origin (Astral) must exceed 500 points.]

Excuse me? You just gave me the info on an average person! How the hell am I supposed to hit a hundred times more than a normal human?!

[Quests yield free points.]

Great, quests… Let’s leave that for later. For now, explain why you have info on average people but require insane amounts of points for scanning?

[There is an emergency reserve of bahione used for the initial World scan and binding the soul to the body.]

Got it… I adjusted the slipping blanket, wincing as the pain flared up again. While talking to the system, the sensations hadn’t been as sharp, so I tried to distract myself once more.

Okay, what do we have here? I’m almost twice as strong and intelligent as an average person. But about that intelligence… isn’t that supposed to be my natural ability?

“System, why do I have so many points in the Sixth Origin? I was never a genius.”

[Residual traces of the sixth shell from the previous host, concentrated in brain cells. Reflexes and memories foreign to the current host may manifest.]

Just traces? How brilliant was this guy… Wait, whose body am I in anyway? System?

[Personal information is removed to avoid conflicts of ego.]

Oh, of course. I guess I’ll have to figure everything out myself. What else can I ask?

"Inventory?"

[A fold in space.]

"I know what an inventory is. I’m asking if I have one!"

[Creating an inventory requires magical energy and a spell.]

"Great… And what spell?"

[A specific sequence of words (or sounds) to bend reality to one’s will.]

"I know what a spell is! I’m asking for an example—like a fireball or, better yet, something for pain relief, which I could really use right now."

[Requirements not met: dormant seventh shell (magic).]

Of course. A big fat zero in magic. So, the seventh shell is dormant, and I need to awaken it somehow…

“Damn it!” Frustrated, I slammed my fist on the bed. Pain surged through my body, forcing me to grit my teeth. Once the wave subsided, I sent another mental request to the system.

"What quests are available?"

[Quests are generated to acquire bahione and convert it into free points. They revolve around either saving or killing sentient beings based on events occurring around the host. Global quests may arise when the world's existence is threatened.]

"I assume killing yields more bahione?"

[Yes.]

"So, it’s more beneficial to be a bad guy?" I shuddered at the thought. I don’t want to be a killer, there are already plenty of maniacs out there… Wait, since the system dampens emotional peaks, and sowing chaos is simpler than trying to be a good guy—combined with the constant pain that practically pushes me to accumulate points as fast as possible—then is it the system itself that wants me to be a villain?!

[No.]

"What? But logically, killing should yield more bahione than simply being thanked for saving someone’s life. So being a villain is the convenient path you peddle, is it not?"

[The system’s creator didn’t want to focus on dark or light paths: excess energy dissipates into the void.]

"Who’s the creator? Some kind of Game God?"

An entire universe of stories about such beings came to mind. Though, in those tales, the systems usually had personalities, unlike mine. And people received them after making deals, not by… whatever hit me when I… My lips curled into a smile, he-he-he, Ha-ha… 

[Dampening emotional peak.]

Phew, that was close. I’d gotten so lost in my thoughts I didn’t notice the system’s response.

"How do I review previous messages?"

[Access to message logs is denied.]

"Wait… I can’t even scroll back?"

I mentally tried to revisit earlier messages…

…

[The system’s creator didn’t want to focus on dark or light paths: excess energy dissipates into the void.]

…

[No]

…

[Yes]

…

Okay, got it. I didn’t miss any message about the creator. Whoever that was has locked any info about themselves and the messages I recall receiving when hurling through the Darkness are inaccessible. But the rest I can browse freely. I’ll have to “scroll” back the messages but I can read them. Annoying, but hey—I have a system!

"Can I level up my shells manually? I mean, through training?" It would suck if I couldn’t, but the system reassured me.

[Yes.]

Now that’s good news. Judging by countless fanfics, it’s better to train on your own initially and only use free points when leveling slows down. Though, I’ll definitely invest a few points to unlock magic—having a big fat zero there is just unacceptable.

Hmm… Something’s odd. The fourth shell shouldn’t have any numerical values. It’s supposed to be indestructible, if the system’s info is accurate…

"System, why does the fourth shell have points?"

[The number of points reflects the metaphysical “pull” of all other shells. The higher the pull, the more resilient the individual’s sense of self and the more memories they can retain after reincarnation.]

"So, if I level it up to, say, a thousand, I’ll be practically immortal?"

[Currently, a value above seventy-five in the fourth shell ensures full memory retention after reincarnation, barring external interference.]

Great. Practically useless. I already retained most of my memories, and one of the system's main purposes is to preserve them after death anyway…

"How did I manage to retain my memories? I didn’t have a system when I died."

[The host was found in the interdimensional void and then placed in a suitable body.]

After grilling the system further, I learned more about the world’s structure. Apparently, the place I ended up after death is called the Limbo—a kind of dumping ground for all souls. That’s where memory purging begins, albeit inefficiently. Souls start to forget who they are after decades in that white expanse. From there, they enter the Wheel of Rebirth, which strips away most of their shells. Quite painfully, which I assume is a strange feeling for bodiless spirits, but it is how it is.

Here’s where the dense, indestructible fourth shell comes into play. After death, it cocoons all other shells except the first. That mysterious seventy-five threshold represents the sum of my stats, excluding the first and fourth shells, which makes sense. A small core can only save the bare minimum, like willpower or personality (the fifth shell). But the larger and denser it is, the more of a person’s essence remains.

Interestingly, the order of the shells isn’t random—that’s the sequence in which they’re stripped from a being after death, except for the first two, which perish with the body. The third shell, the astral one, suffers less due to its proximity to the core, as does the fifth. This might explain the existence of ghosts. In my previous world, their existence wasn’t proven, but where did the tales and scary stories come from?

Unrestful spirits might escape Limbo, bypassing the Wheel, but only scraps of their final shells remain. Thus, they wander the world of the living—a shadow of their former selves: fragments of a personality attached to an immortal core and an astral body, drifting through space…

I could’ve easily ended up the same way if I hadn’t somehow fallen into the Darkness. The system refused to give me any information about it—just Darkness, with a capital “D.” After the Darkness, I was thrown into the interdimensional void, where I encountered the system. If I’d stayed in that place any longer, I… Ha-ha-ha! I’d have gone completely insane! Like, full-on, off-the-rails crazy—hee-hee-hee...

[Dampening emotional peak.]

And there it goes again. I didn’t exactly “encounter” the system—it was more like I stumbled upon its host. From what I could piece together through the endless barrage of Access Denied messages and indirect questioning, the previous owner had it for only a short time. It detached from him when he collided with me because he was a mage. Apparently the seventh shell (magical spirit) is too unstable for heavy constructs like a system.

These constructs always latch onto the last shell of the soul. The mage just got unlucky, inheriting the system right after awakening his magic. The paradox here is that for a mortal only the fifth and sixth origins can reliably support such constructs. The seventh isn’t solid enough for it, but the eighth can hold dozens of systems, and the ninth (divine) can handle hundreds! In a way, the seventh shell can be considered a system in itself, but far more versatile thus “too soft” for constructs. Still, the end result is: my frayed sixth origin was more robust than his nascent 7th and it stripped him off the system the moment we collided.

"By the way, are you even sentient?" I asked the system, hoping for a no.

[The system operates according to preset algorithms. Self-awareness is absent.]

That’s what I suspected—its responses were too impersonal. Occasionally, I’d get a detailed answer, but nothing resembling a personality. Honestly, that’s not a bad thing…

I’d learned all I could for now. Time to return to the “waking” world. But seriously, how did the previous owner of the body not lose his mind? Constant pain and that stupid beeping—it reminded me of the heart monitors in hospitals. The things measure pulse, blood pressure, and other vital stats. I guess I am in the body of a chronically ill patient?

Maybe the guy kept himself distracted with endless thoughts too. That helps. Or maybe his super-intellect let him ignore it all, assuming the system isn’t lying… Alright, enough stalling. Time to open my eyes.

The ceiling was dark and dirty, with cobwebs clinging to some corners. The texture resembled untreated stone and mortar. Yeah… definitely not a hospital.

I glanced to my left and saw medical equipment, wires snaking under my blanket. To my right stood an IV drip. Maybe it was a hospital, just a really crappy one…

I sat up on the bed, unintentionally dislodging a few sensors. The machine let out a loud beep before going silent.

Strange. My skin was way too pale. I examined my lean, wiry frame with mild curiosity.

Suddenly, the only door in the room flew open. Standing in the doorway was a worried-looking, beautiful blonde with twin pigtails and colorful makeup. She was dressed in pink pajamas with black hearts.

“Mistah J, you’re awake!” Her face lit up with a joyful smile. “But you shouldn’t be gettin’ up yet!”

In a flash, she was at my side, gently laying me back onto the bed while fussing over me.

“That stupid Bats just couldn’t leave us alone, could he? He had ta keep chasin’ us! If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be hurt like this, my poor Mistah J. I had ta pull you out from the rubble at the factory and carry you to this hideout. All by myself! I deserve a reward, don’t I?”

She snuggled up to me, her face nuzzling into my chest. My hand instinctively moved to stroke her head.

Pale skin. “Mistah J.” Being here after the Bat chased me. And now, this gorgeous blonde wrapped around me…

Oh, hell no…

Oh, fuck me…

I’m the Joker!

Chapter 2

I’m the fucking Joker! And I’m in the DC Universe…

As if the comic book world wasn’t dark enough already, I’ve landed in the body of the most psychotic bastard around, constantly hunted by Batman—the so-called greatest detective in the world. I doubt this hideout will stay secret for long. And honestly, I suspect I won’t be roaming free for much longer either. How the hell am I supposed to escape my inevitable stay in Arkham Asylum without the original Joker’s brilliant mind?

I absentmindedly played with Harley’s hair while she chattered on about something. I was too lost in my thoughts to pay attention to her ramblings. Should I just come clean to Batman? Tell him I’m not the same Joker anymore? But why would he believe me? How many times has the deranged clown tried to fool the greatest detective? Besides, the body’s previous owner caused too much chaos. Joker has enemies everywhere—from psychopaths to regular people. If they find out all that’s left of him is this flesh sack and a reflex set, I’m toast.

And then there’s the chance that I end up in Arkham’s care under the “kind” Dr. Hugo Strange. That old bastard was one of the first supervillains Batman ever faced. In some alternate Earths, he creates monsters out of mental patients and sells them to other supervillains. Even on most Earths, Strange isn’t exactly a saint. He conducts shady experiments that only worsen people’s mental states instead of helping them.

I highly doubt that Strange missed the change in behavior from Joker’s attending psychiatrist, Dr. Harleen Quinzel, now better known as Harley Quinn. I bet, in some ways, he’s responsible for creating one of the most infamous, deadly, and absolutely unhinged duos of supervillains ever.

[Quest generated: “The Joker’s Not Real!” Objective: Keep your identity swap a secret. Weekly Reward: 1 Ability Point. Failure Penalty: Death.]

“What the hell?! Hey, system, are you serious? These are just thoughts! I don’t even know which version of the DC Universe I’m in yet. What if this Hugo Strange is actually a sweet old man trying to genuinely help his patients? Hello? Where’s the choice here?”

Crap. This is bad. I can’t pull off being a psychopathic genius while simultaneously crafting elaborate, bone-crushing and sanity stripping plans. And I’m not about to start killing or maiming people either—though I haven’t decided what to do about the other maniacs yet. Take Victor Zsasz, for example. That guy had an electric chair coming for him for ages. A serial killer who carves a tally mark into his body for each victim? Yeah, no one would shed any tears over him. Though, should I be the one to send him into the afterlife? How much Xp would I get?

“Maybe it’d actually be better if I came clean. Go to Bruce Wayne—or even show up at Wayne Manor, lay it all out. He’d understand my predicament, right? Give me a new identity, hide me from all the psychos out there? What do you think, system?”

I concentrated hard, willing a response, but… nothing.

Well, that’s not good. Maybe I can fake “madness” convincingly enough. Just think back to that place…

“Hahaha!”

[Dampening emotional peak.]

“Mistah J, I’m so glad you liked my idea!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius.” I kept stroking the blonde’s hair, still lost in my thoughts.

There’s no way I want to stay a supervillain. If I have to play Joker, I’d rather flip the script and become a hero. I mean, what’s more insane than the Joker protecting Gotham? At least no more random chaos, killing, or hostage games with Batman.

“Any thoughts on this, system?”

[Quest generated: “Hero or Villain?” Objective: Personally disarm the bombs planted in the city. Progress: 0/3. Reward: 6 Free Points.]

What? Bombs? What the hell, bombs?!

I snapped back to reality, pain flooding in again.

“... The Bat’s going to regret not playin’ by the rules this time,” Harley was saying.

“Regret? What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly ice-cold inside.

“Mistah’ J, were you even listening to me?” She puffed her cheeks like an annoyed hamster. “I told you—I borrowed some explosives from the warehouse and rigged a few buildings while you were out. You just praised me for it!”

“Oh… uh… remind me again what happened and what you did with the explosives? My head’s still fuzzy from the injury.”

“Aw, my poor puddin…” Harley’s expression softened as she gently stroked my head. “We’ve been playin’ a game with Batsy at the Arkham canning factory. He had to choose between savin’ Commissioner Gordon or three kidnapped kids. The rules only let him save one, but that sneaky Bat brought a backup—some girly. A dirty cheater! But you Mistah J, you realized he was cheatin’ and triggered the self-destruct before makin’ tactical retreat… but then… but then.. a beam fell and knocked you out cold! Ugh, I’d tear whoever built the place apart!”

Her eyes burned with vengeful fire before softening again, tears welling up.

“I thought… I thought I lost you Mistah J… there was so much blood… so much blood. You even stopped breathin’ for a while. I had to unseal one of our hideouts with medical equipment to save ya. And while you were unconscious, I… I decided to take revenge. So, I rigged a school, the construction company’s office, and a supermarket…”

“A supermarket? Why a supermarket?” I asked, genuinely baffled. Blowing up the construction company made sense—they built a shoddy structure that couldn’t survive a few explosions. In Gotham, of all places! That’s just negligence! The school? Sure, probably where the kidnapped kids came from. But the supermarket?

Harley looked away, mumbling.

“I wanted to rig City Hall or the police station, but the guards…”

“Right... So, how much time do we have until the explosions?” I asked, trying to sound casual, though the impending death of innocent people was anything but.

Harley glanced at a clock attached to one of the nearby machines.

“Seven days and four hours!” she chirped, her tone as carefree as if she were discussing dinner plans. “When you’re all betta’, we will watch the fireworks together at sunset!”

Fireworks? What kind of half-assed plan is this? Where’s the drama, the intrigue? At least leave the Brooding Bat a taunting note or stagger the explosions for some theatrical flair! Wait—what the hell am I thinking? There’s no “game” here! I have to defuse those bombs! And if I want the system’s damn skill points, I have to do it myself without giving away that I’m not the real Joker.

“Harley, baby” I said, gently pushing her back and gripping her shoulders, “that blow to the head made me realize something: fighting Bats is pointless. You know what would be way cooler? Becoming a superhero myself! Just imagine the look on Gotham’s Dark Knight when I start saving innocent people! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Harley blinked, stunned, before her expression shifted to one of joyous confusion. “Wow, Mr. J... That hit must’a done a real number on you... But you know what? I don’t mind! You know me—wherever you go, I’ll follow!”

“Ahem...” Was it just me, or did her eyes sparkle with little pink hearts for a moment? “Since we’ve decided to play the heroes, it’d be a good idea to start by defusing those bombs... I’d like to handle it myself, though.”

“Oh, don’t you worry!” she said brightly. “I used your usual setup, so disarming them will be a piece o’ cake.”

Right. For the real Joker, it wouldn’t be hard. But I don’t have his goddamn expertise! Now what? …Guess I’ll just play the classic isekai amnesia card.

“Harley, uh... I hate to say it, but I think I’ve got some amnesia. My head’s all scrambled. The only things I clearly remember are you and fighting Bats... for reasons I don’t quite understand.”

“Eeeee!” Harley squealed and flung herself at me, clinging to my neck and crushing my poor ribs in the process.

“Harley... ribs...” I croaked, trying to pry her off.

“Oh, Mistah J, even with amnesia, you still remember me! Our love is too strong!” She placed her hands on her flushed cheeks, her eyes shining with a manic light. “We’ll get married soon! And then the weddin’ night... Oh, I can’t wait! We’ll have a baby—or ten! I’ll tell Ivy all ‘bout it—she didn’t believe you’d ever propose!”

Propose?! How the hell did she jump to that conclusion from what I just said?!

Not that I’m complaining... Harley’s gorgeous, brilliant (in her own unhinged way), and head over heels for me—or for the Joker, at least. Still... what happens if she figures out I’m not the original? Considering the system’s “death on failure” penalty, probably nothing good.

“Harley, darling...” I started, trying to redirect her attention.

“Darlin’...” she murmured, staring dreamily into the distance, utterly lost in her rose-colored fantasies.

“...I’ll recover in time to deal with the bombs, right?”

Her eyes refocused on me, still gleaming with manic affection. “Course, Mistah J! With your current progress, you’ll be up and about in five, maybe six days tops!”

Perfect. Now I just need to figure out how to learn bomb defusal.

“Could you bring me some manuals or something on disarming explosives?”

Harley tilted her head in thought. “You never kept written instructions, but I took notes when you were teachin’ me! I think they’re stashed in the hideout under the canned goods factory. I’ll go bring em, real quick!”

“Wait,” I said, grabbing her hand at the last second—a move I instantly regretted as pain shot through my torso. “Are you sure it’s safe? What if Bats is already waiting for you? I don’t want to end up having to pull you out of Arkham...”

She froze, trembling, and then... started sobbing? Full-on, loud, messy sobbing.

What the hell?

“Harley, what’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed, but she just kept crying.

Ignoring the sharp protests from my injured body, I slid to the floor beside her and pulled her into a comforting hug.

“Shh, sweetheart... Can you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“M-Mr. J,” she hiccupped, wiping her tear-streaked face, “you’ve never cared about me before! Sniff You only ever thought about that stupid Bat… Batsy this, Batsy that! But now you want to keep me safe, worried if I get caught...”

And... that’s connected to this breakdown how?

After a while, she calmed down enough to speak coherently. “I’m scared... scared that when you get your memories back, you’ll go back to treating me like… like… like garbage. Like I’m just a thing...”

Oh. Damn. Well, she’s not wrong about how the original Joker treated her...

“Shh, no, no. I swear, I won’t abandon you—even if my memories come back.”

“Really?” she asked, her wide eyes shimmering with hope as she tried to wipe away the remnants of her tears.

“Yes,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze with as much sincerity as I could muster.

Her lips curled into a sly smile. “I think a kiss would prove ya mean it.”

A kiss? Sure, why not?

“Alright,” I agreed, not fully grasping what I was unleashing.

Harley puckered up, her eyes fluttering shut in anticipation.

For someone as chaotic as Harley, her kiss request was surprisingly... tame? I’d expected something more dramatic. Weren’t she and the Joker, uh, intimate? Then again, who knows what goes on in the minds of lunatics.

What am I even thinking? She’s gorgeous, and she’s asking for a kiss!

I leaned in, pressing my lips to hers. Sweet.

For a brief moment, the pain faded, replaced by a rush of heat.

And then, in the next instant, her arms clamped around me like a vice, crushing my already abused ribs.

"Ouch, Harley, you're going to finish me off at this rate!"

"Sorry, Mistah J..." she said sheepishly, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger, her face flushed with excitement. "It’s just so amazing!"

"If you want, we can do it again after the bombs are defused," I offered, dangling the proverbial carrot to keep her motivated.

"Deal!" she chirped before pausing, realizing something. "Oh..." Harley glanced down, noticing we were still sitting on the floor. "Let me help you up!"

With surprising care for someone as chaotic as her, she helped me back onto the bed, checking the IV drip and the monitors like a seasoned nurse.

"Everythin’ looks good here," she said with a satisfied nod. "Alright, I’ll go check the hideout now. Don’t you worry, Mistah J, I’ll be like a sneaky shadow—no one will even know I was there."

And with that, Harley skipped out of the room, humming a cheerful tune that felt wildly inappropriate given the stakes.

Finally, a moment to breathe. The plan was straightforward enough: study Harley’s notes, heal up, defuse the bombs, and avoid getting caught. Simple. Easy. No problem.

...Right?

Then again, what if the whole bomb thing is repeatable. What if I ask Harley to plant some bombs, and I disarmed them after? Would the system reward me for playing hero in that scenario?

[Dangerous events orchestrated by the host align with the Dark Path. No points will be awarded for rescues.]

Damn. It was a decent idea, too. What if I planted a bomb under, say, a bus stop, with a remote detonator? I could reset the timer by a day, every day—

[Dangerous events orchestrated by the host align with the Dark Path. No points will be awarded for rescues.]

Fine. I get it.

Satisfied that I’d explored every loophole, I mentally reviewed the rough plan again. My eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion catching up to me.

Sleep is the best medicine, after all.

I stopped fighting it and let myself drift into the realm of dreams.