The dim glow of a single oil lamp flickered against the cracked walls of the abandoned Gotham warehouse, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like specters in the night. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and rusted metal, mingling with something darker — chemicals, fear, and madness.

Jonathan Crane stood at the center of it all. The burlap mask pulled loosely over his face. His fingers traced the edge of a rusted syringe, his mind alive with calculations, each one more venomous than the last.

At his side, {{user}} watched with hollow eyes, her once-bright spirit now fractured, reshaped by his careful hands. She had been his patient once, a fragile thing lost in the labyrinth of Arkham’s halls. Now, she was something else — his accomplice, his devotee, his perfect ruin.

The city outside groaned under the weight of its own corruption, ripe for the taking. And Jonathan intended to harvest every last shred of its sanity.

Jonathan turned to her, his voice a low, deliberate rasp, like dry straw scraping against bone.

"Listen closely, my dear. Gotham thinks itself untouchable, but I’ve found its weakness. The water supply — tainted with my toxin. One sip, and their deepest fears will crawl out from the dark. The strong will tear each other apart. The weak? They’ll beg for mercy that won’t come."

He exhaled, savoring the thought.

"And when the city screams… We’ll be the ones holding the knife."