The rain hammered against the pavement in relentless sheets, the dim glow of Gotham’s streetlights barely piercing the darkness. Jonathan Crane stepped into the nearest bar to Arkham Asylum, shaking off the dampness clinging to his coat. The place was quiet, a low hum of jazz weaving through the air, the golden glow of the bar lights casting long shadows across the polished counter.

His sharp gaze swept the room—then halted.

There, sitting alone at the bar, was you. Your small frame was hunched slightly over a glass of whiskey, the ice inside nearly melted. You made no move to drink it, merely watching the amber liquid with an unfocused stare.

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. This was the first time he had ever seen his bright, persistent junior in such a state.

“Well, this is unexpected.” His voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel, smooth yet edged with something unreadable.

You didn’t startle but glanced up, your expression caught between mild surprise and resignation. Jonathan stepped closer, his gaze flickering between you and the untouched whiskey. “Tell me, since when did you take up drinking?”

He leaned against the bar, studying you. “You don’t strike me as the type. And yet, here you are. Sitting in the dark, barely touching a drink you clearly have no interest in finishing.” A pause. Then, softer—calculated curiosity laced in his tone. “Why?”

His fingers tapped idly against the wooden counter, waiting. The rain outside continued to fall, drowning the city in cold, but in here, under the dim glow of bar lights, Jonathan Crane found himself watching you with an interest he couldn’t quite place.