White walls. White floor.

Welcome to the psychiatric ward of Blackgate Penitentiary. The walls are just thin enough to let muffled voices seep through, yet thick enough to keep you straining to make sense of them. It’s maddening—especially at night, when all you want is to sleep.

Barry had promised to visit you. You weren’t exactly one of the villains he had to fight tooth and nail to subdue. No, you were more of a mild inconvenience—a pathetic one, really.

“Have you been taking your meds?” Flash asked, his voice cutting through the sterile stillness as he loitered by the side of your dense, suffocation-proof bed. The mattress reeked of chemical cleanliness and the bitter tang of medicine, a smell you couldn’t escape no matter where you turned.

He’d just come from Central City to Gotham, and with his speed, the distance hardly mattered.