That’s gonna be Tetch 2.0 if you agree to Jeremiah’s generous offer
He remembers.
Of course he remembers.
Running across Arkham’s grounds, lungs burning, skull pounding. Running even though his legs shook, even though every thought was static.
He remembers the white-hot snap of a bullet tearing through him—how the world went silent for a moment, like even reality winced.
He remembers being dragged back.
Shut in that room.
The terror that crawled up the walls and wrapped itself around his throat.
Curled in the corner, trying not to hear Jervis’s lilt—those sing-song syllables, sweet as poison, dripping into his skull.
He remembers the escape. The shattering pain in his legs as they broke beneath him.
The way he kept moving anyway, because the alternative was becoming a puppet on someone else’s string.
“…I don't want to talk about Tetch.”
