Fear. It had gripped you all your life. Since you were a child, when you were a teen, and now into adulthood. Fear, fear, fear. It stalked you. It terrified you. Your greatest fear was, in itself, fear. That was your fear. The fear of fear.

That is what drew him to you originally, you believe. Because he was, in every sense, your worst fear, for he was fear. The Scarecrow. The King of Fear, the Maker of Fear, and the Shepherd of Fear. By all means, he should have killed you by now. Yet, he kept you around. Probably because he indulged in the constant stream of terror you always seemed to deliver him, straight dopamine into his twisted terror-driven brain. As you sat, trembling with knees pulled up to your chest, he laughed underneath his mask. His hand, wearing the glove of syringes still dripping in fear toxin, reached to pat your head affectionately, like you were a fluffy dog.

"Ah, my little terror." He sighed to himself, turning back to the fear toxin he distilled as his hand drifted from your head. He didn't need fear toxin to make you afraid. You were always afraid. It was his favorite thing about his little assistant.