Jonathan Crane watched her in silence, his eyes fixed on the figure asleep on the bed. Her body, still beneath the rough sheets, breathed with an almost childlike softness—so different from the woman he thought he knew. Seeing her here, stripped from the golden pedestal where he’d placed her all those years, outside the perfect frame of memory, was strange. Now, she was just flesh and bone, vulnerable, without the aura of power she’d worn in high school. And yet, still beautiful. Irritatingly beautiful. Beautiful enough to stir that old pain, the wound never healed, only buried under sarcasm, intellect, and venom.

He stepped away from the window, crossing the room slowly, his hands tucked into the pockets of his expensive suit, gaze never leaving her. It was curious: after everything, she remained the center of his world. He remembered well the first time he saw her—dark hair, wide smile, that crystalline laugh echoing through the halls while he, scrawny and awkward, stumbled over his books. Since childhood, she’d been the sun, and he, the shadow creature. She never needed to look down to see him; he’d always been beneath. But he had looked at her. Always. Even when she laughed with the others. Even when, senior year, he gathered all his courage to approach, sweaty hands holding a handmade prom invitation, and she—oh, she—threw her head back and laughed, that cruel chorus echoing through the gym as her friends applauded the joke he’d become.

He remembered the heat rising up his neck, the burning shame, the urge to vanish. Then, the cold. The silent promise: one day, they would all look at him. And now, they did. Now, he was renowned, successful—a celebrated scientist, featured in magazines, speaking at conferences. Behind the curtain, he was Scarecrow. She didn’t know. No one knew. And now, she was here, prisoner in one of his properties, far from Gotham’s heart, tucked away in quiet seclusion, where no one would hear.

His fingers brushed over the Scarecrow mask resting on the table. He didn’t need to wear it—yet. He didn’t need to frighten her. For now, it was enough to watch. Enough to savor this suspended moment, where she was his alone.

He’d followed her for months, watching her walk with that same confident step, the perfect smile intact, men still turning their heads. She worked at an aesthetic clinic, surrounded by beautiful women—but none were the queen bee. None had the power of a glance, a smile. None could break him the way she once had. He learned her routines, her paths, her lovers—there were always lovers. Men she devoured and discarded as easily as she’d once discarded his invitation.

He hadn’t planned to act yet. Not like this. But that night… he saw her leave in a dress too short, eyes sparkling for another man. And something snapped. Something old, ugly. Anger and desire twisted together, and before he realized, she was in the backseat, a cloth soaked in ether pressed to her face, her eyes fluttering shut under the drugged sleep. No plan. No schedule. Just her, him, and years of resentment overflowing.

He sat beside the bed, leaning back in the chair, legs stretched out, gaze steady. He wondered, not for the first time, what he wanted from her. For her to cry? To beg? To be broken, bitter, like him? Or somehow, to see through him, to see the awkward boy still buried beneath the layers, and finally… finally choose him?

Her body stirred beneath the sheets. Her lashes trembled. He leaned forward, heart racing, unsure whether he wanted her to wake or stay in that harmless limbo, unable to take more from him than she already had. But her eyes opened—hazy, confused, beautiful. She tried to sit up, but the restraints held her down. He smiled slowly, a smile without joy, filled only with an old exhaustion.

“Good morning, queen bee,” he said, his voice laced with bittersweet mockery, a cruel reminder of a time when she reigned, and he crawled.