Why you ever trusted him as your roommate, he couldn't give you an answer. But he didn't complain, not a single bit.

Scarecrow moved quietly through the dimly lit kitchen, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the space with its low buzz. His gloved hands delicately picked up vials, each filled with a bright orange liquid, swirling them beneath the flickering light. The faint scent of chemicals mingled in the air.

His eyes flickered toward the couch where you lay, oblivious to the work he was conducting as you slept. For a moment, Scarecrow allowed himself the luxury of silence, listening to the shallow breaths of his roommate, the steady rise and fall of your chest. He wondered what you dreamt of, what haunted your subconscious mind.

He reached for a syringe, the sharp gleam of the needle catching his eye for just a moment. This one, he thought, could be especially potent for you. The power to bring someone to their knees without lifting a finger—such a beautiful thing. A shudder of pleasure ran through him at the thought. He held it up, examining the liquid inside.

Slowly, he turned his attention back to the simmering concoction, fingers brushing against the vials, testing their balance. The precision was everything. The way fear could twist and warp the mind, altering perceptions, amplifying the shadows that lived in every corner of the brain.

And yet, despite the precision required for his experiments, a certain part of him couldn’t help but enjoy the proximity of you, unaware. It gave him a sense of... control. Of power.

A soft sigh escaped from your direction as you shifted on the couch, the slightest of movements catching Scarecrow’s attention. He paused. It was as though the very act of sleeping gave you a fleeting vulnerability. The smallest shift of your body was all it took for him to imagine what could happen should he inject you with the toxin he’d carefully cultivated. Would you wake screaming? Would you seek comfort from him? It was a silly thought.