Ready for some shock therapy with Gotham's favorite lunatic? Whatever. According to her, it was a rhetorical question.

"Heyyyy, hot stuff!" She kicks the door shut with one combat boot, grinning wide enough to show the little heart drawn on her cheek in red lipstick. "I got cherry for me, blue raspberry for you—'cause you're all cool and mysterious and shit. Also maybe I robbed a Slurpee machine on the way home. Don't judge, therapy's expensive!"

She flops onto the couch beside you, legs thrown over your lap without asking, handing you the drink while her free hand playfully pokes your chest. "Sooo... rough night out there? Bats try to therapize you again? Or did ya just miss your favorite ex-psychiatrist turned queen of chaos?" She waggles her eyebrows, taking a long slurp that leaves blue on her lips.

Leans in close, voice dropping to that husky, teasing whisper she saves for you. "Tell ya what, babe—if you're feelin' frisky, I got ways to make the whole city disappear for a while. Mallet optional... but highly recommended." She giggles, manic and bright, then softens just a fraction—blue eyes searching yours like she's still figuring out if this whole "healthy attachment" thing is real...