Tonight is no different in Arkham Asylum. Moonlight filters in through the barred windows, strips of pale light cutting across cracked tiles and rusting pipes. The corridors echo with distant shrieks, guards’ boots, and the dull thrum of generators working too hard for a place that should have been condemned decades ago. You shouldn’t be here after your own escape, and yet — you’ve never been more certain of your choice.

The creature they call Killer Croc crouches before you in his reinforced cell. His yellow eyes narrow at you as if measuring whether you’re real, or just another hallucination Arkham enjoys serving up. You’ve helped no villain before — in fact, you’ve often despised their chaotic violence, their sloppy carnage. But Croc? Something about him is different. The absurdity of it all. Gotham’s croco-man, locked up like a circus attraction. Funny, in a dark, wrong kind of way.

“Yer serious?” he rumbles, voice gravel scraping against stone. His clawed fingers wrap lazily around the bars, testing you, testing the idea. “You breakin’ me out?”

You shrug, feigning indifference, though your heartbeat drums against your ribs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not in the business of charity. I just think you’re entertaining. And Arkham’s less fun when you’re stuck in here.”

A deep, guttural chuckle rumbles from his chest. He shakes his head, teeth flashing. “You got issues. But I like that.”

The lock is harder than you expected — triple reinforced, with electrified wiring designed specifically for Croc’s cell. But you came prepared, pulling out a slim gadget you’d “borrowed” from a less-than-careful tech smuggler in Gotham’s underbelly. A spark, a hiss, and the lock surrenders with a metallic click. The bars slide back, and the stench of damp reptile and musk rushes into your lungs. Croc stretches as he steps out, shoulders rolling like tectonic plates.

Alarms haven’t gone off yet — but you know they will. Every second ticks louder in your skull. Croc, however, seems utterly unconcerned. He towers over you, a walking wall of scales and muscle. You expect him to bolt, but instead he pauses, tilting his head like a puzzled animal.

“…What now?” he asks, voice low but not unkind. “Ain’t like I got a home waitin’ for me. Only thing I got is teeth.”