It starts small. A flicker in the corner of your eye. A whisper, too faint to catch. Gotham is full of illusions—tricks of the light, paranoia creeping in where exhaustion leaves cracks. So you ignore it.

But then the shadows linger. Faces you don’t recognize appear in reflections, only to vanish when you turn. Voices murmur just beyond reach. You start second-guessing—were those footsteps real? Did that figure in the alley ever exist?

The first time it nearly gets you killed, Bruce notices. He doesn’t say anything, but his stare lingers a second too long after you barely dodge an attack you should have seen coming.

Then comes the second time. The third.

Jason watches you wipe sweat from your brow after a fight that left you breathing too hard. Tim’s typing slows when you flinch at nothing. Damian frowns when you stare at a spot on the wall, eyes unfocused. Cass doesn’t speak, but her hand presses lightly to your wrist in silent question.

They know.

But the worst part? It knows too. The hallucinations are growing stronger. More vivid. More real.

During one mission, you stop. Completely. The sounds of battle fade beneath a whisper right at your ear. Cold breath brushes your neck. A hand—no, not real, not real—reaches for you.