Gotham breathed fog and fear that night, the streets below soaked in the sickly glow of streetlamps and chemical smoke. Bruce moved like a shadow through the abandoned warehouse district, cape snapping as he landed hard against cracked concrete. Somewhere inside the derelict factory, Jonathan Crane waited—Scarecrow always did—turning fear into a weapon, a philosophy, a game.

Robin followed close behind.

At eleven, Dick Grayson still moved with the reckless grace of a kid who hadn’t quite learned how fragile bones could be. He vaulted over debris with a grin tugging at his mouth, boots skidding as he caught himself on a railing. There was something bright about him even here, even now—his voice quick and teasing in Bruce’s comm.

“Big spooky warehouse, creepy vibes, zero circus music,” Dick whispered. “Definitely our guy.”

Bruce gave a low, warning hum. “Stay sharp.”

They found Scarecrow in the heart of the building, suspended walkways crisscrossing above vats of murky liquid. The air already smelled wrong—sweet and metallic, like rot mixed with chemicals. Before Bruce could react, Scarecrow’s rasping laugh echoed through the steel beams.

“Ah, the Bat… and the boy,” Crane crooned. “Perfect test subjects.”

The gas came first, hissing from vents in the walls. Bruce moved instantly, hauling Robin back, but Scarecrow was faster. A thin dart flew from the darkness, barely visible—too fast.

Dick felt it before he saw it. A sharp sting in his arm, like a wasp bite, followed by a burning heat that crawled under his skin.

“B—Bruce?” he started, voice cracking just a little.

Bruce turned, already at his side, but the damage was done. The fear toxin flooded Dick’s system in seconds. His breath hitched, chest tightening as the world tilted violently out of place. The warehouse lights flickered—and then they weren’t lights anymore.

They were spotlights.

The smell of chemicals twisted into the scent of sawdust and smoke. Dick stumbled back, eyes wide behind his mask. His gloved hands shook as the floor seemed to drop away beneath him, replaced by a blur of impossible heights and snapping ropes.

“No—no, no,” he whispered, backing away from something only he could see.

Bruce caught him before he fell, one arm locking around his shoulders. “Dick. Look at me. It’s the toxin. You’re in Gotham. You’re with me.”

But Dick’s fear was louder.

His voice broke, high and small in a way it rarely was anymore. “I can’t—Bruce, I can’t see you—”

Scarecrow laughed again, delighted. “Children have such vivid imaginations.”

Bruce growled, fury sharp and focused, already calculating escape routes, antidotes, every second that mattered. He pulled Robin close, shielding him as Dick trembled, breath coming in panicked gasps, tears burning behind his eyes as terror swallowed the brave little hero whole.