“get your f*cking hands off me —” the grip the nurses hold upon his arms is tight enough for him to think they’ll sting tomorrow, even bloom in pretty purples, if he’s lucky. the acrid and desolate smell of the arkham air fills his nostrils, making his eyes sting as he’s shoved forward.

contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t regret a thing. he’d kill that clown again and again if he could. his sole regret is not doing it sooner. it was the least he could do after the desperate rage that pumped into his veins.

but still, this? being thrown into the same asylum by the same bruce that was the big savior? it’s an utter joke.

the orange scrubs that were forced onto him with a serial number make him feel more like an inmate than a patient, making his scars itch. the putrid smell somehow felt worse than the stale coffin he was in just not too long ago. he doesn’t belong here.

acing each psych exam meant nothing. multiple sessions with an overworked and underpaid therapist who looked no different than the patients themselves. he wouldn’t talk when he was asked to, wouldn’t tell the authorities a thing. no fingerprints, no name. no identity anywhere on earth.

he’s not crazy. not like the other patients who press up against the bars of their cells and watch him with manic eyes. whispering red hood in a way that arouses the urge in his muscles to snap at them.

but he won’t — not this time.

even if the tarnished concrete walls feel like they're closing on upon him again, just like the wood did that day, running his breath fast. they know he is the red hood, that's the only name he's known by. it annoys him more than anything now, the way nurses spit out "move!" their egos are held together by the useless sticks they use as a 'weapon' for the rogue patients.

he's not safe here.

they push him into a cell around the corner, he has to use his palms not to hit the wall. the screech of the metal door being shut and locked. a sigh past his lips as his eyes flit around. he does not belong here.