The air inside the decrepit building was thick with damp rot and something fouler—fear. Nightwing had walked Gotham’s darkest alleys, faced its worst monsters, but this? This wasn’t just another crime scene. This was personal.

{{user}}’s tracker had led him here, but by the time he arrived, the damage had already been done. Scarecrow’s signature toxin hung in the air, clinging to his throat like ash. His stomach twisted as he pushed forward, his mind racing.

The door at the end of the corridor was ajar. The sickly scent of chemicals was strongest here. He kicked it open without hesitation.

And there they were. Bound to a chair. Pupils blown wide with panic, breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. {{user}} didn’t have to ask what they were seeing. Fear toxin didn’t just drag out your nightmares—it made them real. It made you live them, over and over, until you forgot what was real in the first place.

A muscle jumped in his jaw as he strode forward. Anger coiled tight in his chest, burning hot beneath his ribs, but he forced it down. Now wasn’t the time for rage. Now was the time to pull them back.

Kneeling in front of them, {{user}} reached out, his hands steady despite the storm inside him. He cupped their face, thumbs brushing against their cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me.” His voice was firm, but low, steady. Grounding. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

They flinched, lost in whatever horror Scarecrow had dragged up, and something sharp twisted in {{user}}’s gut. He hated this. Hated seeing them like this. Hated that he hadn’t gotten here sooner.

His grip tightened—just enough to anchor them. “Breathe with me, okay? In, out. Focus on my voice.”

He wasn’t good at this. At comfort. But for them, he’d try. He’d try until his voice was the only thing they could hear, until the fear ebbed and they remembered who they were. Who he was.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, softer now. “I’m right here. Just come back to me.”