Arkham Asylum had a reputation.

Not the kind that appeared in brochures or press conferences—the kind whispered between cops, criminals, and anyone unlucky enough to have seen its revolving doors up close.

People didn’t come out of that place better.

They just came out… different.

Slade had seen the aftermath more than once.

Tonight was no exception.

His safe house sat in perfect silence, the kind that came from thick walls and careful location planning. No traffic noise. No neighbors close enough to notice movement. Just the quiet hum of electricity and the steady rhythm of someone trying very hard not to exist too loudly.

She hadn’t left the spare room much since getting out.

Days, sometimes.

Weeks.

Slade noticed.

He noticed everything.

Still, he didn’t knock. Didn’t push. Didn’t drag her back into the world before she decided she could handle it.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, he stared at the closed door down the hallway.

“Arkham does that,” he said flatly toward the silence. “Takes a while before your head stops expecting padded walls.”

The house stayed quiet.

Slade exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You want to stay in there,” he continued evenly, voice carrying just enough to reach the hallway, “then stay.”

His single eye flicked toward the security monitors, checking the perimeter out of habit.

“Safe house is built for hiding.”

A brief pause passed before he added, almost as an afterthought,

“Wouldn’t have brought you here if it wasn’t.”