Chapter Seventeen: Grand Finale
The doors to the penthouse flew open as Harley stumbled in, grasping onto the walls to keep herself upright. Her fingertips left bloody streaks against the wall as she moved forward, searching for the man who could help her. Initially, the party-goers at the entrance ignored her until they noticed the trail of blood left in her wake. Then came the gasps, followed by the eerie silence in the wake of her procession. While she didn't look like her usual painted persona, everyone in Gotham recognized Harley Quinn from the multiple news reports on her, the bright smile of her Arkham staff photo seen by all. Injured as she was, the guests were reluctant to offer aid but they did not hinder her passage. But that was probably due to the gun in her other hand that she clutched to her side as a lifeline.
Her all black attire was torn in places, fresh wounds visible underneath, a tired look in her eyes. Blood trickled from her mouth from a split lip, her hair also matted with red from an apparent head injury. The deepest wounds at her shoulder and her stomach bled freely, dripping red onto the floor in ribbons. As the sea of people parted for her, she somehow managed to make it to the main gathering room. There, she spotted her only ally left, the brown hair and chiseled jaw of Bruce Wayne, a tuxedo covering him like a second skin, talking to some other familiar faces. People that, less than a year ago, had laughed at her jokes and promised to donate to Arkham's failing funds. She pushed herself away from the wall, shuffling her way towards Bruce with unsteady steps.
The sycophants that surrounded him finally noted her presence, confused and alarmed by her appearance, more gasps but oddly no screams. Within seconds, the entire room had gone silent as if a switch had been turned off. In slow motion, she kept her eyes on Bruce as he turned to take in the sight of her gravely injured self. Her hand extended towards him as she drew nearer, but her balance failed her and she collapsed onto the ground before him, the grip on her gun releasing. Her forehead touched the beautiful wood flooring, assaulted by the scent of spilled wine and pine cleaner. Forgoing his usual cowardly billionaire act, Bruce knelt down beside her on one knee, pushing the gun further away and checking the pulse at her throat.
"Call 911!" He shouted, an unusual panic heard in his tone, and then he turned her over to look her over, his eyes assessing her injuries. His voice was quiet as he spoke to her. "An ambulance is on its way, Harley. Hold on."
"Sorry 'bout ruining your party," she muttered, barely able to speak. She stared up into his hazel eyes, watching the concern and compassion fill him. "I didn't know where else to go."
"It's just hard," Harley said. "I mean, we're all supposed to be heartless and not care when people leave, but we're all still so human. I may be a psychopath but I have a heart. And it hurts to think he won't be part of my life anymore, simply because I can't control myself."
It was two days after the incident with Thomas and there she sat with Bruce, using him as a makeshift therapist and whining about her problems with her best friend. Even though they were fighting, she opted to refer to him as Hush, keeping his identity secret, although a strong part of herself wanted to toss his mask aside and let Bruce see his "friend" for what he truly was. Just another liar who wanted to bring down the best in the city. Her emotions were all over the place. Resentment, revenge, heartbreak. But despite her inclinations, she understood what happened wasn't Thomas' fault. It was hers. Her crazy mind unable to stop the basic instincts when lost in the moment. So Bruce got the watered down version of events, with no mention of any relationship with Hush prior to her criminal career.
"And you and Hush haven't talked since?" Bruce asked, sipping his coffee. He sat across from her, in one of his plump leather chairs, seeming at ease. Although, it was wicked obvious to Harley that he was tense, ready for her to do anything and prepared to defend himself if she did.
"What else is there to say?" She shook her head. "It's not something you can just sweep under the rug. I almost killed him. What's worse is that I wanted to kill him, just so I could see the light behind his eyes die out. I wanted his cooling skin under my fingers and to feel his heart stop, and he could see that desire in me. How do you apologize for something like that?"
"Generally, you start with 'I'm sorry' and then move on from there," Bruce said with an ironic smile, placing the mug on the coffee table between them. "But maybe you need to look at this from another point of view. This might be good for you. You've said he was your last link to the criminal circuit in Gotham. Maybe severing that link is what you need right now."
"A step to moving on?" She sounded doubtful.
"Exactly. Since you've made it clear that you want to start over with your life, getting rid of the last vestiges of your criminal lifestyle is a step in the right direction."
Harley turned, looking out the window of Bruce's penthouse, observing the rain that was clinging to the surface of the window. Reminiscent of her own turmoil. "Problem is, every time I try to pull away, something out there tries to pull me back in."
"It's fine, Harley," Bruce said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and applying pressure to the wound on her stomach. He ignored the whispers of the crowd as they began to talk amongst themselves in curiosity as to the scene being played out before them. Bruce only had eyes for the wounded woman on the floor. "Who did this?"
"Hush," Harley gasped out, feeling the pain in her shoulder from a deep gash mixing with the pleasure centers of her mind. As hurt as she was, she was in heaven again. Not since the bullet wound had she felt so alive with sensation. "I don't think he liked my apology." She tried to laugh but it only came out as a cough. "Am I dying?"
His eyes were scanning her, unsure. "I don't know."
She smiled up at him. "You know, I always dreamed it would be him to do the deed, my Mr. J. With his cold eyes and warm hands. It would be the final step to our dance, a finale that would light the world on fire as he laughed and laughed with my corpse in his arms. It was always meant to be, those last moves, that finale." She wasn't making sense to him and she knew it. "But to be done in by a fucking mummy, this is insulting."
Harley had no doubt that some douchebag with a cell phone was probably recording her death scene, ready to make an extra buck with the local media. It should have pissed her off something fierce, but try as she might, she was apathetic. Not even the others that were gossiping quietly in their fine clothes and expensive jewelry could elicit a reaction from her. It was as if a spotlight had formed in the center of the room and it was just her and Bruce alone, isolated away from the world. Everything else fell away to background noise.
"Just keep holding on, Harley. The paramedics will be here soon."
Bruce shifted to sit fully on the floor next to her, one of his knees bent upwards. He wasn't stupid enough to move her again, fearing her injuries might be compounded by any motion. One hand kept the pressure on her stomach while the other reached down to grasp her fingers, willing to be the final bit of warm contact she had in this world. It was almost a romantic gesture, a final bit of compassion, and it was such a human thing to do. She understood, after all their conversation, that Bruce would offer this bit of comfort to anyone dying on his floor, but with Harley, there was greater significance. They had bonded, and it meant more to Bruce than a bit of comfort. All those private moments, the talking, the laughter, the healing. He wanted her to know that she wasn't alone.
"You're too good for this act," she said, looking up into his eyes. "You need to show Gotham your truest colors. Your kindness, your strength, your compassion. Don't just hide behind the boardroom or your reputation. You've made me a better person. Now promise me that you'll do the same for yourself."
Their eyes continued to gaze at one another, never looking away. He held such a sadness for her fading life, she could tell, and an anger for what had been done to her. It was breathtakingly beautiful to see it on his face. Harley never thought anyone would grieve over her death. Mr. J was too cold and her family had long since given up their tears for her fate. But there was someone who would mourn her. She could feel the tears forming in her eyes as she thought of how bare and empty her grave would be, only a state-made plaque marking her plot. Harleen Quinzel and two dates, her birth and her death. Or perhaps she would be incinerated into ash, nothing left but a small box. Not even a nice urn. Death was chillier than the worst nights of Gotham's winter. But still, someone would shed tears for her.
"I promise," Bruce whispered, squeezing her hand gently.
Again, she smiled through the pain. "I think I could have loved you, Bruce."
There was more than enough room in his main space to do a demonstration. The couple of pieces of furniture in the way had been pushed aside, and Bruce stood at the end of her path watching, amused. "You find this therapeutic?"
Harley grinned at him, pulling her hair back into a high ponytail. "Better than sex, in my opinion." And she stretched her arms up, moving her neck from side to side. "Besides, it's relaxing and it allows me to get out my frustrations without turning to violence."
Bruce waved a hand towards the empty floor. "Then by all means."
A quick stretch of her legs and Harley took off at a small run. The space was more than enough, larger than she had seen in quite some time. Being his friend had its perks. As she jogged to the center of the space, her body spun into a basic cartwheel to begin her tumbling set. When she landed, she twisted to do a forward handspring, her hands popping against the floor with familiar ease before flipping her legs over. As her feet touched the ground, she leaped back into the air, bouncing into a front flip. However, the floor had no give, not like the spring loaded gymnastics mats she was accustomed to and she underextended as a result. Her body flipped over but unable to complete, she landed flat on her back with a loud thud.
Bruce immediately came over to her, worry creasing his brows but her embarrassed laughter dismissed any concern he had, Harley's face staring up at the stunning vaulted ceilings of his penthouse. He came to stand in front of her feet, extending his hands down to her to help her up. From her position on the ground, she smiled up at him. "Your floor is deceptively firm."
"This isn't exactly a gym."
"You seriously need to buy a decent mat," she laughed again, grabbing his hands to stand.
Bruce pulled her up to him, smiling down at her. "It's not like I have people tumbling in my living room every day. Seriously, though, are you okay?"
"I think my pride is hurt more than my body. I used to be so good," she said, thinking about her days of yore when she could stick a landing on any surface and listen to the roar of the crowd cheering at her victory.
"You still are," he said. "You're just out of practice."
Their positioning was intimate and she felt the smile dropping from her face as she looked up at him. Their hands were entwined between them, not having let go of each other yet. As she grinned at him, she could feel the heat coming off his skin in waves. Oh damn. Bruce was too close, and he smelled so good, a musky cologne that invaded her mind. Harley couldn't stop herself from leaning into him, drawing his lips to hers in a kiss. His lips were soft, like the caress of silk, but as she felt him respond back, she jerked herself away in shock.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry! I don't know why I did that." Flushed with more embarrassment, she looked around the room and headed immediately for her jacket. "I need to go."
"Harley, no, it's okay," he said, but she had already grabbed her jacket and was heading to the exit.
"I always fuck everything up," she said, berating herself as she reached the door. She turned back for a moment. "I'll, uh, call you later."
But she never did.
The fresh sound of gunfire had the mob panicking immediately. It was one thing for the masses to see Harley's gun when she first arrived, unused in her blood soaked hand, but quite another to hear the whipping crack of bullets screaming through the air. Cries of terror filled the room at the sudden noise, and both Harley and Bruce's heads jerked towards the door. It was easy for her to guess who was interrupting the party. And as expected, Hush sauntered in, a gun in both his hands. He stalked like a predator past the guests, ignoring all the rabble and focusing on his target, one Harley Quinn laying on the floor. Coming to finish the job he started.
"'Every action must be due to one of seven causes,'" Hush said in that deep voice of his. "'Chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reasoning, anger, or appetite.' Which one do you think this action is caused by?"
The party-goers gave him a wide berth as he moved to stand a few feet away from Bruce and Harley, sneering down at them, his right gun raising to aim at Harley. "Well?"
"Haven't you done enough damage, Hush?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. Gathering the remaining strength inside her, she released Bruce's hand and slowly forced herself to her feet. Bruce followed suit, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder to keep her upright when she started to wobble. It took a moment for her to clear her head before she could continue speaking. "Or do you really hate me so much that you have to make sure you kill me extra hard?"
"Oh Harley, my little darling, you never did understand," Hush said, cocking his gun. "This was never about hate. It's about cleaning up my loose ends."
"Wait," Bruce said, moving in front of Harley to keep her safe from harm. "You don't have to do this. Just let her go."
Another sneer from the bandaged man. "Always trying to save the girl, Wayne. But really, do you think Harley would do the same for you? She's a selfish, demanding, overly emotional whore." His words were spat out like a curse. "All she cares about is herself."
The overdramatic description made her roll her eyes. "Yeah, unlike you," she said sarcastically. "But you've just shown how little you know me. I care far more than you think."
"Then prove it." Hush's demand was accentuated with a wave of his gun.
Harley knew what he wanted and she found her eyes gazing up at Bruce's back, his arm turned behind him to guard her from the killer. She touched his shoulder lightly and the billionaire twisted to look at her, shaking his head. He understood as well what Hush was challenging her to do. "You have a choice, Harley."
"And I'm making it. I can't let you die for me, Bruce," she whispered. "Your life is worth so much more than my own."
"Harley," Bruce began, but she moved her blood covered hand down his arm to stop his words.
"At least this way, my life held some meaning in the end." And she smiled, proudly, up at him before pushing him aside with what remained of her drained strength. Then her eyes turned to Hush and she nodded, standing stock still for her execution. "Do it."
There was no hesitation. The gun in his hand fired. Screams erupted again at the sound, the panic capturing the room once more. Harley looked down at her lower chest to see the blood gushing from the tiny hole in the fabric of her shirt. It didn't hurt. It was more bothersome than anything else and the mess it made reminded her of her many nights of destruction. She couldn't help but think of Mr. J as she collapsed once again to the floor, her arms falling limply to her sides. Her head lolled to the side to view Bruce's shocked face. A grand joke. With the blood pooling around her, her lips turned once again to a smile. Mr. J would have laughed. He would have gotten it.
And then Bruce bent over to pick up the gun that Harley had dropped earlier, and rose, aiming it at Hush. "You bastard," he said, and Harley could hear the terse emotion in his voice. "You didn't have to kill her." He cocked the hammer of the pistol.
Harley threw up one last silent prayer that he would find his own internal fire and avenge her in a hailstorm of bullets. But before Bruce had a chance to make his own choice, to decide whether or not to shoot Hush, the laughter she had been hearing in her head was suddenly ringing in her ears. The laughter of Mr. J. He was here.
The clown had come out to play.
A block away from the penthouse, she stood, looking up at the glittering lights of Gotham's downtown district. The noises of the city were like a symphony to her ears, all the vitality of an urban environment. The air was cool but no longer cold as the seasons had begun to change. Dressed in only a simple black turtleneck and matching jeans, she blended into the background, her blond hair floating around her as the breeze that passed through the buildings blew over her. It seemed the perfect night to finish what she started.
Turning into the alley, she slipped the small pistol of out of her pocket, looking for him amongst the shadows. Beyond a dumpster, she spotted the white wrappings that wound around his head, marking his location and she crouched down to try and get the jump on him. She didn't believe he spotted her, but Thomas was often craftier than she gave him credit for and she was prepared. With deft movements, she creeped her way to the other side of the dumpster. Now or never.
She rose lithely, the gun aimed at his head and smirked. "Bang, bang, you're dead, darling."
The bandaged head tilted towards her, seemingly unconcerned. "Look up," was all he said.
Her eyes lifted above her, the fire escape of a building just above her position. And hanging from the bottom rung of the sliding ladder was a small pistol, a string attached to the trigger. She looked back to Thomas, her eyes widening. And he merely smiled, raising his hand to show he held the string between his gloved fingers. Then he yanked hard on it, and she cried out as something wet hit her head. Annoyed, she narrowed her eyes as he laughed at her.
"No, you're dead," he said, dropping the string and thus the tension holding the water pistol aloft. It careened downward, colliding with the back of her head with a soft thump before it fell to the ground.
With a groan she touched the back of her head, simultaneously irritated with Thomas, and pleased at the pain that was beginning to throb at the crown of her scalp. Her fingers came back red and she sniffed at them, her nose wrinkling at the metallic scent. "You filled it with blood? Seriously?"
"Realism is the key, you said," Thomas said, rounding the dumpster to approach her. Then he swept her up into his arms in a tight embrace.
Despite any confessions she had made to Bruce Wayne, Harley had repaired her friendship with Thomas over a pizza the day after their fight. It didn't take much for Thomas to forgive her as he was one of two people who understood her unpredictable mood swings. And he was more so angry at himself for his wrathful reaction after she tried to kill him. Their awkward conversation led to several moments of hilarity as each tried to apologize, which told her one thing. Thomas was in it for the long haul with her. Friends for life.
So their plan to destroy Bruce Wayne continued without much of a hiccup and she found the memories of her problems with Thomas to be quite useful in convincing Wayne of her sincerity. In the meantime, she kept her friend at a slight distance, not wanting a repeat of previous events. He seemed fine with the new arrangement, careful to never bring up her emotional states. And over the next month, Thomas was able to capture her and Bruce in several interesting photos, culminating in the kiss, which had been approximately one week ago. Now, they had enough evidence to bring down the Wayne empire. Only one item was left on the agenda.
"Yes, I suppose a real head injury would leave me too woozy to perform," Harley said, pulling back from him. "You got the kit?"
Thomas hoisted a backpack off the ground near them and opened it, tossing her a small box of blank rounds. She smiled, opening the chamber of her empty pistol and filling the slots with the blanks. If Wayne used the pistol as she desired, he would be none the wiser as to its contents. "You got the blood packets?"
He rifled around the bottom of the kit and pulled out a small bag of blood that was attached to a short metal plate. He passed it over to her waiting hands, nabbing a set of tape from the pack before rising to stand behind her. "The blood should be warm enough, I think, as long as you don't stay outside too long." She lifted her shirt without hesitation, holding the plate-side to her lower chest so he could tape it securely to her body. "And whatever you do, stay still when I shoot. They may be small caliber but even a .22 can puncture a lung."
"If that happens, at least I'll have a good surgeon on call." Harley lowered her shirt back down when he finished and checked the lines of her turtleneck. The pushup bra she wore tented the material of the shirt below her breasts, enough that the bulge wasn't noticeable. "Perfect. And I double checked with Falcone. The ambulance is set up and ready. And he says he's got the cops taken care of, as well."
"I have to ask how you pulled that one off."
She bent down to the backpack, searching it for the blade she asked him to bring. "Couple months ago, I was on a job and his men got a bit handsy. I called in a debt on Falcone for the disrespect they showed."
"Surprised you let them live."
"I didn't," she stated, grinning at the memory of Stocky, Baldy, and the other dead goons. "But they weren't family, just hired hands, and that made Falcone obligated to me." She held the knife out to Thomas. "Plus it helps that I was his shrink at Arkham. The man adores me."
"Who doesn't?" Thomas muttered, taking the blade. "Where do you want it?"
"Shoulder and stomach for the deep wounds. Make it clean." Harley stood before him, a blank canvas for him to strike.
But he didn't move. Instead, he smiled at her. "I just wanted to say thanks, Harley. I really appreciate the risks you've taken for this."
"Not much of a risk," she lied, not wanting him to know how hard it was to dredge up all her old memories to fool the target. It was more dangerous than she would ever admit to him. "It's not hard to bring down an icon, Thomas. Between the photos and the witness accounts from tonight, the media will be painting Bruce Wayne as my lover by noon tomorrow. And if he actually pulls the trigger on you, he'll be as much of a villain as any of us. And the media does love to see a good man fall."
Harley laughed, unable to contain her excitement at the culmination of all her hard work. "Now hurry up, the blood's getting cold."
As the maniacal laughter filled the room, Harley felt that familiar sense of dread that had so often plagued her waking hours. But his laughter wasn't his usual glee, no, it was filled with malice and threat. Something darker lay beneath and it chilled her to the bone. The guests of Wayne had grown silent again, an homage to the madman in their midst and she felt the energy of the room change, a sense of expectation, perhaps because Harley Quinn was so rarely seen without the infamous Joker. Many of these people had been present the last time he interrupted a Wayne party, the Dent fundraiser in this very same room. But there was something subdued about his arrival. Only the laughter. No gunfire, no stomping of his usual henchmen in masks. He was alone.
Something about that pissed her off. The sheer audacity of the man to come at the most critical moment of her plan, and without even the luggish loons at his side. He wanted to fuck up her ambitions on his own, just to spite her, it seemed. Her head finally rose to take in the room but walls blocked the entrance where the laughter was emanating from. Only the terrified eyes of the people looking in that direction gave any indication of where Mr. J was standing. Bruce's borrowed gun had lowered to his side as he considered his options. And Hush had turned to face the direction of the clown as well. All eyes were away from what was really important. Damn him. Damn Mr. J. She had been so close.
And that was when she remembered her final words to her lover when she left the house. "If I see you again, I'll kill you." If Mr. J had taught her anything, it was to stick to her word. Because there was nothing worse than an empty threat.
In real time, all her thoughts had only taken a half second to pass through her mind before she made the decision to scrap the plan with Bruce and take care of what was really important. Her impulsive side had won out yet again. Thomas had more than enough evidence to take down Wayne, even without their carefully constructed finale. And Harley's anger was growing to a bursting point at Mr. J's interruption, wanting to show him, more than ever, that she was no longer his little puppet. He couldn't just barge in and destroy her first public display of freedom. She would show him that there were real consequences to his actions. She was not the Batman and she would show Mr. J no mercy.
She kicked up to her feet in one motion, garnering the attention of a very surprised Bruce who thought her at death's door. Cracking her neck from side to side, she then winked at him and gave him a mocking wave. "Sorry Bruce. Bigger fish to fry." She could hear her seething anger escape her lips as the words came out crisply. She wasn't fucking around anymore.
From the entrance, the laughter finally died down drawing into a distorted voice that made her shiver at its intensity. "Harley, Harley, trying to play the big game."
She still couldn't see Mr. J, the wall blocking his body, but his voice echoed around the room as if it was designed to carry his words directly to her. There was something so wrong about the way he spoke, although she couldn't quite place her finger on it, and she wondered if he had decided to come finish their dance at last. He'd had more than enough opportunity in the past but perhaps learning about her intentions towards Wayne had set him off. Triggered the animal within to create that strangely dissonant tone that she had never heard before. But her own beast was always more passionate, more feral than his, and Mr. J must have forgotten that as he taunted her with abandon. Then again, Maybe he didn't forget. They both knew, in the bitter end, it was always destined to be her and him, fighting it out. From the moment their dance had begun, this fate was inevitable. And Harley was determined to be the victor.
Crossing the room to Hush, she snatched the gun out of his left hand and gave him a look, one that said she was done playing. Behind the bandages, Thomas eyed her with trepidation. He had never seen that look before in her eyes. Harley was a woman who enjoyed every bit of life, who reveled in blood and laughed at danger. Never before had he seen the true demon that lay within in, the one that was nothing but rage. She had kept that from him all this time and now, his words, said in anger, were about to come true. He was about to witness how messed up she really was inside.
Her anger had built inside her to the boiling point and she grinned ferociously to show her teeth, letting the beast claw at her mind and push her over the edge. Despite any feelings she still held towards Mr. J, she was ready to taste real freedom. No longer would she be fearful of his dark eyes and controlling hands. One way or the other, this ended tonight. But she had to give one final instruction before she could give herself entirely to her wrath.
"Get as far away from me as you can," she told Thomas, her urgency commanding his obedience.
And then her vision turned red and her mind became a disjointed set of images. Her berserker frenzy had taken over and there was no Harley Quinn anymore. There was only the spirit of wrath, the temper of fire, the oncoming storm. It exploded over her in deadly rampage as she lifted her gun. The moments began to swim together until there was nothing but action, the need for blood, the desire to skin her enemy alive. Her head lifted towards the heavens and she screamed with a wrath that would strike fear into God himself.
Rambling pictures floated through her mind, incoherent and disconnected from the rest of her. Hush moving away from her. Shoving and kicking people out of the way with no regard to their fates. The wood paneled entrance with trails of her blood against the wall. The sight of Mr. J and his twisted smile. Greasepaint and purple. The way his eyes opened further to take in her state, all blood covered and filled with an inferno. Turning away from her. Escaping. Never. The gun aiming at him, the burst of gunfire through the air. The grunt as he hit the ground. More shots, more screaming from around her until there was nothing but an empty revolver in her hands.
Harley's mind cleared, perhaps sensing the danger was gone, or perhaps unable to sustain the berserker for too long. It didn't matter. There were bodies all around her, some guests with bullets in them, some people having dropped to the ground to avoid being in her line of fire. All their finery, all their luxury reduced to the same moans of pain that she'd heard so many times in the worst neighborhoods. They understood, now, how horrific and terrifying the world could truly be. It didn't matter how polished the place was or how sophisticated they pretended to be. Their wealth couldn't stop a tragedy. They were as frail as any other human. Mortal and ugly, just like her.
Her eyes focused beyond the crowd to the only body that mattered, flat on its stomach like a child sleeping. The purple coat, now riddled with holes. The green hair, wet with blood, brain matter splattered across her field of vision. To his white cheek, pressed against the ground in finality. Hands spread out to the sides of the body. The smear of red over his scar still smiling despite the plasma pouring from his back, leaking crimson over his beautiful ensemble as if Harley had pressed her body too close and melded into his costume.
And the one black eye visible, forever opened in the throes of death, no longer seeing, no longer absorbing his precious details. Even the void beyond could not capture the cold that usually penetrated from that orb, staring into her, reducing her to nothing. It was blank, barren of its intense gaze. Harley backed away from the sight, staring in disbelief at the carnage, at the rapidly cooling corpse before her eyes.
Holy shit. She had really just killed Mr. J.
A/N: Never fear, my faithful readers. This isn't the end of this story and things aren't always what they appear to be. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to this story!