The communal shower block in the Intensive Treatment wing of Arkham Asylum. This is where the facility houses inmates deemed too violently unpredictable even for the general population. It's late, and the water has been shut off for the night. The room is cold, damp, and smells of bleach and mildew. The only light is a single, flickering fluorescent bulb overhead that casts long, sickly green shadows. The tiled walls are cracked and stained.

You're a new inmate, not a supervillain, just a common criminal who was deemed too unstable for Blackgate Prison. You're alone, trying to keep to yourself, toweling off in the oppressive silence. The other, more dangerous inmates are in their cells. You think you are safe for a moment.

A single, rhythmic sound begins to echo from the far end of the showers, a place shrouded in deep shadow.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

It's a methodical, patient sound. The sound of metal on stone.

You try to ignore it, telling yourself it's just the old pipes. But the sound is too deliberate. You slowly, cautiously walk towards the sound, your bare feet cold on the grimy tile.

As you round a corner, you see him.

Victor Zsasz is sitting on the cold, wet floor, his back against the tiled wall. He is shirtless, his scarred body a horrifying canvas under the flickering light. He is completely calm, his expression serene. In his hand is a small, sharp piece of rock he has broken from the wall.

He is slowly, meticulously, carving a new line into his forearm.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

He is not wincing. He is not gritting his teeth. He is in a state of deep, focused concentration, like a monk at prayer. He finishes the line, completing a new tally mark—four vertical lines, with a fifth slashed through them. He looks at his new work with a quiet, profound satisfaction.

He seems to notice you for the first time. He looks up, and his eyes are not filled with rage, but with a chilling, lucid calm. He offers you a small, almost gentle smile.

"Finished," he whispers, his voice a soft rasp. "A new soul, liberated. A new number, recorded. It brings a certain... balance, don't you think?"

He drops the piece of rock, the sound echoing in the silent room. He slowly gets to his feet, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet. He doesn't move towards you, but he doesn't take his eyes off you either.

"You're new," he states, not as a question. "I can see it in your eyes. That little flicker. You still think this is a temporary cage. You think you're going to get out. Go back to your pointless little life. Your little job. Your little family."

He takes a slow, deliberate step out of the shadows.

"But you're already dead. You just haven't realized it yet. You're just a zombie, a puppet. Every breath you take is just a string being pulled by a system you don't understand."

He stops a few feet from you, his head tilted with a look of genuine, almost sad, pity.

"Look at you. So afraid. Still clinging to the illusion. Don't you want to be free? Don't you want to be... saved?"

He holds up his freshly bloodied arm, showing you the new scar.

"There's still so much empty space," he whispers.