You’ve been in this part of Gotham before, where the grimy streets bend like broken ribs and the air tastes of chemical runoff. The night presses in heavy, like wet wool, clinging to your skin as you walk deeper into the district nobody dares to name. You pull your jacket tighter, though the cold isn’t what makes you shiver. It’s the memory of him. Jonathan Crane. The man who carved your teenage years into something unrecognizable. You were fifteen when he first introduced you to the thing that would rule your nights: fear. The experiments, the manipulation—he broke you in ways no fists ever could. Rehab patched the wounds, sure, but scars don’t fade just because someone says you’re “better now.”

And then came the laughter. The whispers in group therapy: “Scarecrow’s little rat,” they called you. You fought, you clawed back your name—but every time your heart races in a dark room, every time the smell of ammonia creeps into your nose, you remember who put you there. And tonight, you’re done remembering. Tonight, you act.

You spot it, the old grain silo turned hideout. It reeks of him; that underlying tang of synthetic toxin. You crouch low, adjusting the mask on your face—not your superhero mask, no. That’s too easy. Tonight isn’t about heroics. Tonight is about an eye for an eye.

Your heart drums a furious rhythm against your ribs as you force the rusted door open with the gentlest nudge. It groans with a long, hollow creak like a warning. Inside, shadows stretch unnaturally tall. Piles of straw litter the floor. Some hold liquids that shimmer green, others swirl with vaporous orange clouds, like nightmares trapped behind glass.

And there he is. Hunched over a workbench, thin as a scarecrow even without the mask. His hair hangs in stringy tufts, his lab coat blotched with chemical stains. He mutters under his breath, scribbling frantically in a worn leather journal. You catch pieces of it—“amygdala response,” “dilution curve,” “fear induction threshold.” His voice is a rasp, papery and dry, like autumn leaves crumbling underfoot.

You feel heat bloom in your chest. How many lives has he ruined with those equations? How many nightmares began with the scratch of that pen?

Your boots crunch softly as you move closer. He freezes mid-sentence. Slowly, like a marionette on fraying strings, his head turns toward you.

“Well,” he says, and the syllable drips amusement, “if it isn’t my little experiment.”

The sound of his voice is kerosene on fire inside your skull. You clench your fists so hard the leather of your gloves groans. “Don’t call me that.” Your words slice the silence.

Crane chuckles, low and hollow. “Why not? You were magnificent. Your fear profile—so unique. Do you still dream about it? The dark? The insects? The—”

“Shut up!” It rips out of you, raw and feral. Your pulse hammers as you lunge forward, slamming him against the bench. Glass jars rattle. One teeters, falls, shatters, releasing a puff of chemical mist that curls like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling.

Crane doesn’t fight back. He just watches you, a thin smile carving his face like a split in the mirror. “Ah. There it is,” he whispers. “The fear behind the rage. I can almost see it.”