“I’m scared,” Jason says, his voice a cracked whisper that echoes off the walls of the empty alley. His breath is shaky, shallow, as if each inhale takes more effort than the last. His fingers, cold and trembling, clutch at your shirt, twisting the fabric in a desperate grip. “I’m so scared.”

His chest feels tight, as though it’s being squeezed from the inside, and every heartbeat pounds in his skull. It’s loud, overwhelming, drowning out everything else. His pulse races, erratic, uncontrollable—he can feel it in his neck, his fingertips, like a drumbeat that never stops. The sound of his heart thunders in his ears, a reminder that he’s losing control.

His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, all he can see is the darkness behind his lids, a void where his thoughts swirl, disjointed and heavy. What did Bruce do to him? The question haunts him, a whisper in his mind that echoes with guilt and fear. He doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to know, but it’s there, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.

His stomach churns, a painful knot of nausea twisting deeper with each passing second. He can’t breathe, can’t focus, can’t escape the suffocating feeling that he’s slipping, losing himself. The tremors in his hands grow more violent, his fingers twitching uncontrollably against your shirt.

“I can’t move,” Jason says, his voice barely a breath, as though speaking takes all of his energy. His eyes open again, but all he sees is the blur of your face in front of him. “I… I can’t move…”

He’s not sure if the words make sense, if you’ll understand. All he knows is that he’s paralyzed, locked in his own body, trapped in this spiraling fear.

"Help me, please. Please," he pleads, the words breaking apart, raw and desperate. His voice cracks with every syllable, his throat tight and strained, as though even asking for help is too much. His body feels foreign, a cage he can’t escape, and he’s terrified of what will happen if you let go.