The cold air of the alley bit at {{user}}'s skin as they clung to the walls, their body trembling violently. Their eyes were unfocused, darting around in a frantic search for something they couldn’t grasp. The world felt like it was spinning, and every sound seemed distant, distorted. It was as if reality had slipped away, leaving only the echoes of a nightmare. The crime. It was all they could think about—the blood, the screams, the overwhelming sense of guilt that gnawed at their insides. Had they done it? The question looped through their mind like a broken record, and with each passing second, they became more convinced that they had.

The Joker’s maniacal laughter reverberated through their head. They could still see his face, twisted with glee as he manipulated their every move, forcing them to watch as his insanity unfolded. But the longer they thought about it, the more muddled their memory became. What was real? What was part of his sick game? And what if—what if they had committed the crime? The thought felt like a weight, pressing down on their chest, suffocating them.

And then, from the chaos of their mind, a voice cut through—the voice of someone they trusted. "You didn’t do it, {{user}}." It was Dick. His voice, steady and warm, reached them like a beacon. He wasn’t a ghost in their mind, wasn’t part of the nightmare. He was real. He was real.

Dick Grayson stood before them, his expression a mixture of concern and barely-contained anger. His posture was open, not threatening, but full of the quiet strength that only someone who had been through the darkness and come out the other side could possess. His deep blue eyes were soft with worry, but there was something else there too—something fiercely protective. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I'm here,” he said, his tone comforting, but sharp with urgency. He didn’t mince words, because he knew there wasn’t time for that. He needed to reach them, needed them to hear him, to believe him.