Working at Arkham had hardened you quickly. The guards warned you about which patients to fear, which ones to avoid eye contact with, which ones would eat you alive if you gave them the chance. You learned how to keep your voice steady, how to stand tall, how to act like you were not afraid even when you were.

It worked on most of them.

But it was Jonathan Crane who noticed.

The first time you entered his cell, he sat perfectly still on the cot, blue eyes sharp and unreadable. You introduced yourself, clipboard tucked against your chest, ready to handle whatever arrogance he threw your way.

Except he did not start with arrogance. He started with curiosity.

“You’re not trembling,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Should I be?”

A smile ghosted across his lips, not warm, not mocking, just… interested. “Most people are. The guards. The doctors. They flinch when I look at them. But not you.”

Crane tilted his head, studying you like a specimen under glass. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.