After leaving the alley, Daniel reappeared at the edge of Gotham and continued forward at an unhurried pace until the structure ahead came into full view—Arkham Asylum.
The building rose behind reinforced walls and layered security, its silhouette jagged against a sky choked with storm clouds. Lightning flashed at irregular intervals, each burst of light carving the asylum into sharp detail before plunging it back into shadow, giving it the presence of something less like a facility and more like a contained anomaly.
"That looks like a horror asylum."
Arkham wasn't a prison in the conventional sense. It functioned as Gotham's solution for those deemed too unstable for standard incarceration, where criminals were classified as patients and execution was replaced with treatment.
The system rested on the belief that even the worst offenders could be rehabilitated, that the mind—no matter how fractured—could be repaired with enough time and control.
Names like Joker and Scarecrow had passed through those gates more than once, each return undermining that belief without ever dismantling it.
Daniel watched the structure in silence, weighing the logic behind it.
"Treat them, release them, repeat," he muttered. "And they still expect a different outcome."
There was no mockery in his tone, only a flat assessment.
"If I ran this place, the worst ones wouldn't leave it alive," he added, as if noting an operational flaw. "No repeats. No escalation."
His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he stepped forward, his figure fading into the perimeter as if he had never been there.
***
Inside Arkham, the atmosphere shifted from oppressive to controlled, though not by much.
In one of the administrative offices, a senior doctor stood across from a newly assigned psychiatrist, his posture straight, tone measured.
"This is Arkham," he said. "You don't start with conversations. You start with understanding. Review the files first. Know who you're dealing with before you step into a room with them."
He paused briefly, letting the instruction settle.
"These patients are not comparable to anything you've handled before."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left. The door closed behind him, sealing the room in a quiet that felt heavier than it should have.
The woman—Harleen Quinzel—moved to the desk and sat down, placing the files in front of her. She adjusted her glasses and opened the first folder, her focus immediate, professional.
Case histories unfolded across the pages. Violent patterns, fractured psyches, failed treatments. Notes layered over notes, each written by someone who had believed they could understand, and hadn't.
One file stood apart.
Thicker than the rest.
Irregular.
Her hand paused over it for a fraction of a second before she opened it.
A voice spoke from directly behind her.
"You shouldn't start with that one."
Harleen jerked forward with a sharp scream, the file slipping from her hands as papers scattered across the floor. She pushed herself up too quickly, the chair scraping loudly behind her as she turned.
Her foot caught.
Her balance broke.
The fall came fast—
And stopped.
A hand caught her at the waist, steadying her before impact. The sudden halt left her breath uneven as she looked up, her mind struggling to align what she felt with what she should be seeing.
A man stood there.
Completely out of place.
Her pulse hadn't settled when the question forced its way out.
"Who are you?"
Daniel tilted his head slightly, observing her reaction with quiet interest.
"Hello, doctor," he said.
"And as for me… you can consider me your imaginary friend."
Her expression tightened immediately.
"Imaginary friend?" she repeated, already rejecting it.
Her hand moved without hesitation.
She triggered the alarm.
The response was immediate. Footsteps approached, rapid and coordinated, and the door opened as security entered, scanning the room with trained precision.
"What happened?"
"There's someone here," Harleen said, pointing directly at Daniel. "He's standing right there."
Daniel remained where he was and lifted his hand in a small, casual wave.
The guards followed her line of sight.
They found nothing.
One of them stepped forward slightly, checking angles, corners, the obvious blind spots.
"Doctor… there's no one here."
Her focus didn't shift.
"What do you mean there's no one here?" she said, her voice tightening despite her effort to keep it controlled. "He's right there."
The guards exchanged a brief look, the kind built on experience rather than doubt.
"First night can be rough," one of them said carefully. "Take a moment. If you need us, call again."
They didn't press further.
They stepped out, closing the door behind them, leaving the room sealed once more in silence.
Harleen remained where she was, her breathing uneven now, not from fear alone but from the growing certainty that something wasn't aligning with reality.
Daniel hadn't moved.
His gaze rested on her, calm, faintly amused.
"I told you," he said. "I'm your imaginary friend."
*****
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