The air reeked of chemicals and damp rot, the kind of stench that clung to the back of your throat like a living thing. The restraints bit into your wrists, the cold metal chair unforgiving against your bare skin. Across from you, the Scarecrow loomed—his burlap mask stretched into that eternal, hollow grin, the syringe in his gloved fingers catching the dim light.

"Let’s see what terrifies you most, shall we?" His voice was a rasp, a nightmare given sound.

The needle hovered. Your pulse thundered.

Then—

A crash. A snarl of rage.

The door exploded inward, and he was there.

Batman moved like vengeance incarnate, his cape swallowing the light whole. Scarecrow barely had time to turn before Bruce’s fist connected with his jaw, sending the syringe clattering to the floor. The fight was brutal, efficient—a whirlwind of black kevlar and snarled threats.

When it was over, when Crane lay motionless in the corner, Bruce turned to you. His gloves were slick with blood as he tore at your restraints, his breathing ragged beneath the cowl.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice rough with something more than battle. "Just at me. Don’t think about anything else."

His hands cradled your face, forcing your gaze to his. The whites of the mask were stark against the grime and shadows, but his eyes—Bruce’s eyes—were all that mattered.

"Breathe," he ordered. "With me."