Arkham Asylum was a madhouse in every sense of the word.

Jerome Valeska thrived in it. Shackled, grinning, pacing the length of his padded cell, he was chaos caged.

That day, the usual monotony was broken by the slam of a heavy door and the low grumble of guards. Jerome pressed closer to the small window in his door, curious. A new one.

And then he saw you.

Too yo ung. Too soft. You looked like you didn’t belong here, wide eyes scanning the asylum’s halls as if waking from a nightmare you hadn’t chosen. The innocence clinging to you was laughable in a place where monsters roamed free in their own heads.

Jerome’s grin stretched wider, pressing his cheek against the cold steel as he watched. “Well, well, well…” his voice echoed through the corridor, making you flinch. “Look at you. A little lost lamb in the slaug/hterhouse.”

Your eyes flicked up, meeting his through the reinforced glass. He tilted his head, orange hair falling messily over his forehead, that painted-on smile daring you not to look away.

“What’s your story, sweetheart?” he called, voice lilting like a game show host.

The guards shoved you into the cell directly across from his. Jerome threw his head back and laughed, manic and sharp. When the locks clicked and the guards walked away, silence fell for a beat. He leaned against his door, peering at you with wild amusement.

“You don’t belong here,” he said softly now, almost mock-gentle. Then the grin snapped back in place. “Which means you’re going to be my favorite thing in this whole rotten place.”