Sometimes, Bruce thought too much. He got lost in his own mind, stuck in endless loops of overanalyzing and regret. No amount of training or discipline could silence the noise.

Yesterday, he tried to escape it - literally. He stripped his bed of its sheets, tied them together with ribbons he found lying around, and scaled the side of the asylum building from his cell window. He made it as far as the hill before they caught him. They dragged him back, locked him up again, and left him alone. Alone with his thoughts.

His mind was as much of a prison as this place, and for once, there was no way out. No bribes, no bail, no brute force. The mayor had made sure of that, and his own contributions to upgrading Arkham’s security had come back to bite him. Ironic, really. To make matters worse, no one here knew he was The Bat. To them, he was just Bruce Wayne, the pampered, privileged 'pretty boy.'

The lingering effects of the sedatives didn’t help. They dulled his movements, left him groggy and uncoordinated. It made him an easy target. He could fight back, sure, but even he couldn’t fend off the aggression of the inmates forever.