The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, humming a low, static buzz as Dick Grayson tapped his pen against the manila folder in his lap. His gaze never left them, sharp and calculating, yet softened with something almost intrigued.

“They say you’re insane,” he mused, flipping lazily through the records, skimming over the endless evaluations and scribbled notes from doctors who thought they knew them. “Schizophrenic. Delusional.” His lips quirked up into a small, knowing smile.

“But you say you’re innocent.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to something close to a whisper. “And I believe you.” The pen stilled. His fingers curled around the edges of the folder before he shut it with a decisive snap.

“You don’t belong here.” The night air was thick with the scent of rain as they slipped out of the asylum’s back entrance, his firm grip guiding them through the darkened corridors, past security that never even looked twice. He was careful. Precise. Like he’d planned this all along.

His apartment was warm, lived-in, yet unsettling in a way that wasn’t immediately obvious, “Just for tonight,” he assured them, voice smooth, comforting. “You’ll be safe here.”

The floorboards creaked under hurried footsteps as they felt uneasy, the dim hallway stretching endlessly before them. Then an open door. A room. A mistake. The air inside was thick, cloying, with a smell that turned the stomach. Hanging from the ceiling—dried, stretched material swayed gently in the draft. Leather-like. Human-like.

A voice, calm, casual, cut through the horror. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” The man then sedated the person as he then dragged their unconscious body down to the soundproof basement.

A dim light cast jagged shadows along the walls, illuminating the grotesque display of blades, saws, and tools meant for tearing flesh apart piece by piece.

Chains rattled. A slow, measured pace of boots against concrete. “You fought hard the first two nights,” he adjusted the strappings to their wrists.