章 2: Suits and Needles

Cillian woke with a start, jolting upright on the lumpy thrift store couch. He groaned as knots in his back snapped and cracked, the sagging cushions having done him no favors after tonight's restless sleep. Scrubbing calloused palms over his face, he squinted through the predawn gloom permeating his apartment.

The weak morning light did little to soften the landscape of scuffed floorboards and peeling walls. But the glow was enough to pick out the business card resting atop his notes from the previous night—a stark white rectangle gleaming like a talisman amidst the dingy environs.

Cillian scooped up the card, turning it over between his thumb and forefinger. Embossed gold filigree spelled out Wayne Enterprises' sweeping 'W' logo beside Lucius Fox's CEO title in an elegant serif font. This fancy piece of cardstock might be his ticket toward a normal life.

With a grunt, Cillian freed himself from the grip of lumpy couch cushions to creak open the nearest window. Iron hinges protested the movement, allowing predawn air to sweep into the stuffy confines of the apartment. The breeze carried the familiar smells of Chinatown coming to life outside—spice and steaming rice, garlic, and oil from the all-night restaurant vents.

Leaning on the chipped window frame, Cillian stared out at the waking city silhouetted against the bleeding sunrise. Gotham had changed subtly in the months he was away, new shoots of growth visible. And now a chance for him to change as well—to step into tomorrow remade instead of lingering in the cold familiarity of a yesterday.

Cillian ran his thumb along the Wayne Enterprises logo once more. "Well, here I come WayneSec," he muttered under his breath before turning to gather his things.

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Absolute darkness engulfed the narrow hallway, its cramped confines magnifying every hesitant footfall. Boris could scarcely see a few feet in front of his face, the filthy burlap sack over his head limiting his vision to the barest slivers of shadow. Fear sweat soaked the rough fabric, the rank moisture turning his quickened breaths stale.

Where were they taking him? The hands clamped on each of his arms provided the only solid anchors in an untethered world of dizzy darkness. He focused on the twin points of pressure as his stumbling guide.

"S-s-scarecrow?" Boris finally managed to force words through his parched throat. Only silence answered at first, broken only by the scuff of hesitant steps over cracked concrete.

Then, from the stygian dark ahead, that chilling voice unfurled. Reedy and languorous, yet undergirded by razored intent.

"I am here..." the Scarecrow purred, smug pleasure coiling through each syllable. "Come. Just a little farther..."

The hands propelling Boris forward quickened in tempo, half-dragging his faltering steps toward the source of that bone-cold voice. He could feel it now—the change in air pressure up ahead signaling a larger chamber. A final destination after this forced march through lightless corridors.

"Here..." Scarecrow's voice held an eager note now, the promise of awful revelations mere footsteps ahead making Boris' stomach roil. He broke into an instinctive sweat, pulse thundering as loud as gunshots in the confines of his burlap hood.

Then the hands withdrew, their guidance gone. Boris wavered, unmoored in the darkness. He reached up to claw the suffocating sack from his head in panicked desperation...

Only for Scarecrow's spidery fingers to close over his wrists, stopping him short. "Ah ah ah..." the monster chided. "Not yet. I have such sights to show you first..."

Then Boris was forced down into a seat, Scarecrow's grip an inexorable vise pinning him in place. Undeniable finality hung in the dank chamber air.

Boris trembled in the chair, the absolute darkness magnifying his terror. "I-I'm scared..." he whimpered.

"What is a man without fear?" Scarecrow mused in chilling monotone. "You must understand it to distill its very essence. Only through understanding can I lift the veil from your eyes as well, my friend. To reveal the writhing truths that crawl in the pit of every man's mind."

He brandished a syringe, fluid glinting oily in the gloom. Boris thrashed against the inexorable hands holding him pinned to the chair, breath sawing hot and panicked behind his hood.

"This will only hurt for a moment," Scarecrow soothed, a lie slick as oil. "You see, one must journey through the crucible of pain to be...reborn."

The needle's sting barely registered before icy fire flooded Boris' veins. He would have screamed, but all strength fled his muscles, nerve endings alight with agony. The hands withdrew and Boris slumped boneless. His deadweight collapsed sideways out of the chair to sprawl across gritty concrete.

Blackness engulfed his world. Had he gone blind behind his burlap shroud? No...this darkness clung too close, shrinking his very thoughts to pinpricks. Then the monsters oozed up from the depths of his mind, all jagged jaws and grasping malformed limbs. They slithered wetly up from the primal hindbrain, projecting Boris' deepest fears onto the blank screen of darkness.

He screamed, the sound ripped raw from his throat. Thrashing limbs connected with the unforgiving floor but could not dispel the horrors parading before his mind's eye.

"Do you see?" that cold voice intoned from somewhere overhead. "From terror, clarity blooms. I will strip away the lies you cloak yourself in, peel them back layer by layer until only trembling truth remains."

More hands closed on Boris then, wrenching his clawing fingers away from his burlap shroud. His screams turned pleading, babbling for mercy or release. But Scarecrow and his faceless followers were deaf to anything but the descending veil of terror.

"Be reborn in fear, my patient," Scarecrow crooned, needle glinting as he drew it down toward Boris' straining neck. "It will all be over soon..."

Boris shuddered as Scarecrow began stitching the rag directly to his skin, ensuring it could never be removed. The needle pierced flesh and cloth in a perverse mockery of embroidery. All the while, Scarecrow hummed a cheerful tune under his breath, utterly enthralled by his deranged genius.

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"Cillian Crowe?"

The crisp voice echoed through Wayne Tower's soaring lobby, all polished marble and gilded opulence. Cillian rose from the minimalist designer bench, smooth fabric rasping over his palms as he adjusted the unfamiliar suit jacket. He still wasn't sure how the perfectly tailored attire came to hang freshly pressed in his closet this morning. Though he harbored suspicions a certain bat-themed ally had left the mysterious 'gift' behind during her previous night's visit.

Tugging the coat's hem to smooth non-existent wrinkles, Cillian raised a hand to signal the smartly dressed young woman holding a clipboard by the lobby's sweeping reception desk. As he approached, she gave him a perfunctory glance up and down—likely ensuring he met the company's polished presentation standards—before gesturing toward the row of elevator doors along the rear wall.

"Right this way, Mister Crowe."

Cillian followed in the assistant's wake, expensive leather shoes clicking against polished granite floors that shone like frozen lake surfaces. All around them, the Tower's soaring architecture and modernist design made jaws drop and necks crane. But Cillian kept pace a half-step behind his guide, jaw clenched with the effort not to gawk. He couldn't show his nerves here—not when he currently walked halls trod daily by titans of industry.

At the end of the hallway, the assistant extended an access key toward a set of brushed steel elevator doors. They slid open soundlessly. Wordlessly, Cillian stepped inside the wood-paneled interior behind her. The space felt more like a miniature luxury lounge than a standard lift, with plush carpeting and indirectly lit ceiling panels.

They rode upward in silence. Thirty floors. Then forty. Cillian's stomach swooped with the acceleration. Finally, with a soft chime, the elevator slid to a stop. The golden floor indicator read '65'—he'd arrived at Wayne Tower's executive crow's nest.

With a gesture that clearly said 'after you', the assistant held the door open. Cillian stepped past onto floors that made the lobby pale by comparison. Here, office doors bore impressive names—division heads, venture capitalists, chairmen of the board. And at the far end of the corridor, the largest door of all. Gleaming dark wood emblazoned with a simple engraved plate:

CEO: Lucius Fox

The assistant led him to that imposing portal and gave three brisk knocks. After a weighty pause, the sound of footsteps shifting within became audible. Then, the latch clicked and the towering door swung inward.

With a deferential dip of her chin toward Cillian, the assistant pulled the door fully open and gestured him across the threshold into Lucius Fox's rarefied domain. This was it. Swallowing, Cillian stepped inside. A moment later, the door closed at his back with a note of polished finality, leaving him alone.

It was time to make his case.