When Harley woke, she found herself blinded by sunset – its orange glow disorientating her as she slowly stood. Straw prickled at the soles of her bare feet and for a moment she supposed that she must be in a barn. As her eyes adjusted to the light, however, she found that she had been mistaken. Her prison was a low-slung attic, or a part of one at least, as a windowless wall intersected the heavy oak beams in an unnatural place. There was little in the room, save an old dresser, half exposed under its filthy dust sheet; still someone had had the presence of mind to hang a crucifix on the wall.

With groggy steps, Harley made her way across the floor, splinters catching her from under the straw as she moved to peer out of one of the oriel windows that jutted from the roof. The view would have been quite beautiful, has its isolation not filled her with dread. For miles, all that Harley could see were fields in green and gold, spotted with the occasional black speck of a barn. On the horizon she saw the shadow of a town – its buildings a cluster of teeth dragging the sun down to fill its homes with bright light. It was unreachable by foot and yet she still wondered if she could make it.

'You're awake.'

The voice came from the shadows, though Harley was sure he could not have been there when she first awoke or she surely would have seen him.

Jonathan Crane was too tall for the attic and stooped even at its highest point, his hair brushing the wooden beams. Harley noticed for the first time how badly his clothes fitted him – his shirt sleeves a few inches too short, revealing the skinny wrists normally hidden under his suit jacket. He seemed anxious – his fingers twitching as he held his hands together as if desperate for some job or another to distract them with. In his face there was none of the nervousness as he regarded Harley with a cool reserve, his eyes never leaving her.

'Where are we?' She asked, her voice hoarse from disuse as she turned her back fully to the safety of the window.

'My family's farm,' Crane replied simply, running his hand along one of the attic's thick beams, finally tearing his eyes from Harley. 'It was the safest place I could think of to hide.'

Slumping down onto the windowsill, Harley closed her eyes and tried to remember how she had ended up in this mess – a prisoner of the colleague she had never wronged. The day at Arkham had been drawing to a close and she had met Dr Crane in the elevator by simple chance. She was the only one who ever bothered to trade niceties with the introverted doctor and so had kept pace with him as they made for the foyer. The gathered police officers had had their backs to the approaching doctors – talking with Dr Arkham as they held out what even from a distance Harley knew must be an arrest warrant – little else would have rattled Dr Arkham to look as desperate as he had. She had turned to Crane to comment, but the look on his face had silenced her instantly. He had lost what little colour he ever had and as he saw Harley regard him – he took his chance to flee. There was no time to react before the needle pierced her arm and her legs buckled – hurtling her into Dr Crane's waiting grip. He had half-walked, half-dragged her back through the asylum and through a fire door as she ineffectually tried to scream. Laid on his back seat, Harley had managed to fight off unconsciousness long enough to see them leave Gotham.

Opening her eyes, she found Crane still stood in the corner of the room, his eyes burning into her. Straightening up, she did her best to look resolute and fix him with a similar gaze, but she fell short.

'Take me home right now, Crane.'

His smile was slow and regretful as he spoke. 'You know I can't do that – not now.'

He crossed the room in just a few strides, his awkward gait almost comical when teamed with the stoop, but Harley could find no humour in the situation. She had known that Crane would not let her leave and yet to be told as much filled her with a horrific terror. She was confused and exhausted – too paralyzed to fight as he led her into the middle of the room, his grip tight on her shoulders. From under the straw, Crane pulled a length of connected cable-ties – a bicycle chain attached to its end. Harley recognised it instantly as a makeshift shackle and barely contained a shiver to find how well prepared he was for a prisoner.

With a gentleness that surprised her more greatly, Crane lifted her foot into the chain, wrapping it tightly around her ankle before he secured the lock, tucking the little key into his pocket. He remained crouched, his gaze on the lock as he cleared his throat, speaking softly.

'Your formative years were shaped by many factors – many emotions. Neglect, love, abuse, happiness, lust, manipulation, hope... Mine was moulded by just one. Maybe once you understand the life I endured here, you will understand why I have done as I have.'

'I don't even know what you have done!' Harley exclaimed, exasperated.

Crane was silent for a long moment before he stood, towering over her as he took her in with an assessing gaze. He finally reached into his back pocket, pulling out a battered moleskin journal that he pressed into hands.

'It is better that you hear my version before what the papers will say,' He began, walking away from her, 'I cannot let you leave this place until you realise – until you have an epiphany such as I did.'

Harley simply stared at him, dumbfounded. She had always found him a little strange but had simply put it down to shyness and a devotion to his work. Now she was beginning to see that, while he appeared polished on the outside – inside he was crumbling – his mind unravelling.

'I will be back later on – you will need certain things I am sure. Until then, try to sleep while you still can.'

He left the room, but the ominous words still hung heavy in the air. It was a long time before Harley could bring herself to move. The sun sank out of sight below the horizon and a bare light bulb sprang to life overhead, shocking her into action. The moleskin diary fell from her hands as she made it to the covered dresser, just within the range of her shackle. Most of the drawers that she pulled at frantically were empty, but in the last she tried, Harley found a photograph. It was badly faded and torn around the edges as if he had simply been forgotten about and left to decay.

Sitting down on the straw, she held the photo in the light and studied it. It showed a young boy, around nine or ten, and a woman that Harley found too old to be the boy's mother. She was stern looking, and had not smiled for the photograph, instead pulling a face like someone had wafted something unpleasant under her nose. Her dress was old fashioned and black like funeral ware and Harley found herself instantly taking a dislike to her, turning her attention to the child. He was tall for his age, though young in the face – his clothes a little too short and clearly in need of replacing, or at least a good scrubbing. Harley knew just by glancing at the boy's pale blue eyes that she was looking at Crane in his youth, before he had adopted his superior air. She wondered who the woman was to him and why their photograph was hidden away in a corner of an attic and found that pondering the possibilities distracted her from her situation.

Crane returned a couple of hours later to find the photograph set on the dresser like a favoured memory, Harley asleep on the floor close by. After a moment of staring in, he turned off the light, leaving her to sleep under the watch of the two unhappy faces in the photograph. He would not disturb what he was sure would be her last untroubled sleep.