The private VIP dining room of La Ville de Minuit sparkled like sin under candlelight. Gold trim, velvet walls, and plates so fancy they probably had a net worth. Waiters glided by like ghosts, dropping off caviar, truffle risotto, steak flown in from Japan— the kind of meals with more syllables than some mobsters had brain cells.
Harley Quinn twirled spaghetti carbonara on her fork with all the grace of a duchess who moonlighted as a demolitionist. She leaned into Joker, whispering something that made him chuckle — low and dark — before she stabbed her steak with a little too much joy.
Across the room, Rick Flag and Jonny Frost stood near the grand liquor cabinet, backs to the wall, chatting just loud enough to sound casual but quiet enough to mask the fact that they were scanning every exit, watching every twitchy finger.
"You think that guy's hiding a piece in his boot?" Rick asked, nodding discreetly at a large man dabbing sauce from his chin.
Jonny sipped his scotch. "If he is, he's sittin' on it."
They chuckled.
But across the table, two older mob bosses weren't so subtle in their condescension. One, a heavyset man with a face like a tired bulldog, muttered not-so-quietly, "These kids think bodyguards are fashion statements now. Joker must be getting soft… trusting his life to a couple of disposable lackeys."
Harley's eyes flicked toward them, amused. "Huh…" she mused, still smiling sweetly.
Without even turning her head, she reached into her boot and — fwip fwip fwip fwip fwip! — launched five knives across the room in a flash of gleaming silver.
Mid-conversation, Jonny and Rick caught every single blade by the metal, two each in one hand, the last one snatched mid-air between Jonny's teeth. And they never even looked away from each other.
Harley giggled. "Oops. Hope I didn't interrupt."
The room went silent.
Dead silent.
Joker swirled his wine like it was blood, watching the reaction with delighted eyes. Harley leaned in and addressed the table, voice as casual as if she were talking about the weather. "Those two? Not just 'goons,' fellas. They're family. Closest friends we got. Trained. Lethal. Loyal. And absolutely not for sale."
One of the younger bosses nearly dropped his fork.
Jonny calmly took the knife from his mouth and passed two blades to Rick, who started walking toward the table. The way his boots hit the marble? Like thunder with purpose.
Without saying a word, Rick flipped the knives back — one after another — whooshwhooshwhoosh!
Harley caught two in the same hand like it was choreographed. Joker plucked the last one from the air with two fingers, not even blinking.
Rick finally reached the end of the table, placing one hand firmly on Joker's shoulder, the other on Harley's. His voice was low, calm, and dangerous. "Hurt my best friend…" he said, nodding at Harley, "And her shockingly loyal boyfriend."
He paused.
Then added with a half-smirk: "...and I'll put you down myself."
There was a beat — then Harley burst into laughter, tipping her head against Joker's shoulder, while Jonny barked out a "HA!" from the back.
Joker grinned. "I like that. Shockingly loyal. Like a pitbull in a purple coat."
He leaned back in his chair, stretching out lazily. "Now… where were we? Oh right. Your little concerns about the drive we have."
The mobsters? Still pale. Still silent. Still scared.
And the night had only just begun.
Amanda Waller's office was already dim and cold — the kind of cold that lived in bones and power structures — but the moment he burst in, the temperature somehow dropped lower.
Her assistant, a nervous little man named Dreyfus, practically tripped over his own feet as he entered, his tablet clutched like it was a holy artifact.
"Ma'am," he gasped, panting like he sprinted through hell, "we—we've got eyes on Joker and Harley. They've been tracked to La Ville de Minuit—the VIP room. The footage just came in."
Amanda didn't look up from her screen yet. "Who's the fourth?"
He hesitated.
That hesitation? That was his first mistake.
She slowly raised her head, eyes like dark voids under her lashes. "Dreyfus."
"I—I didn't know at first! The camera in the hotel lobby didn't get a clear view when they left the penthouse. You saw Joker and Harley laughing, Jonny and the car, and the fourth figure…"
Waller sighed. "Still nothing?"
"Whoever it is," Dreyfus muttered, "they know what they're doing. Facial recognition failed, backlight made him a silhouette… But—not everything is hidden—"
He played the restaurant footage. This footage, sharp quality. The mob bosses seated. Joker and Harley shining like royalty dipped in madness. Rick and Jonny in the background — stone-faced, arms crossed.
Then came the moment.
Harley threw the knives. Rick and Jonny caught them mid-conversation. Silence. Tension.
And then him. Rick Flag.
Walking up, placing a hand on Joker's shoulder, and the other gently — fondly — on Harley's.
"Hurt my best friend… and I'll put you down myself."
Waller stared.
"…And her shockingly loyal boyfriend."
Then came Joker's smile. Not his chaos smile. Not his murder grin. A smirk — subtle, almost approving — as Rick's hand sat on his shoulder like they were brothers in arms at the end of the world.
Harley leaned into Joker, giggling like it was the happiest moment of her week.
Amanda's blood ran ice cold.
She reached for the remote and slammed the PAUSE button on the frame where Rick's fingers gently rested across Harley's shoulder.
Zoom.
Zoom again.
Freckle pattern.
Vein line.
No mistaking it.
Rick.
Freaking.
Flag.
Silence.
Then—
SMAM!
Waller slammed it down on her desk, the glass cracked across the screen like a spider web.
"That son of a bitch," she whispered, barely audible. "That traitorous... emotional little lapdog—"
She stood, pacing like a predator.
"Harley's best friend? Best friend?" she spat the words like acid. "I gave him purpose. And this is how he repays me? Waddling after her like a golden retriever, calling Joker a loyal boyfriend like this is some kind of goddamn romantic comedy?!"
Dreyfus stepped back.
"Ma'am, what should we—"
"Track them. I want a real-time feed. I want eyes inside that restaurant. I want fingerprints off Rick's gloves. I want to know what they're planning, because if I know Joker and Harley — and I do — they're not just making noise. They're about to make history."
She stopped at the window, looking out over the city like a queen considering who to crush next.
"Send word to Agent Cash. Tell him to come to me. It's time to reactivate Project Red Vine. He'll know what that means."
Dreyfus blinked. "Red Vine… ma'am, wasn't that—"
"Just do it."
As he scrambled away, Amanda remained still. Calculating. Watching.
Because one thing was for damn sure:
Harley Quinn and Joker were not just surviving.
They were thriving.
And Rick Flag had just declared war on the woman who made him who he was.