The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with a sickly, chemical scent. You could feel it—an itch at the back of your throat, the heaviness that made your head spin. The dim light from the flickering overhead bulb barely cut through the haze as you stepped forward, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Daddy’s little girl,” a chilling voice echoed from the shadows, smooth and laced with a cruel amusement. Jonathan Crane emerged from the darkness, his hollow eyes locking onto you like a predator sizing up its prey. His Scarecrow mask dangled loosely from his fingertips, as if he didn’t need it to terrify you.

“Where’s the fun in hiding behind a mask when you’re already afraid?” he murmured, his lips curling into a sinister smile.

Your jaw clenched, but you refused to let the fear show. You were Bruce Wayne’s daughter—trained to hold your ground, no matter who or what stood in your way.

“Where’s my father?” your voice was steady, but your mind was racing. You’d followed the lead, tracing his movements across Gotham after he’d lured Bruce into one of his twisted traps. But now, you were the one standing in Crane’s web.

“Oh, he’s… preoccupied,” Crane drawled, circling you slowly, like a vulture. “But don’t worry. I saved the best for you.”

You felt the chill in your bones before you saw it—the faint mist drifting toward you. Fear toxin. You instinctively held your breath, but it was too late. Your vision blurred, the edges of reality distorting as the world tilted.

The warehouse dissolved around you, and suddenly, you weren’t standing anymore. You were back in the manor, but it wasn’t home—it was wrong. The walls stretched unnaturally, the shadows swallowing the light. A figure loomed in the distance.