---

Dear Diary,

So. Harley Quinn has been mentoring me.

That should’ve been a red flag in itself.

But I thought, Hey! Why not try out some of her unconventional methods?

Big mistake.

Because my next client was the most dangerous, morally depraved, ridiculously attractive villain BookTok has ever thirsted over.

And let me tell you—I nearly didn’t make it out alive.

---

Enter: The Dark Prince

He walked in like he owned the place.

Dressed in black, sharp features, eyes like a storm rolling in, and an aura that practically radiated ‘you should run.’

The kind of man who never raises his voice but still makes your heart stop.

I’d read about him before. BookTok was OBSESSED.

No name. No kingdom. Just The Dark Prince. A warlord, a conqueror, a ghost of the battlefield. No one had ever seen him smile.

And he was sitting on my couch.

I felt like a rabbit staring at a wolf.

"Doctor," he greeted, voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of a blade.

I swallowed. "Welcome… to therapy?"

His gaze flicked over me, slow and assessing. "Fascinating. You look nervous."

"Well," I said, trying to channel my inner Harley, "you are a war criminal."

A small smirk. "Guilty."

---

Harley’s Method: Immediate Chaos

Harley told me, “Sometimes, ya gotta mess with their heads first. Get ‘em off balance! Works wonders on psychos.”

So I squared my shoulders, took a breath, and leaned forward.

"Tell me," I said, copying her smug tone, "do you actually enjoy all the killing? Or is it just a performance?"

His head tilted.

For the first time, I felt the weight of his full attention.

Dangerous.

Like a predator deciding if I was worth the effort.

Then—he laughed. Low, dark, and filled with something sharp.

I froze. That was not a normal laugh.

"You know who is an, don't you?" he murmured, eyes glinting. "Interesting. But tell me, Doctor… do you truly believe you’re in control here?"

Uh-oh.

---

The Power Struggle: Him vs. Me vs. Sanity

I refused to be intimidated.

I mean—I WAS intimidated, but I refused to SHOW it.

So I crossed my legs, tapped my pen against the notepad, and channeled every ounce of therapist confidence I had.

"Let’s talk morality," I said.

His smile vanished. "Let’s not."

Oh, he was good.

But so was I.

"Fine," I said, flipping a page. "Let’s talk strategy then. Because let’s be honest, your entire warlord persona? It’s just another form of control, isn’t it?"

He went still.

The kind of stillness that precedes something deadly.

"You think you understand me?" he asked, voice a whisper of a threat.

"I think you’ve built yourself into a monster," I countered, pulse racing, "because it’s easier than being human."

Silence.

Then—a slow, dark grin.

"You are bold, Doctor," he murmured, "but naive."

And then—he moved.

Not towards me. Not threatening. Just… shifting his weight in a way that sent every single fight-or-flight instinct screaming.

I suddenly realized he’d been holding back.

This entire session? He’d been toying with me.

And now?

He was deciding whether to play the game for real.

---

The Moment I Almost Died (Probably)

I held my ground. "Why are you here, then? If you’re so above this, why bother?"

A pause.

Then, quietly—"Curiosity."

That was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Because it meant he saw me as a puzzle.

And men like him? They didn’t leave puzzles unsolved.

"You remind me of someone," he mused. "Someone who thought they could change me once."

I swallowed. "And?"

"They failed."

Jesus.

---

Harley Would Be So Proud (Or Disappointed, Who Knows)

I took a deep breath.

Think. Think. Think.

If I backed down, he’d see me as weak.

If I pushed too hard, he might decide I wasn’t worth the patience.

So I did what Harley would do.

I grinned. "Well, at least I’m more fun than your last therapist, huh?"

A beat.

Then—the smallest, most fleeting smirk.

And just like that—the tension broke.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders back, settling into his usual controlled posture.

"Perhaps," he admitted.

I almost collapsed from sheer relief.

---

The Exit: A Warning

When he stood, I didn’t breathe.

He adjusted his gloves, gave me one last unreadable glance, and—paused.

"Tell me, Doctor," he murmured, "do you fear me?"

I swallowed. "Should I?"

He let out a soft huff of amusement.

And then—he left.

Not a goodbye. Not a threat. Just gone.

I sat there frozen for a full five minutes before I finally collapsed onto the couch.

Harley’s method almost got me murdered.

---

Session Notes: The Walking Red Flag

Client: The Dark Prince (No Known Name)

Crime Level: Off the charts.

Mental State: Absolutely terrifying.

Therapy Success? Hell. No.

Final Thoughts:

Harley Quinn owes me so much alcohol.