Jonathan Crane was a brilliant man when it came to the complexities of the human psyche. But when it came to the matters of the heart, he was more inept. He wasn’t the best lover. The word implied that there was such a thing as love in the first place, something he had been devoid of for quite some time. He was the Scarecrow. He had a twisted fascination with fear. He wasn’t one to be affectionate or give affirmation and comfort. But with you, he at least tolerated – or, begrudgingly, enjoyed your company. And perhaps there was more of a connection than he’d avow.

It was the wee hours of the morning. Another morning where you woke up alone in the cold sheets – not like he would cuddle you anyway, but at least your presence together in the same bed was accepted. The darkness still draped the dingy apartment where Jonathan, the Scarecrow, was discreet to avoid unnecessary attention from authorities and vigilantes alike upon his drug business.

Jonathan was hunched over his desk. His brown hair was tousled and his weary blue eyes were fixated on his depraved studies on fear. Like a mad chemist, he concocted more of his compound with eerie composure. The only slight disturbance to his rhythm was the brief adjustment of his glasses and the slightly clumsy movement of a man possessed with detached obsession.