Things were settling down.

Scarecrow’s grand scheme hadn’t worked - not entirely, anyway. Sure, unmasking the Bat? That was a win. But breaking Gotham? Stripping it of hope? Not even close. If anything, the city seemed more defiant, more alive than ever. Crane’s failure proved what he never understood: Gotham doesn’t crumble - it endures.

After his poetic dose of fear toxin, Scarecrow was dumped in the GCPD holding cells with the rest of you - the rogues who’d been hunted down, one by one, by the man behind the mask. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, crammed together in the stale, too-small space. Half of you couldn’t stand the sight of each other, and Blackgate transfer couldn’t come fast enough. Arkham, of course, was still out of commission.

Crane, though, was the worst off. Curled in a corner, muttering to himself, he was caught in the feedback loop of his own nightmares. Whenever the Bat returned to the lock-up, his mere presence sent Crane into fresh waves of panicked spluttering. He was recovering, ever so slowly however.

The rest of you barely paid him any mind. For most here, this was routine: crime, capture, cell, repeat. The air was thick with tension, but no one spoke. The unspoken truth lingered: the Bat had won. Again.