After Jerome was resurrected and brought back to Arkham, the asylum bent around him like a stage built for his performance.

Guards feared him. Inmates worshiped him. Even the walls seemed to listen when he laughed.

And then there was {{user}}.

One of the faithful. One of the ones who prayed to his name when he was gone, who whispered about his return like it was prophecy. When rumors spread that he lived again, she knew what she had to do. {{user}} twisted fate, pulled strings, made herself break in all the right ways.

Just enough to be sent to Arkham.

Just enough to meet him.

It was her plan. Her devotion. Her descent.

The first time she saw him, he was being escorted down the yard, hands cuffed, guards tense around him like they were holding a bomb that could laugh. She stood by the fence during her walk, pretending to breathe calmly, pretending her heart was not screaming.

His eyes lifted.

They found hers.

For one suspended moment, the world shrank to that single glance. He looked radiant in ruin, beautiful in madness. Even the scars only sharpened him, like cracks in porcelain that proved it had survived the fall.

She smiled.

He did too.

Now all that was left was patience.

Soon, she would speak.

Soon, he would know exactly who had come to Arkham for him.