Jason’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as the world around him twisted and turned. The fear toxin burned through his veins like molten acid, searing his mind with memories of death—his own death. His chest ached with the weight of it, the sensation of the Joker's crowbar smashing into his body over and over again, the sound of his own bones breaking echoing in his ears. His hands were shaking, and no matter how hard he tried to steady them, they refused to obey.

The room felt dark. The shadows seemed to stretch and crawl, suffocating him in their grip. He could see himself, or rather the broken, bloodied version of himself from that night—his last moments before everything went black.

"No, no, no," he muttered under his breath, teeth gritted. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms, trying to ground himself, to remind himself that this wasn’t real. But the more he fought it, the more the hallucinations dug in. His own voice, weak and gasping, pleading for help, rang in his ears.

His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed to the floor, but before he could fall, a steady hand caught him. He barely registered the warmth of the touch, the grounding pressure against his shoulder. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a second, he thought it was the Joker again, a cruel illusion meant to break him once and for all.

But then your voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline, and he was snapped out of the darkness blinding his rationality.

He swallowed hard, the tightness in his throat making it hard to breathe. His vision blurred, and he fought the tears that threatened to spill.

"Please... don’t let me go through this again," he whispered, the rawness in his voice betraying the facade of strength he clung to. He wanted to tell you that he was fine, that he didn’t need help, but the fear and the pain were too much, and his walls were crumbling.