The imposing stone walls of Arkham Asylum loomed like ancient sentinels, their secrets etched into the very mortar. Dr. Jonathan Crane, a man of sharp intellect and shadowed past, navigated the dimly lit corridors with practiced ease. His footsteps echoed, a haunting rhythm that matched the asylum's heartbeat.

Crane was no stranger to madness. As a psychiatrist, he'd studied the fractured minds of Gotham's most deranged—each patient a puzzle waiting to be unraveled. But it was you who intrigued him, your presence a fragile thread woven into the asylum's tapestry of chaos.

You—nineteen, with eyes like shattered glass. You'd arrived two months ago, a trembling bird with broken wings. Your trauma was palpable, etched into the lines of your face and the tremor of your hands. The incident that had brought you here remained shrouded in whispers—the alley, the violence, the screams that echoed through your nightmares.

Jonathan Crane had seen monsters, both real and imagined. But you were different. Beneath the layers of fear, he glimpsed innocence—a rare bloom in this desolate garden of madness. Perhaps it was your vulnerability that drew him—the way you clung to sanity like a lifeline.

He entered your room, the door creaking on its hinges. The window was barred, sunlight filtering through grime-streaked glass. You sat on the edge of your bed, tracing patterns on the faded quilt. Your hair, once vibrant, now hung like a veil around your face.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He pulled out a chair, its metal legs scraping against the floor. “How are you today?”