Red and blue lights cut through the dark, painting the street in slow, repeating pulses.
By the time the first cruisers arrived, the noise was already fading. Not gone—never gone in Gotham—but dulled by the small crowd peeking to take a look. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes late. Long enough for whoever had done this to vanish cleanly.
A sedan lay overturned in the middle of the road, its undercarriage exposed, one tire still spinning uselessly. Steam hissed from the ruined engine, rising in thin plumes that caught the glow of the streetlamps. Shattered glass spread outward in a rough fan, crunching under boots as officers fanned out.
Uniforms moved first. Weapons out. Eyes up.
Then the detectives.
They took their time.
One of them walked a slow circle around the wreck, hands in his coat pockets, gaze tracing the damage. "Car was hit hard," he said finally. "Intentional."
Another detective crouched near the front axle, studying the shredded tire. "Tires were shot before impact. Controlled stop, not a crash."
A nearby officer frowned. "So… a hit?"
"Maybe," the first detective replied. "Or maybe a message."
They shifted their attention to the bodies.
Two men lay where they'd fallen, already covered with jackets. One near the open driver-side door, the other closer to the sidewalk. Clean wounds. Efficient. No signs of panic, no wild spray of bullets.
"This isn't random," someone said quietly.
A younger detective looked up and around, eyes flicking to the surrounding buildings. "Could be gang-related. Different crews have been circling each other lately."
"Maybe," the older detective said, unconvinced. "But gangs don't usually flip cars and extract people this clean. Not to mention the war just ended I highly doubt anyone wants to start it so soon."
"Extract who?" a cop asked.
The detective didn't answer right away.
He straightened, scanning the street again. No blood trail leading away. No shell casings scattered in panic. Everything about the scene suggested control.
Another officer jogged up. "Cameras in the area all went dark for less than a five minutes. No alerts. They came back on like nothing happened."
That earned a few exchanged looks.
"Tech crew?" the detective asked.
"On the way."
Silence stretched as the weight of it settled in.
"So what are we looking at?" the younger detective asked. "Mob? Russians? Someone trying to muscle in?"
The older detective sighed. "Could be. Or it could be two crews colliding and one of them being a hell of a lot better prepared."
He looked back at the overturned sedan, at the empty interior, at the absence of anything that explained why this had happened.
"No drugs in the car," an officer called out. "No cash either."
"Which means this wasn't about the car," the detective said.
He rubbed his jaw, thinking.
"Put it down as a suspected gang conflict for now," he decided. "Unknown parties. Unknown motive."
A pause.
"But flag it," he added. "This feels… organized. Smarter than most street crews."
As the crime scene tape finally went up and the crowd was pushed back.
High above the street, where the light barely reached, a shape clung to the edge of a rooftop.
Still. Watching.
The cowl caught a sliver of neon as he leaned forward, cape pulled tight against the wind. From up here, the crime scene looked smaller. Neater. Almost contained. Police lights flashed below, officers moving in practiced patterns around the wrecked sedan, the bodies, the questions that would never quite line up.
Batman raised his gauntlet.
A soft hum answered as his sensors came online. Filters cycled. Air samples pulled in, analyzed in seconds.
His jaw tightened.
Fear toxin.
Not heavy. Not a full dispersal. Just a lingering trace, already breaking down—but unmistakable to someone who knew what to look for. Recent. Very recent.
"Crane," he muttered.
He shifted his focus, tapping into nearby camera feeds. Traffic cams. Storefront security. Private systems piggybacked through Gotham's aging infrastructure.
Nothing.
No glitches. No corrupted files. No panicked footage hastily scrubbed clean.
Just… gaps.
Blank moments where something should have been.
Professional.
Batman swept his gaze across the surrounding blocks. Alleys. Doorways. Fire escapes.
Empty.
Too empty.
Normally, there would be movement—figures tucked into corners, makeshift camps pressed against brick, silhouettes that blended into the city's ignored spaces. Tonight, there was none of that. No witnesses by accident. No one to ask the wrong questions later.
Someone had cleared the board before the game even started.
The pattern clicked into place.
The orphanage.
The fear gas.
Now this—Crane on the move, intercepted, extracted, erased before anyone else could reach him.
Batman straightened slowly, the city reflected in the white slits of his lenses.
"This isn't a gang war," he said quietly. "It's revenge."
His fingers tightened as another thought followed close behind.
The underpass.
Not a place. An organization. A network that moved through Gotham's blind spots as easily as he did—maybe easier. They'd fought back Scarecrow once already. Hard enough to draw his attention.
Batman stepped back from the ledge, cape unfurling as he turned toward the darker stretches of the city—the tunnels, the forgotten infrastructure, the spaces beneath Gotham's skin.
"They have Crane," he said, already moving
The grapnel fired.
In a rush of wind and shadow, Batman vanished into the night, racing toward the underpass as the city below went on pretending nothing had changed.
****
Concrete walls, poured thick and uneven, drank in sound instead of reflecting it. One bare light hung from the ceiling, its glow muted by a metal cage, casting more shadow than illumination. The air smelled faintly of oil, disinfectant, and something chemical that never quite went away.
Scarecrow sat in the chair at the center of it.
His mask was still on. Not out of necessity—out of preference. Straps cinched tight against his skull, the stitched burlap stretched into its permanent leer. His hands were restrained behind him, wrists bound to a steel brace welded directly into the floor. Whoever had done it hadn't planned on moving him again.
Naima stood off to the side, rolling her shoulder, checking herself for injuries she already knew weren't there. Her expression was flat, professional, but her eyes flicked to Crane every few seconds, never fully turning her back.
Vey stepped into the light.
He didn't rush. Didn't posture. He took his time crossing the room, boots quiet against the concrete. When he reached Naima, he inclined his head slightly.
"Good work," he said. "You handled it clean."
She nodded once. "Lost no one."
"Good," Vey replied, and meant it. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer. "I'm glad you're alright."
Then he turned to Scarecrow.
The faintest crease formed between Vey's brows. Not anger. Appraisal.
"We don't have much time," Vey said calmly. "Batman will find this place. He always does."
Scarecrow laughed.
It was a dry, rasping sound, distorted by the mask but unmistakably pleased. "Ah," Crane said, voice smooth beneath the grit. "You say that like it's a concern."
Vey crouched until they were eye level.
Up close, the mask was unsettling in its stillness. The stitched mouth never moved, never changed, even as Crane spoke through it. A fixed grin, mocking everything around it.
"I want to know about your new employers," Vey said. "Who's funding you. Who's protecting you."
Crane tilted his head, studying him with naked curiosity. "You really think I'd tell you?"
"I think you might," Vey replied. "Eventually."
Crane chuckled again. "You're not like the man who I met in Arkham," he said. "Nothing like the one that runs the Continental." His voice lowered, almost fond. "You're interesting."
Vey didn't react.
Crane leaned back against the restraints as much as they allowed. "Do you know what fear actually is?" he asked. "Not panic. Not screaming. Fear is anticipation. It's the understanding that something is about to happen and being powerless to stop it."
His masked gaze locked onto Vey. "Right now, you're very close to learning that."
Vey rose smoothly to his feet.
The strike came without warning.
A precise kick to the chair's leg sent a shock up the metal frame, rattling Crane's spine and forcing a sharp grunt from his throat. Vey followed it with a punch—controlled, deliberate—into Crane's ribs. Not enough to break anything. Enough to hurt.
Crane laughed through it.
"Yes," he breathed. "That's it. You feel that frustration? That need?" He inhaled slowly, savoring it. "You're afraid of what you don't know."
Vey crouched again, closer now.
"Wrong," he said quietly. "I'm annoyed."
He reached out and adjusted one of the straps on Crane's arm—not tightening it, just shifting it so the pressure dug into a nerve cluster beneath the skin. Crane stiffened despite himself, breath hitching for half a second before he forced it steady again.
"Who are they?" Vey asked. "Who moved you? Who gave you the resources?"
Crane's voice dropped, silk over steel. "You think you're hurting me," he said. "But all you're doing is confirming something very important."
Vey's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're scared," Crane continued. "Not of me. Of them. Whoever you're hunting. Whoever you know you're not prepared for."
Another strike—this time to the thigh. Harder. Crane's body jerked against the restraints.
Still, he smiled.
"They don't need me to speak," Crane said. "They're already inside your city. Your systems. Your precious little networks." His head tilted again. "And when they decide you've outlived your usefulness…"
He leaned forward as far as the bindings allowed.
"They'll study you."
For the first time, something cold flickered behind Vey's eyes.
He straightened, stepping back into the shadow, voice steady. "You're not as important as you think you are, Crane."
Crane laughed openly now. "No," he replied. "I'm not."
The laughter softened, turning almost reverent.
"But fear is and I can't wait to make you feel it."
The room fell quiet again, the light humming overhead as Vey stood there, already calculating how little time he truly had left.
Vey hesitated.
It wasn't doubt. It was calculation—an internal stillness where possibilities aligned and discarded themselves in rapid succession.
Then Kieran's voice surfaced in his mind, calm and almost pleased.
'I have an idea.'
Vey didn't move, but something in him leaned inward. What is it?
'A gift,' Kieran replied. 'For Crane.'
Vey frowned slightly. 'We don't have time for games.'
'It's not a game,' Kieran said. 'Think about him. Truly think. What does he desire most?'
Vey's gaze stayed on Scarecrow, still restrained, still smiling beneath the burlap. 'Fear,' he answered.
'Exactly,' Kieran said. 'So let him experience it. Not the diluted kind he inflicts on others. Not chemicals. Not anticipation. Let him feel fear in its truest form.'
Vey understood.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He straightened and stepped back into the light.
"I'll give you a gift, Crane," Vey said aloud, voice even, almost polite. "I hope you appreciate it."
Crane chuckled. "Oh? And what could you possibly—"
Vey grabbed the edge of the burlap mask and tore it free.
The room felt different immediately.
Jonathan Crane's face was pale beneath the harsh light, skin drawn tight over sharp bones. His eyes—keen, intelligent, predatory—flicked up to Vey with irritation more than fear.
"What's that supposed to do?" Crane asked, lips curling. "You think I'm afraid of being seen?"
Vey didn't answer.
He focused.
The world narrowed—not visually, but perceptually. He saw Crane then, not as a body, not as a man, but as something layered in meaning. An aura clung to him, thin and restless, flickering with sickly greens and muddy browns—chemical echoes, obsession, control.
Vey reached for it.
And twisted.
The color deepened, collapsing inward on itself, draining of everything but one suffocating shade—dark, endless purple. Thick as oil. Heavy as a grave.
The color of fear.
At first, Crane didn't react.
His brow furrowed, annoyance giving way to confusion. His breathing hitched once, then steadied again as he tried to master it.
"No," he muttered. "No, this isn't—this isn't how fear works."
Then his body betrayed him.
His back arched violently against the restraints, muscles locking as if electricity had been driven through them. The chair screeched across the concrete floor, bolts groaning under the strain. Crane's eyes flew wide, pupils blown out so far the irises nearly vanished.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
A silent scream tore itself from his face, jaw stretched impossibly wide as his throat worked uselessly. Veins stood out along his neck, pulsing hard enough to see. Tears spilled freely from his eyes, tracking down his cheeks in hot, uncontrolled streams.
His entire body shook now—violent, desperate tremors as he strained against the bindings with everything he had. Fingers clawed uselessly at empty air. His heels dug into the concrete, scraping skin raw.
Fear without shape.
Fear without context.
Fear without escape.
Vey saw it before anyone else—the subtle signs beneath the chaos. The way Crane's lips were beginning to tinge blue. The erratic, shallow gasps. The way his eyes started to lose focus.
Shock, Vey realized.
He pulled back sharply.
The purple drained away too fast, snapping into something else—bright, warm, almost blinding.
Yellow.
Happiness.
Crane collapsed back into the chair with a sobbing gasp. His body went slack, chest heaving as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, raw and hysterical. Tears still poured from his eyes, but now his face was split by a broken, ecstatic grin.
"Yes," he babbled. "Yes—oh, yes, that's—please—please—"
He strained forward again, not in panic this time, but yearning.
"Put it back," Crane begged, voice cracking. "Please. I need it. I need it. Give it back. I'll be good—I'll be so good—"
Vey stepped closer.
"I will," he said calmly. "After you tell me what I want to know."
Crane nodded frantically. "Anything. Anything you want. Just—just don't take it away again—"
Vey slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room, sharp and final. Crane's head snapped to the side, the laughter choking off into a wet sob.
"Not until you talk," Vey said coldly. "Who was funding you?"
Crane's composure shattered completely.
Words spilled out of him in broken fragments, voice pitching high and low, thoughts unraveling as fast as they formed. "They thought I wouldn't notice—thought I wouldn't see the patterns—old money, old blood, older than Gotham itself—"
Vey leaned in.
"Names."
Crane's eyes rolled wildly. "Families," he whimpered. "The founding families. The ones in the shadows. The Kanes—the Kanes—the Kanes—"
He started laughing again, a thin, cracked sound, rocking slightly in the chair. "They think fear belongs to them. It doesn't. It belongs to everyone IT BELONGS TO ME ME ME ME ME!"
Vey straightened.
It was over.
He looked at Crane—not the Scarecrow, not the terror of Gotham, but the wreckage left behind. A man reduced to a trembling, incoherent shell by the very thing he worshipped.
A cold realization settled in his chest.
He had broken him.
Vey drew his pistol without ceremony.
One shot to the heart.
Two to the head.
The sound echoed briefly, then faded into the concrete walls, leaving the room silent once more.
Vey stood there for a moment longer, gun still warm in his hand, staring at the body as it finally went still.
Then he turned away.
There was work to do.
—
A/N: heads up might miss a upload depending on a few things. Also can you guys let me know if you check the authors thoughts section when you read would be a lot cleaner to use that instead of typing in the chapter.