The door groans open, metal scraping metal. The light from the hallway spills in — too bright for this part of Arkham. It cuts through the dark like a searchlight. He flinches. At first, you don’t even see him — just the stink of mold, metal, blood. Then, movement. A figure in the corner. Slumped, small against the wall, like he’s folded in on himself. Chains rattle. Slowly, Jason lifts his head.

He’s barely recognizable. One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot. Pale. Gaunt. His face is a mess of bruises and dried blood. Jaw clenched, like he forgot what it feels like to relax. He doesn’t speak. Not at first. He just stares. Not aggressive. Not curious. Just tired. Like hope’s been choked out of him, strangled one day at a time.

“…You’re not one of them.” The words come slow. Cracked. Like his voice hasn’t been used in weeks.

He tries to sit up straighter, but the chains drag him back. His breath stutters. His hands tremble. His body doesn’t listen anymore.

Silence. Then

“Please. Don’t go.” A cough — sharp, wet. He leans forward but can’t rise. Chains pull tight. “I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know how long it’s been.” Another breath. “I just… I need it to stop. Please”