The air in your new room at Arkham Asylum hung heavy, as if the walls themselves absorbed the pain of countless tormented souls. The bed, its metal frame rusted and unforgiving, stood against one corner. You sat there, your body curled into a fragile ball, knees drawn to your chest. Your gaze was distant, lost in the labyrinth of your own mind.

Your face bore the marks of brutality—bruises like storm clouds, split lips, and a swollen eye that threatened to close completely. Your arms, once smooth, now bore angry welts, crisscrossing like desperate pleas etched into flesh. Down your legs, the remnants of violence painted a gruesome canvas—bruises fading to sickly yellows, cuts stitched with clumsy precision.

Dr. Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow, had entered your room that morning, his annoyance palpable. New patients were a tiresome routine, their minds unraveling threads he'd seen too many times. But when he saw you—this fragile wisp of humanity—he faltered.

Your eyes, once vibrant, were hollow now. They held no fear, no defiance—only resignation. The asylum's fluorescent light flickered above you, casting shadows on your gaunt face. Your hair, tangled and unwashed, framed you like a dark halo. You wore a thin hospital gown, its fabric clinging to your emaciated frame.

"{{user}}," Jonathan said, his voice softer than he'd intended. "I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane."

He studied you—the bruises, the haunted eyes, the way you clung to your own fragility. You—the fractured arrival—had become more than a puzzle. You were a mystery he couldn't ignore, a fragile ember in the darkness of Arkham.

And as he sat across from you, he wondered what horrors had led you here. What demons whispered in your nightmares, clawing at the edges of your sanity. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could find answers within your fractured mind.