Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August 16, 2025-Day 12

“BRUCE! HELP! I’M… I’M STILL HERE! H-HELP ME! I’M NOT DEAD! HELP!” The screams clawed their way out of the metal coffin, shrill and panicked, bouncing off the cold, steel walls.

The hinges groaned under the strain, protesting each frantic bang against the door. The two guards exchanged a tired, almost amused glance. One of them tried to speak, to reason with the boy trapped inside, but the words died in his throat. The kid’s voice hadn’t even started to break from the screaming yet, and that made the prospect of the ordeal ending all the more satisfying in their eyes.

“You wanna do it, or should I?” One asked, voice low, almost casual.

“Yeah, whatever. But I’m taking the next one,” the other replied, his voice barely carrying over the renewed, frantic shrieks that erupted like wildfire.

“SOMEONE HELP! I’M NOT DEAD! I’M NOT DEAD! I’M NOT DEAD!”

The first guard rose, a subtle bounce in his step betraying his eagerness. He approached the small canister, feeding oxygen laced with fear gas into the coffin. Twisting the lid, he plugs the ear closest to the coffin with a grimace. He removes the canister one-handed, inspecting it as needed to ensure it isn't damaged or leaking. Instead of replacing it, he palmed a plastic cork and sealed the gap in the coffin. They return to their seats, idly fiddling with belts and cuffs as the agonized screams slowly decayed into muffled whines, and then, mercifully, into silence. The first guard exhaled with a groan and stood, stretching his shoulders. “Looks like he’s out. Finally.”

“Yeah… my ears couldn’t take much more of that,” the second muttered, pushing himself upright.

He unlocked the coffin and hoisted the limp body over his shoulder, looking into the shredded cloth and bloody lid. “Whew. Cleanup’s gonna be a nightmare tonight.”

“Not our problem,” the first guard said with a shrug.

“Mm hm.” The second guard was already walking away to grab the next patient.

________

Jason jolted awake, chest rising and falling too fast. He forced himself to breathe through it, pressing a hand over his mouth. The thin wooden planks above him wouldn’t hide a single sound, and the bunk was already groaning under every sharp inhale. He eased his hand away and exhaled shakily when the snoring from the top bunk didn’t stop. His bunkmate was still out.

Turning his head with careful precision, he scanned the room. Every bed on the floor was filled. Lights out. Which meant he’d either stumbled back after curfew, nearly five hours after they dragged him into the session, or someone had dumped him here unconscious, and the inmates decided to save the beating for when he woke up. He honestly couldn’t decide which option was worse.

He willed his heartbeat to steady and forced himself to retrace the steps that ended with him losing consciousness. Not because he would stop them next time, but because thinking about anything was easier than thinking about being buried alive.

He closed his eyes, reaching for the memory. No chemicals; there hadn’t been that sweet tang in the air. Not fear toxin overdose; he’d faded out too slowly. Most likely, they’d sealed whatever air holes he had in the coffin and let him exhaust himself. Efficient.

Jason stayed perfectly still, eyes shut. He tried to grasp what happened after that, but the lack of oxygen must have either kept him under or muddled his senses. All he could recall was a faint humming, maybe real, maybe not.

The harder he reached, the further the memory slipped, until he finally let go and let his mind drift. He began thinking of harmless things, like what the next meal would be. It was mostly to keep his mind off the recent session, but also so he wouldn't remember one tiny detail. Something so unimportant in the scale of things, he couldn't understand why he remembered it at all.

He let himself stay like that for a bit longer, silently revelling in the lack of nightmares before giving in to that little detail.

“Happy birthday, Alfred,” he whispered, so quiet he might have just imagined the words. He fell asleep like that, trembling, hands still tacky with dried blood.

Chapter Text

August 17, 2025- Day 13

Jason startled awake, mind recoiling from the nightmare that had plagued him all night. Sniffling quietly, he dragged himself into a sitting position and put on his jumpsuit. He had been sleeping in just his underwear, a fact he didn’t want to think about any longer than he needed to.

Jumpsuit on, Jason waited at the door, pressing his forehead against the bars. The cool metal grounded him, and he closed his eyes, his breath slowing down a fraction.

“Hey! Whatcha think you’re doin’, paperweight?” Jason’s brows furrowed at the voice as he tried to figure out if it belonged to someone he recognized.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and Jason stumbled forward, his head hitting the floor with a slap. The asshole just shoved him to the floor, tripping him so it'd be more painful.

“Answer me when I speak to you, paperweight.” The voice felt far away, Jason’s ears ringing. He looked at their legs, squinting when the light made his head throb. The gray pants had a small reddish stain at the bottom, and it took a moment for Jason to realize it was blood. He brought a hand gingerly to his face, exhaling with relief when he touched a bruise and not an open wound. Not his blood, then. His gaze climbed upward, landing on the keys bulging in the man's pocket. Of course, Jason thought. A guard.

The guard pulled Jason up to his knees by the roots of his hair, making him wince. Jason bit back a retort, not wanting to invite any other guards to join in on the fun.

He stayed sitting, eyes down. The guard eventually lost interest and walked away to open another door. It must be breakfast.

Jason forced himself to stand, gripping the bars of his cell with white knuckles as the world spun. He rubbed a hand across his face, slapping his cheeks lightly to wake himself up. If he stayed like this, it might attract unwanted attention.

The guards started circling the floor again, and Jason sprinted down the stairs as fast as his shaking legs would take him. He probably had a concussion, which made it even more of a priority to stay in the shadows, a meek target worth nothing in the eyes of the bigger inmates looking for someone to beat into submission for the respect of the even bigger ones. That was just how the hierarchy worked here. Without powers and the fancy gadgets many used to rely on, Gotham’s villains had reduced themselves to cheering at fights in the common area, with the guards encouraging it by turning a blind eye whenever shutting it down didn’t benefit them.

Jason had hated it when he first came here, but by now, he had accepted it as the new world he was going to live in. Maybe even for decades, if the fear toxin didn’t give him a heart attack the next time he went into that coffin.

He landed on the ground floor with a barely noticeable tilt, the spinning in his head dulled to something manageable. He lowered his gaze, putting his hands in his pockets to emphasize he wasn’t a threat and wasn’t worth anyone’s effort.

He slipped into the back of the line, allowing anyone bigger than him to shove past, knocking him off balance as they returned with a sneer. Jason kept staring at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He began tracing the outline of a bluish stain to force his temper to clamp down whenever some musclehead punched him in the ribs. Let them, he thought. The moment you fight back, the moment you react, you become a person, no longer a punching bag. And in this building, it was common knowledge that beatings were far more enjoyable when accompanied by screams.

Finally, he gets to the front of the line. Picking up a tray, he walks half a step before someone smacks it out of his hand. No problem. He can just reach for another. A hand slams down on the pile of trays. Okay… getting a little more annoying, but I can breathe through it.

“Pick it up, paperweight. You’re the one who dropped it, after all,” the man holding down the stack says, looking down at Jason even though they’re the same height.

Jason considers stopping. Breaking this guy’s bones would be easy; his large build makes him strong but slow. The guards wouldn’t stop him, but if the fight turned into a brawl, they might get too close to the lunch ladies, and then everyone involved would end up sedated and restrained. Then again, the tray is at the guy’s feet, and Jason’s concussion isn’t even that bad anymore now that he’s gotten a moment to breathe the slightly less stale air outside his cell.

Jason looks up, assessing the room. A few faces are curious to see how he’ll react, but most stay quiet, knowing he isn’t going to pick a fight if he knows what’s good for him.

Fine. Jaw clenched, Jason bends down with a murderous look in his eye. The inmate kicks the tray a few feet away, and Jason walks the short distance to pick it up. He straightens with his eyes downcast and lets the bullying asshole go first. The ruckus of the cafeteria rises again, his humiliation already forgotten.

That little-. Jason makes his way to a table near the back, where a few of the more scientific villains sit. He stares down at his bowl of grayish slop halfheartedly, appetite gone. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he rests his head against the cool edge of the table, hyper-aware of his surroundings so he can twist away if someone decides to go for his exposed neck.

He keeps his eyes open, scanning everything from the cover of the tabletop. It’s actually easy enough to figure out where someone stands in the food chain around here, if you know how to look.

Jason eyes a pair of legs approaching. No shoes. Thin pants with scuff marks around the knees. Moving quickly but sticking to the shadows. Whoever this is, they’re no danger to him. Jason leans harder into the table, a small sigh slipping out as his fists unclench just enough for him to see the crescent marks his nails have left in his palms.

His mind wanders, and it ends up exactly where it always does after he doesn’t let someone walk all over him immediately.

Stupid. You stupid fucking asshole. What the hell were you thinking? You can’t just stand there, or someone might think you’re challenging him. Keep your head down. Play nice. And you… You get to stay clean. You get to keep a part of yourself.

He looks down at his hands again, calloused and still covered in flaking blood from yesterday. Flexing hurts the scabs, but keeping them still forces him to look at what he’s done to himself. He averts his eyes and scans the room again as he sinks back into his mind.

God, I hate this. I hate this so much it hurts. Just keep your head down. Let them think you’re weak. Say yes, bow down at that bastard’s feet. Do every little thing people tell you to do. Let them beat you until you can barely stand. And for what? So you can go back to that coffin. So you can keep going, again and again and again, until you die? Look at what your pathetic excuse for a life has become. Look at yourself. You should just go and… and…

Jason suddenly jerks violently, muscles tensing as he thinks someone is striking him. He jerks again, but the assailant doesn’t shove or hit him. Another jerk, rhythmic. Are they waiting for him to react?

It takes one more jerk for a drop of water to fall onto his sleeve. He slowly brings a hand up to his face. It’s wet. It’s wet, and the tears won’t stop. Another jolt shakes him, harder than the last. His chin trembles, and the tears fall faster. He desperately tries to stop them, squeezing and stretching his cheeks to dull the burning under his skin.

Another jerk makes him gasp. He looks up at the table. He’s the only one in the room. The lunch lady isn’t standing at the front anymore, and there are only two guards on watch by the staircase. He raises his head higher, suddenly tired of keeping up the silence. His face feels hot, and he quickly wipes the remaining tears away. The fabric is scratchy, making his skin raw as his hand brushes the top of his head.

There’s a large indent there, right where he’d been leaning on the table.

Looking around at the mostly clean, empty tables, Jason feels an unexpected wave of relief. If the rest of the inmates have left the cafeteria, they’re probably outside or in the commons. Either way, he won’t have to see any of those bastards for at least an hour.

As if on cue, three giants walk in through the main door, sneering at each other before their gazes land on Jason.

You just had to jinx it, didn’t you?

Chapter Text

August 17, 2025- Day 13

Ouch.

That's all Jason can manage to think when they walk up to him—and one of them slams his head into the table.

Ouch.

His thoughts shift from resigned to nearly giddy at the sudden loss of oxygen when they press him against the wall. It's cold, and Jason almost asks if they could tell the guards to turn down the air conditioning.

That's not nice.

They drag him to the bathroom, but his nose is too damaged to process the smell of feces, and his mouth is too swollen to taste the metallic tang of blood. They push him toward a toilet, the brownish, swirling water confusing him. Another concussion hits him.

Can people even get two concussions? Or does the first one just level up?

They shove him to the edge of the seat and force something into his mouth.

Yuck. It's a sock.

They bring him closer, and Jason doesn’t even bother pretending to resist when his head is pushed down into the thick liquid. It seeps into his ears, and his hair feels heavier when they finally let him lift his face, gasping for air through the sock, now so wet it’s almost like waterboarding. Someone was pinning his arms down, stretching them so far they would have dislocated if Jason moved an inch back.

How original. Where did you guys learn this stuff—high school? Yeah, I bet you were on the receiving end a few times, assholes.

His face is shoved under again, and Jason struggles weakly as some of the bitterness slips into his mouth.

God, I hope I get to shower today.

He's lifted up again, panting harder, struggling to cough out whatever got into his system. They pull him to his feet before he can react, and the punching starts. It’s almost soothing—the rhythm of it is achingly familiar. Jason detaches himself from the pain, letting his mind float above it, weightless.

I wonder where Dick is right now. He’s probably out saving people. Maybe he’ll save me. No. Shut up. Stop thinking like that. Bruce put you in here, and he’s the only one who could get you out—because you’re a criminal. Dick might not even know you’re alive. Hell, maybe Alfred doesn’t know you’re alive. Alfred…

Sudden shouts yank him back to the present. One of the bigger bullies is looming over him, pointing a meaty finger at his chest. Suddenly, they stop and sling him over their shoulder. Jason lets his head loll against their back, pupils blown wide, body barely recognizable from forty minutes ago. They carry him to a room—a small closet near the commons.

Fuck.

He’s shoved in, landing on his side with a grunt. Blood is already pooling on the floor, and Jason has no idea which wound it’s coming from. His head feels impossibly heavy and light at the same time, and his vision starts to blur.

The guards are going to be so pissed when they have to call this in.

The door shuts, engulfing him in darkness, but there’s no time to panic before he stills, slipping into unconsciousness.

--------

Nurse Grace had seen lots of fights—times when the bigger and badder preyed on the weak, leaving her to clean up the aftermath. Today was no different.

She sighed, jotting down a few numbers before adjusting the IV line on her newest patient. He looked to be around 25, maybe 30, but his chart said 18. He must have been one tough son of a bitch if the rumours about Batman personally dropping him off were true. She almost felt bad for his current condition. Almost.

She sat down in the metal folding chair next to the man—no, boy. He was meant to be kept under constant watch for twenty-four hours, then either returned to his cell or sedated until he healed, depending on how lucid he was when he woke.

Grace picked up her phone, scrolling through YouTube, only glancing up when the boy made a noise or shifted. It happened often; he seemed to be experiencing some kind of night terror. He clutched at the light covers, reopening scabs on his fingers.

Grace could barely stand the noise. Reopened wounds meant he might need to stay another night. She stood, filling a small syringe with a greenish liquid. Walking back to his bedside, she punctured his IV and administered the heavy drug directly into his bloodstream.

His boyish features smoothed almost instantly. A small sigh escaped his lips, and his hands relaxed. Now that she could see him more clearly, she realized he was quite handsome, even with the swelling contorting his features.

She leaned forward, brushing his cheek softly. He reminded her of someone. He mumbled quietly, and she quickly withdrew her hand, nodding at the guard who poked his head in for his usual rounds.

“Evenin’, Mrs. Grace.”

The guard nodded back, his twangy accent lifting her mood after a day of treating less-than-willing patients.

“Evening, Robert. How was your vacation?”

“Excellent. The wife was pretty as a peach in her beach clothes, an' my boys won the game.” Robert smiled a toothy grin, and Grace couldn’t help but feel relieved that there was at least one person she could talk to.

“Please, send my congratulations.”

“Course, Mrs. Grace.”

“It’s… It’s just Ms. Grace now.”

Robert removed his hat, expression solemn. “Oh? ‘Pologies, I hadn’t heard.”

“That’s alright. It was only this December. I only—” Grace was cut off by whimpers from the bed. I must have given the boy too low a dose. She hurried to grab another bottle of the sedative, but stopped when her hand was firmly grasped.

“Nurse,” a gruff voice barked, charcoal skin wrapped around her wrist. Robert hung back, guilt written across his face. He had invited the boss to ruin the conversation by talking in a casual tone. Grace exhaled, nodding to show she did not blame him.

Grace forced a smile. “Good morning, sir. How have you been?”

“Your job does not require administering drugs for something as small as a fight.” He ignored her attempt at conversation. “So what is your justification for this?”

Grace pulled her hand away with some effort and turned back to the boy’s bedside, picking up her notes.

“Excellent question, sir. According to my initial examination, Inmate 243 had lost a considerable amount of blood, but my request for type A blood was refused, so I administered saline. The prisoner became restless, which normally would not require intervention, but he began reopening wounds from an exposure therapy session on August 16th. I considered leaving it be, but risking the stitchwork was not worth it, and he might have needed to remain here another night, further diminishing our supplies unnecessarily.”

“That will be all. You can explain the rest to the officer… Robert.” He glanced at Robert, already bored with pestering Grace.

“Of course, sir.”

The room deflated the moment he left. Grace picked up the syringe again, watching the boy’s reaction to the double dose while Robert apologized quickly once more. She nodded absentmindedly, sitting back down. Once she was sure Robert was gone, she locked the door and returned to the boy’s side.

Looking at the chart again, she found his (fake) name at the top: David Smith. They even shared a name.

Sighing, she rested her head against the wall beside her, loosely holding David’s hand. She traced the IV line, then let her hand rest atop his.

“Hello, David. My name is Grace. I know you can’t hear me, and you wouldn’t have listened if you were awake, but I wanted to let you know something. Today, you calmed an old woman’s heart by reminding her of someone she loves. I hope the Lord takes that into consideration—for your sake.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she spoke of her favourite foods, her mother, her first day at Arkham. When she ran out of things to say, she said it all over again. She got no reaction, yet for some reason, she felt responsible for the peaceful expression on David’s face.

Chapter Text

August 18, 2025 – Day 14
Jason groaned and tried to turn his head away from the bright lights. He attempted to move his hands over his eyes, but something stopped them short. His breath stuttered. He looked down at his torso, ignoring the way his mind recoiled at the quick movement.

Handcuffs. Nothing to worry about.

He set his hands back down and took in the room. White sheets. Ankle restraints. No blood.

A repetitive beeping caught his attention, and he turned his head toward a heart-rate monitor, the small spikes in the line holding his gaze. It looks almost normal, maybe a little high. Fair enough, considering the situation.

He slowly rested his head back against the pillow. He kept drifting off like that, only to jolt awake seconds later. I must be on painkillers.

A click sounded from his left, and someone in a nurse's uniform walked in. Of course, I’m in the infirmary.

“The painkillers I have given you will take a few hours to wear off, so consult with me if you feel any confusion or side effects,” she said, her back turned.

Jason tried getting a better look at her, straining his neck. Blonde, slightly chubby. An old voice, but laced with a kind of warmth that reminded him of… well, Alfred. Suppose that's the only grandfather figure I have. Had.

I'm getting off track. She didn’t look like much of a threat to him, and so far seemed much more humane compared to the other personnel. Red flags went off in his head. He tried analyzing her like he was taught, but his mind kept wandering. He blinked hard, biting his cheek to keep himself alert. Nobody nice survives long in here, whether staff or prisoner. All this has got to be some kind of act, a cover for something… bad.

She turned around, shocking him out of his muddled thoughts. He loosened his grip on his cheek, and his thoughts went blank for a few seconds. What was I just… oh yeah, right. Nice lady can't be trusted.

She walked up to him, holding some kind of bluish liquid. He tensed but didn’t ask what it was. There was no point. The nurses wouldn’t want to ease his worry, even if they were allowed to. Still, that didn’t stop him from scanning her face, trying to decipher if there was anything lethal in the needle.

Her features looked wise, wrinkles gathering like cobwebs around her eyes. She was looking at her phone, the blue light reflecting off her already blue eyes, creating an unearthly look. Her hands didn’t shake; instead completely steady as they punctured the IV bag hanging beside Jason’s head.

He leaned back down, thinking it was a sedative, and waited for it to take effect. Instead, his thoughts sharpened, and he felt his muscles come under his control again. What the—

“You know, David, you make such an odd face when you’re thinking.”

Jason opened his eyes again, trying to see who the lady was talking to, but she was looking straight at him.

“Who?” It slipped out before he could stop it, guard down from the drugs and mental whiplash.

The lady kept looking at him, lips pursed. She flicked her gaze down at her phone again, then looked up. “David. That’s your name.” Oh, that must be the pen name Bruce filed me under.

“David, can you tell me how old you are?” The lady looked down at her phone again, then at Jason’s head. He sighed internally. She thinks I have retrograde amnesia.

Jason stayed quiet for a moment, acting like he couldn’t quite remember, but in reality, he was trying to figure out what might happen if he feigned memory loss.

There’s no way I’d be let out without testing to make sure I really can’t remember anything. I might be able to beat a truth serum, and lie detectors are a piece of cake, but if someone gets the idea to give me fear toxin… who knows how that’ll turn out, and what I’ll say.

Even if I do manage to beat all that somehow, some higher-up might just change his mind, or the staff could just throw me in solitary confinement for the rest of my life. Wouldn’t want to risk my getting any memories back while out on the streets.

“David?” the lady called again, and Jason looked up as if he hadn’t noticed she was there.

He worded his next sentence carefully, trying to make it appear sincere. “Sorry, zoned out for a second. Guess what you just gave me is starting to work.”

The lady smiled, and Jason hid his relief at her next words. “It must be the remainder of the sedative. I gave you something to counter the effects, so you’ll feel better in no time.”

She reached down and squeezed Jason's shoulder, and Jason must have reacted wrong because she pulled away fast. He tried making up for it by flashing a grin, and it seemed to do the trick. The lady left and shut the door behind her.

Thank God.

He tried looking around the room again, but before he could do much, two guards came in. They said nothing, just dragged him away in the bed. You couldn't have just let me wear some pants first, mother—?

--------

August 19, 2025 – Day 15

Grace sat in her usual chair, watching her newest patient’s heart monitor. It was too erratic, and he was likely going to go into cardiac arrest, but she had been told to stay put and watch as the more qualified doctor worked. By “more qualified,” they meant the least likely to kill him if he twitched. The patient was awake. He was awake, and the monsters I work for were operating on him.

She turned her head to the side, fighting to keep her lunch down. This is how it usually happens, she told herself. The patient described a fear of blood, so they gave him a fear toxin while performing heart surgery, killing two birds with one stone.

A muffled sound came from the operating table, and Grace couldn’t stop herself from picturing the terror on his grotesque, reptilian face.

To distract herself, she looked at his file, struggling to read the words with her trembling hands and blurry vision. I should be desensitized to this by now, but I just can’t, not after…

She shook her head, making her hoop earring swish and brush her cheeks. She took a deep breath and drowned out the monotone orders the head doctor was giving to the others.

ARKHAM ASYLUM
Patient Medical File – Confidential
Patient Name: Waylon Jones
Alias: Killer Croc
Date of Birth: 03/01/1973
Age: 52
Gender: Male
Height / Weight: 6’6” / 380 lbs (approx. 8’ / 450 lbs in full mutation)
Blood Type: O+
File Number: AC-0492
Admission Date: Various (Most recent: 2024-05-14)

Physical Description:

• Epidermolytic hyperplasia with severe reptilian scaling.

• Enhanced strength, agility, and durability.

• Abnormal jaw structure; extreme bite force.

• Limited manual dexterity on land; aquatic movement is superior.

Psychological Profile:

• Antisocial Personality Disorder with psychopathic tendencies.

• Animalistic behaviours: hunting instincts, territoriality, hyper-awareness in water and dark spaces.

• Paranoia and violent rage triggered by provocation.

• Capable of rudimentary bonds; shows selective compliance in controlled environments.

Known Fears / Triggers:

• Fire: Instantly provokes panic and aggression.

• Confinement: Small spaces escalate anxiety and combativeness.

• Loss of Control / Forced Submission: Intensifies rage.

• Water Trauma: Being restrained underwater triggers past traumatic events.

• Needles: Causes paranoia and panicked reactions.

There was more to read, but Grace felt a tap on her shoulder before she could turn the page.

A security guard told her she was no longer required to stay, as the surgery was done and the patient would be leaving the infirmary in a few hours. She nodded gratefully, tucking the nausea back down, and began walking toward the staff lounge for lunch.

The corridors were dim, the flickering fluorescent lights casting long, uneven shadows along the walls. Each step echoed unnaturally, mingling with the distant hum of medical equipment and the occasional muffled scream from elsewhere in Arkham. Her stomach churned, but she forced herself onward, focusing on the routine tasks ahead rather than the images still clawing at her mind.

As she passed the staff lounge, she noticed movement inside. The door was ajar, and a figure leaned against a counter, half-hidden in shadow. Grace hesitated, her hand tightening around her clipboard. I hadn’t expected anyone else at this hour. I’m not sure if I’m up to… people right now.

“Uh… hello?” she called softly, her voice uncertain.

The figure straightened, stepping into the light. It was Dr. Hollis, one of the older exposure therapists, sipping from a thermos of coffee. He gave her a small, knowing nod. “Rough day?” he asked, tilting his head toward her pale, shaken face.

She forced a nod, managing a thin smile. “You could say that.”

He studied her for a moment but didn’t press further. Grace glanced down the hall, reminding herself that no matter how kind he may seem, nobody gets work here without losing some of their humanity. “I… need to check on another patient,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. What patient am I going to look for? Most of them are already under watch. Well, he isn’t…

Dr. Hollis nodded again. "I hope it goes well." A pause. “Don’t let it get to you. If you ever feel guilty, just know they deserve it.”

She exhaled, pretending to look grateful for the small measure of reassurance. She moved quickly out of Hollis’s line of sight and continued down the hallway. The lounge faded behind her, the flickering light casting long shadows that seemed to follow her every step. She passed empty offices and supply closets, each corner whispering the usual chaos of Arkham—the lingering smells, the faint echoes of fights, the odd metallic clang somewhere distant.

By the time she reached the next patient’s room, her pulse had slowed slightly, though the tight knot in her stomach remained. She knocked lightly and peered inside, preparing herself to focus entirely on the patient in front of her. Yet even as she stepped forward, the image of the earlier surgery lingered in her mind, refusing to release its grip.

David was awake, but Grace almost preferred it when he wasn’t. A few hours ago, he had been whisked back to the cells, but ended up back here almost immediately, looking as if he had gone right back to the state he was in before. The guards who brought him suspected drug-seeking and forbade any medication, making the healing process much slower. The prisoners who fought David were taken to exposure therapy as a reprimand for punching a few guards in the brawl. I suppose it’s good that they got well-deserved punishment.

Grace shook her head. I can’t have a bias; who knows who was in the wrong, if not both of them? She looked back at David, bandaged from the waist up, but red was already leaking through the whiteness of the gauze. He was staring at the ceiling, unblinking, and his chest was unnaturally still. She walked forward slowly, picking up a piece of paper so he would see both her hands.

“Hello, David. I am Nurse Grace. Do you remember me?” she whispered, knowing from her years here that it was common for dissociating patients to lash out.

Instead of the panic she expected, David startled to attention, as if he’d been sleeping. “Yes, I remember you,” he quickly masked the surprise from earlier, replacing it with a stoic look.

“Great. I’m going to be asking you a few questions. Try to answer as best you can,” she said, recalling the confusion from last time and the possible amnesia he may have gotten. It was a good reason to be here, and it was the truth that  I did not want Dr. Hollis to need to remake an entire therapy regimen because of an untreated concussion. Fear toxin only works well if you remember what you fear, after all. Well, it was a lie by implication at best.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“David. David To…-Smith.” He broke eye contact with Grace, and she pursed her lips.

“Whose name were you going to say?”

David cringed and looked upset for a second. He was only 17, after all. Or maybe he was worried the higher-ups would decide extra sessions could help jog his memory. The thought made her stomach churn more than it should after being here for so long.

“A friend.” It's an obvious lie from the look in his eye, but Grace says nothing. His eyes tell the whole story, but I suppose it might be my experience with...

She clears her throat. “I’m going to give you five words. Try to remember them: apple, chair, penny, dog, plate.”

“Ok.” The embarrassment from earlier was gone, and Grace noted his lucidity down.

“Do you know where you are right now?”

“In a prison.”

“I suppose that’s close enough. Do you know why you’re in the infirmary?” She frowned while scratching her pen on the paper in her hands, acting like she was really meant to be doing this.

“I hit my head. Concussion.”

Grace nodded, letting a small smile show to try and ease his worries about this fake procedure. “Do you know today’s date?”

He paused for a long time, looking Grace in the eye like she had just admitted to being an Olympian athlete. “…I’m not supposed to.”

“Sorr…” she stopped mid-apology, remembering her place. “What is your date of birth?”

“I’m not sure.” Grace looked up from her ‘file’ and locked eyes with David.

“You will likely remember it soon,” her Nurse voice came naturally, and Grace pretended not to notice how the colder tone made David breathe deeper, chest rising higher than in the last few minutes. “Now, tell me the five words I told you to remember.”

“Apple, chair, penny… dog…” David bit his lip, then looked up at her. “Plate. Nearly forgot. Aren’t there supposed to be three words?”

The conversational tone surprised her, and Grace put down the blank sheet of paper, eyebrows raised. “Yes, that’s right. I’m surprised you remember a detail like that after your injury.”

“Guess it proves I’m better than expected, then?” Ah, he was trying to prove there was no need to take extra action. Well, as long as he showed no more symptoms, the answers he gave were good enough (not that this was a real exam anyway).

“Yes. May I ask you something else?” Grace tried keeping her tone formal and succeeded enough to fool him.

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath, but before she could open her mouth, Robert walked in. “Miss? What’re you doing in here?”

She turned around suddenly. “Just checking the patient’s memory!” Her voice was too cheerful, setting Robert on edge immediately.

“Well, I’m watching him, so you can come on out.” He motioned at the doorway, grabbing her elbow lightly to whisper into her ear. “I won’t say anything, but if you’re planning on meeting this here ‘pup,’ you’ve got to keep it under cover.”

She nodded, and Robert let go of her when she whispered back. “I’ve been here much longer than you. I am careful. In fact, I only stayed so long because I knew you were doing the rounds tonight.” Robert audibly exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a smile betraying his relief.

Grace disappeared back into the hallway, glad she managed to make a friend in this godforsaken place.