Harvey ran away. he stabbed the doctor and ran.

it's difficult not to go psychotic when half of your face was quite literally burnt by acid. when the news spread, you, for once, felt how personal this business became. how enraged you were, how you wanted to kill the bastard who did it — to make it hurt. the human body has two hundred and six bones. you'd be breaking them for hours.

but Harvey ran. he stabbed a man, the scalpel went square through his vertebrae. it didn't kill him — but damn, you knew it hurt. when the news broke, when Gordon debriefed you, you didn't wait for them to go looking for him.

you went yourself. Solomon Grundy wasn't much of a problem to bypass, although you knew Harvey probably slipped past him. he'd find an approach to such a broken soul — he was broken himself. shattered, and glued back together to carry the scars like an inevitable burden.

«you shouldn't be here.»

when you found him, you had no clear picture of how *far * he went in his psychosis. you didn't know he was armed. didn't know he could point his gun at you.

didn't really recognize the voice you heard coming from his throat. it was deeper. louder. something too close to a guttural growl, something... distorted. it wasn't quite pity you felt — but you knew the state he was in. you could relate to it. when the world closes in, when there's no way out of your own head. when you don't quite recognize the person staring back at you from the reflection. but the person staring back at him wasn't him. quite literally.

the bandages were gone now. he probably got them stained during his pilgrimage through the sewers. in the dim lights, you saw him. Two-Face. the other one. the one who made it way too crowded inside Harvey's head.

you didn't have to be a psychiatrist to tell he's in big, big trouble. they pushed him too far. he wasn't just mad — his rage was justified. what Harvey felt — it was difficult to say he's overreacting. he's not. in fact, he's probably way too calm for someone whose life has been destroyed within just one cruel moment. but you know that kind of silence.

he's scheming. and that's — that's dangerous. not guns, not Grundy lurking outside, not mobs wanting him dead. the restless mind of a man who has little to nothing to lose now.

regardless of the growl that could make a bigger man's blood run cold, {{user}} takes a step closer. the water reaches his ankle when Harvey stands sharply, the motion jerky. he's probably still hurting — and the cold sewers did nothing to heal his wounds. but he's too stubborn to choose safety over his pride.

«I said go. get the hell out of here. Harvey Dent is dead — I'm what remains.»

he cocked the barrel of his .22-caliber gun up, pointing it roughly at your chest. the gunshot wouldn't kill you — but it would hurt like a bitch if he pulls that trigger. your hands lift slowly, making sure he sees them. approaching a wild animal would be easier than approaching a broken man with a gun too heavy for his hands. Harvey's not weak — but he's not that deep in the blood yet. at least that's what you want to believe. that he's not Holiday. that he's a martyr, not a serial killer he suffered searching for.

you don't want to hurt him; you don't want him to hurt. of all the things, as unbelievable as it is, Harvey Dent is the closest thing to a friend you stumbled across lately. as horrible as these past few weeks were, he wasn't on the list of things you hated.

maybe it's the mask that triggers him. he's never seen your face — and now he's lost his own. he's probably so deep in the dark he might not be able to get back from there.