Jason curled tightly into the mattress, the fabric damp against his skin. Despite the chill in the air, a sheen of sweat coated his body, making him feel both cold and clammy. His chest rose and fell erratically, each breath a jagged gasp as waves of panic surged through him. His entire body trembled—shivers racing up his spine—as relentless visions crashed through his mind like a storm.

Images swirled in his head: the Joker's maniacal laughter echoing as he pummeled Jason mercilessly, the deafening roar of the explosion that had stolen his life, the sheer terror of clawing his way out of his own grave, gasping for precious air. The memories of the Lazarus pits flashed like lightning, cruel reminders of his death and the darkness that had surrounded him. Every thought was a torment, a relentless cycle of horror replaying in vivid detail, plunging him deeper into despair.

His fingers dug into the bed sheets, clawing at the fabric as if he could tear through reality itself and escape the haunting memories. It felt too much like being back in that coffin, desperately trying to break free from the suffocating confines.

He barely registered the sound of the door clicking open and closing, nor the familiar footsteps that approached—each sound muffled in the chaos of his racing mind. The mattress dipped slightly, but the weight of his nightmares pressed heavily on him, drowning out everything else.