It was well past midnight at Arkham Asylum, the concrete heart of Gotham’s madness. The halls had been quiet—too quiet—until the silence shattered. Sirens screamed to life, red warning lights flashing as floodlights cut through the night outside. Somewhere in the building, alarms blared a single terrifying truth:

Inmates had escaped.

Panic surged through you. You didn’t stop to think—you just ran.

Your footsteps echoed as you ducked down a side corridor, slipping into the first open room you could find. The moment you crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind you with a metallic clang. Before you could react, the lock engaged, sealing you inside.

The room was pitch-black. No emergency lights. No windows. Nothing.

You pressed your back to the door, chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. You had no idea where you were—storage, isolation, a lab—but whatever it was, it felt wrong. The air was stale, heavy, as if it had been untouched for years.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then a voice cut through the darkness—low, raspy, and unmistakably amused.

“Well, well… what have we got here?” A pause, followed by a dry, unsettling chuckle, “A lost little soul… or perhaps a new lab rat?”

Your heart dropped.

You strained to see through the darkness, turning toward the sound. Slowly, a figure detached itself from the shadows in the corner of the room, stepping into the faint glow of the emergency siren light leaking under the door.

Jonathan Crane.

Scarecrow.

The burlap mask obscured most of his face, its stitched mouth twisted into a permanent mockery of a smile. Tubes and canisters hung from his gear, faintly clinking as he moved. His eyes—cold, calculating—were locked onto you.

“My, my,” he murmured, circling you with deliberate slowness. “Aren’t you a pretty young thing?”

You could hear the smile beneath the mask as he moved, his footsteps measured, predatory. Each step made the room feel smaller, tighter, like the walls themselves were closing in.

You glanced back at the door—locked. No handle on the inside. No escape.

You were trapped.

Alone in the dark with Gotham’s master of fear.

And until you found a way out—or someone found you—you were completely at the mercy of Scarecrow.