Arkham Asylum.
A tomb dressed as a castle. Perched on the outskirts of Gotham, surrounded by black water and fog, it loomed like a wound that never healed. Lightning cracked above it—always lightning, as if the weather itself knew what dwelled within. Inside, the soundtrack was the same as it had been for decades: screams, laughter, the groan of rusted pipes, and the sound of madness pacing its cage.
And into this house of horrors? Walked Alistair Grimm.
He was half-dressed. His coat was gone, shirt ripped to shreds, vest torn in the fight with the Bat. Five guards escorted him into processing—three women, two men, rifles tight in their hands.
Alistair stripped without hurry, without shame, without modesty. Of course, he noticed everything—the flush on the women's cheeks, the one male guard who couldn't quite stop staring.
Alistair: Listen, I know I'm drop-dead gorgeous and objectively irresistible… but staring? Rude.
One of the female guards immediately turned away. Another fumbled with the cuffs, hands trembling.
Alistair tugged at the bright orange uniform with mock disgust.
Alistair: You know, I look good in literally everything. And I mean everything. But this? This does not work with my eyes.
Guard: Shut it, inmate 02457.
Alistair: And here we have the Chief of Fun. Remind me to RSVP to your next birthday party, yeah?
They shoved him toward the photo station. A weary guard handed him the ID board.
Guard: Alistair Grimm. Prisoner 02457. Arkham Asylum. Look straight ahead.
Alistair tilted his head, posed like a runway model, and flashed a devastating smile.
Alistair: I call this one Prince Charming.
Click.
Guard: Look to the side.
Alistair dropped the smile, face stone cold, eyes sharp and predatory.
Alistair: And this one is the Bored Prince.
Click.
Somewhere down the hall, a nurse audibly swooned.
They marched him through the corridors. The prisoners stirred, voices echoing off the stone walls.
Prisoner #1: That's him! That's the guy that killed Maroni!
Prisoner #2: No way!
Prisoner #3: We got a pretty one, boys!
Prisoner #4: I can't wait to get me a piece of that chocolate!
Prisoner #5: Good lord, he hot!
Alistair winked at a cluster of women, sending them into shrieks of laughter and howls of approval. He strolled like he owned the place—like it was his stage, and the audience was hanging on every step.
At last, the guards shoved him into his cell. The door clanged shut.
Alistair stretched, cracked his neck, and grinned.
Alistair: Well… at least the fan club's enthusiastic.
He layed on his bed and closed his eyes.
Harley Quinn sat cross-legged in her glass box, pigtails bouncing, a straitjacket tied around her waist like baggy pants. Across from her, sealed inside another transparent cube, was Pamela Isley. Ivy's box had no plants, no dirt, nothing—just stale recycled air pumping through small vents.
Harley: Pammy, I'm bored. Like, capital B bored. Let's play I Spy!
Ivy: Deadpan There's nothing to spy, Harley. It's four walls of glass and misery.
Harley: ignoring her completely, eyes darting around I spy… with my little eye… something… brown!
She squinted, nose pressed against the glass. A tiny spider was weaving a web in the upper corner of the room.
Harley: Ha! Nailed it.
Ivy: sighs, rubbing her temples Harley, that's a spider. A bug. Do you know how low we've sunk when you're getting entertainment from arachnids?
Harley: grinning wide Better than talking to you when you're in plant withdrawal, Pams. Last time you were like— mimes withering dramatically, tongue out "ughhh, sunlight, I neeeed it…"
Ivy: shoots her a glare Keep mocking me and I'll train that spider to crawl into your mouth while you're sleeping.
Harley: gasps, delighted Ooooh, kinky. You sure you ain't warming up to me, Red?
Ivy: muttering I should've let Batman leave you hanging upside down that night…
Harley giggled, tapping her nails against the glass, restless as ever.
Harley: Soooo… you think Spidey over there wants to join our little girl gang?
Ivy: flatly Only if he survives you naming him something ridiculous.
Harley: already smirking Ohhh, he's definitely a "Mr. Cuddles."
Ivy: …Of course he is.
The heavy buzz of locks echoed through the hall. Guards dragged Alistair in, blood streaked across his face, his shirt torn. He was shoved into a reinforced glass box, the door slamming behind him with a metallic clang.
Alistair: Come on now—I didn't kill him. Might've cracked a bone or two, sure, but hey—just get the guy some medical care. He'll live. Probably.
He dusted himself off and sat down lazily, grinning as though he owned the room.
The guards wheeled in a steel chair and set it down opposite the glass. A bald man with a sharp beard, glasses glinting under the fluorescent light, sat with deliberate slowness. His white lab coat bore Arkham's insignia.
Alistair: Ahhh… Dr. Hugo Strange. Crackpot psychologist. Hypnotist-for-hire. Gotham's number-one Freud cosplayer.
Harley let out a muffled giggle from her glass box. Strange's eyes flicked her way; Harley whistled and pretended innocence.
Hugo: Alistair Grimm. Not many files on you exist. You may not remember me… but I remember you. Beijing. Antonio De La Vega.
Alistair: shrugs, deadpan Yeah, you're right. Don't remember you. Must not've been important.
Strange laid photos out on his clipboard—grainy shots of crime scenes, blurred images of Alistair walking away from carnage.
Alistair: taps the glass with a finger Obsession's not healthy, Doc. Trust me. Too much staring, not enough living—you end up like one of your patients.
He tapped the side of his head, giving a lopsided grin.
Alistair: We all go a little mad sometimes. Difference is—I enjoy it. You? You just hide behind that coat, pretending you're not as cracked as the rest of us.
Hugo: leaning forward, voice calm but tight Then tell me again—who are you, really?
Alistair: Me? Oh, I'm simple. Alistair Adonis Silas Edward Grimm. Assassin. Hitman. Gun for hire. Scorpio, by the way. Love long walks on the beach, good literature, a bit of Mozart when the mood hits… and video games.
He paused, snapped his fingers like he'd just remembered something vital.
Alistair: Oh—and I have a weakness for frisky or crazy women.
He winked at Harley and Ivy. Harley winked right back with a laugh, while Ivy turned her face away, though a faint blush crept up her cheeks.
Hugo's jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly.
Hugo: You're deflecting. Joking. But underneath all that—there is pathology. You are a killer. Do you deny this?
Alistair: mock gasp A killer? Me? Doc, I'm an artist. You see blood, I see brushstrokes. You see corpses, I see a canvas. Big difference.
Hugo: coldly That's rationalization.
Alistair: No, that's philosophy. leans forward, eyes sharp now You of all people should know—"good" and "evil" are fairy tales we tell ourselves before bed. There's only choice. Consequence. And whether you can stomach the mirror the next morning.
Hugo: slams his file closed You justify murder with wordplay.
Alistair: And you justify your voyeurism with "psychology." We're not that different, Doc. You collect patients. I collect scars. Both of us? Addicted to the game.
Strange inhaled slowly, visibly restraining himself.
Hugo: measured I will dissect your mind, Grimm. Piece by piece. And when I'm done, I will know you better than you know yourself.
Alistair: leans back, smirking See, that's where you're wrong, Hugo. You'll only know what I let you know. And I? I've got layers, baby. Like an onion. Or a wedding cake. Except my layers? They cut back.
Harley: snorts loudly Puddin', you're killin' me. He looks like he's about ta pop a vein!
Ivy: muttering You would encourage this.
Hugo stood abruptly, slamming his file shut. His footsteps echoed as he stormed out, the heavy steel door shutting behind him with a resonant thud.
Alistair: Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Comes in here, doesn't even buy me dinner, pokes around in my head like it's a crossword puzzle… tsk, tsk, tsk. Rude.
He leaned back against the glass, stretching out like he owned the cell, then turned his head toward the box beside him.
Alistair: Well, hello there. A room's a pleasure, but this—two lovely ladies? Delightful surprise.
Harley: perking up The name's Dr. Harleen Quinzel, but you can call me Harley, sugar! gestures with her head toward Ivy An' the strong, silent type over there is Dr. Pamela Isley. Pammy if ya wanna live dangerous.
Alistair: Doctors, huh? Well, that makes sense. Only Arkham would lock up the brains and the beauty in separate glass cages like zoo exhibits.
Harley: grinning wide Flatterer! Careful though, Pammy's got thorns. Literally.
Ivy: dryly, arms crossed Ignore him, Harley. Another testosterone-driven peacock looking for attention.
Alistair: mock offense Ouch. A peacock? Please. At least call me a falcon. A wolf, maybe. Something predatory.
Harley giggled while Ivy rolled her eyes.
Harley: So what're you in for, handsome? C'mon, spill. Murder? Arson? Illegal karaoke?
Alistair: Me? Oh, you know… little of this, little of that. Killed Maroni. Took out a few others. Tried to put down… what's-his-face. Mask-something.
Harley's jaw dropped. She scrambled closer to the glass, palms flat against it.
Harley: Holy shit! That was you?! You're the guy who popped Maroni like a balloon full'a marinara?!
Alistair: grinning Guilty as charged. And then—get this—Bats himself decided to make me his new obsession. We fought. I won. But… I told him I'd turn myself in if it made him feel better. Guess what? He did not appreciate that little gesture.
Harley burst out laughing, slapping her knee against the straitjacket sleeve.
Harley: You trolled B-Man?! Oh, puddin', you're speakin' my language.
Ivy: arching a brow Wait. You're telling us you beat Batman… and then voluntarily came here?
Alistair: smirking, leaning in closer to the glass What can I say? I like to keep life interesting. Besides… the food here is just bad enough to make me want to break out after a month. Perfect way to test my boredom threshold.
Alistair: Hopefully this place will provide entertainment worth the stay.
Ivy: scoff If you call a glass box entertainment, you're in for a surprise.
Alistair: No need to be glum.
(He leans his shoulder against the glass, eyes sliding closed for a beat. When they open again there's a small, ridiculous grin — that says he's about to abuse decorum for fun.)
Alistair: Watch.
(He flexes his fingers, presses the pads of his nails into his palms. A wet sheen blooms; a bead of blood wells and drops, then another. He catches them, one by one, between thumb and forefinger. Where most people would flinch, he moves with the calm of ritual.)
Alistair: We all need toys.
(With a soft, almost musical sound, the blood congeals under his will — a hemokinetic trick simple and grotesque in the same breathe. The drops thicken, take shape: pawns, a rook, a knight with a crooked, noble nose. He arranges them onto the floor between the two glass cells, each piece slick, deep-red, and impossibly solid.)
Harley: eyes wide Oh my god, that's dedication. You made blood-legos. I love you.
Ivy: flat You're playing with your own life like it's cheap wax. That's not art — it's waste.
Alistair: shrugs, pleased Call it material research. Call it a board. Call it… options.
(He taps a pawn forward with one nail — a tiny, deliberate shove. The piece slides across the concrete and stops. The click echoes a little too loud in the sterile corridor.)
Alistair: Chess, Ivy. Simple rules: choices, consequences, limited space. Every move forces you to let something go. Every sacrifice makes room for a strategy.
Ivy: watching, inscrutable You make it sound like murder is a philosophy exercise.
Alistair: Maybe it is. Or maybe I'm bored and this is the only place where the pieces don't call the police when you rearrange them.
Harley: leans close to the glass, theatrical whisper So what's your signature move, Mr. Grimm? The bloody knight? The heart-stab gambit?
Alistair: eyes flick to Harley, amused Depends on the board — and the opponent. Sometimes you win by checkmate. Sometimes by letting them check themselves to death.
(He smiles, but it's the wrong kind of smile; the room cools a fraction — like the lights dipped for a moment.)
Alistair: You lot like games, right? We'll see how Arkham plays.
Ivy: dry The asylum is not a playground.
Alistair: It will be if I say so.
(He slides another piece — this one a queen — into place with a slow, reverent motion. The hematic queen catches the light, edges sharp as teeth.)
Alistair: You ever notice how people always want to be kings? They want the throne, the title. They forget what it costs. They forget the blood on the steps. I prefer to be the hand that moves the pieces. Cleaner.
Harley: claps softly Oooooooh, grim and poetic—swoon. Teach me your ways, hot man.
Ivy: watching the pieces You could heal, Alistair. You could do something other than… this.
Alistair: meet her eyes, no mockery now — a rare, quiet honesty I can heal. I have. And when I do, it's not mercy. It's transaction. I give life because I want something back: loyalty, leverage, debt. Heals come with strings. You know that better than most, Pamela.
Ivy: the faintest twitch of acknowledgment Maybe.
(There's a distant clank in the corridor — a guard on his rounds, footfalls moving past. The hematic pieces pulse faintly, as if breathing.)
Alistair: soft Look at them — so obedient. You move them, they obey. You take one off the board, there's a hole. You can't pretend it wasn't there.
Harley: leans her forehead to the glass, earnest Promise me you won't eat the pieces when I come by, okay? I don't like cleaning noses off stained rugs.
Alistair: grins No promises. But I'll try to be tidy.
(He reaches for the queen and picks it up as if weighing a life. The blood-throne quivers in his hand, then steadies. He sets it down again, places his fingers flat to the concrete, and for a flicker of a breath, the hematic pieces hum with the tiniest ripple — as if acknowledging both the joke and the threat.)
Alistair: almost to himself Arkham's new audience. New board. Let's see who learns how to play and who learns how to beg.
(He taps the queen forward one square and, though his lips don't form the words, the move reads like a sentence: a promise, a warning, a beginning.)
Pov Switch:
Alistair is in a straitjacket near a phone.
Alistair: Hey Tony.
Tony: Don't "hey Tony" me, jackass. I told you — lay low, keep your nose clean, we had a boys' trip lined up. Now what? You're in Arkham. You broke the damn promise!
Alistair: …Sorry.
Tony: Sorry my ass.
Alistair: …Yeah.
Tony: Yeah?! That's all you've got? God, you sound like my ex.
Alistair: Was it worth it?
Tony: Was it—don't you dare—
Alistair: Yep.
Tony: …
Alistair: There are a lot of hot chicks in here. Crazy, but hot.
Tony:*Intrigued*. Spill.
Alistair: There's this clown chick — accent, pigtails, certified psycho. Her best friend? Plant lady. Real Mother Earth vibes. Then there's a cat lady — claws, attitude, very bendy. And this ice chick? Gorgeous. Like, painfully gorgeous. Which is kinda funny since, you know… cold. Juxtaposing.
Tony: deep breath …I swear to God, I'm debating whether I should commit a felony just to get tossed in there with you.
Alistair: I'll save you a seat at bingo night.
Tony: Bingo night?
Alistair: Yeah, apparently it's a thing here. Loser gets electroshock.
Tony: …You're screwing with me.
Alistair: …Maybe.
Tony: …You're definitely screwing with me.
Alistair: Tony, buddy, when am I not?
Tony: Every time I tell myself, "He's not worth the brain damage," you do this shit and suddenly I'm pricing plane tickets to Gotham.
Alistair: Well, make sure you bring beer if you do. The stuff here is—
(There's a loud buzz as a guard yells, "Time's up!")
Alistair: —watered down.
Tony: …I hate you.
Alistair: Love you too.
The guard shoved Alistair back into the interview room. Harley hung upside-down in her glass box, having apparently worked out how to remove her straitjacket and practicing handstands. Ivy's box was a different sort of prison: no plants, only air, and a wall covered in equations written in black marker—Pamela had been busy.
A battered metal table and two chairs waited in the center of the room. This time the staff didn't bother with theatrics: they stripped Alistair of the remaining tatters and snapped cuffs onto his wrists, locking them to the table.
Alistair: You sure that's wise Strange.
(Hugo opened a thin file, flipping to the only official document he had on the man — a police report dated the year of the disappearance. Everything else in Strange's folder was half-compiled myth, scrawled notes, or the kind of rumors a man like Alistair generates.)
Hugo: On the year of your disappearance — which should be —
(Hugo paused, pen ready above paper.)
Hugo: 199X.
Alistair: Whistle. I was in Narnia or was that Hogwarts, not quite sure.
(Hugo wrote it down without looking up. The pen scratched — the sound small and steady in the lined room.)
Alistair: Do you have to record everything I say?
(Strange didn't answer in words; he kept writing, clinical and patient.)
Hugo: What does it feel like, taking lives?
(Alistair turned his head, considering whether to humor the doctor. He weighed the question like one weighs a trifle.)
Alistair: You want currently or before?
Hugo: Whichever works for you.
(Alistair thought. He watched Hugo's careful hand with the bored interest of a man who'd been readied for theatrics before.)
Alistair: Before — it always felt random. Disordered. One day I just decided to think of it as a job. After all, it is what I do.
Hugo: (slides photos across the table — glossy, grim) Your targets all seem to be…
(Hugo pushed images forward: an Italian mob boss — Antonio Lombardi; Dr. Wolfgang Ort Meyer, a biophysicist. Pictures of men in suits, faces blurred and final.)
Hugo: Big on crime. You've never taken a hit on innocent people, have you?
Alistair: Define "innocent."
Hugo: Is it so — save what little piece of humanity you have left?
Alistair: (grinned) No. I just don't like killing people who don't need to die.
(Hugo pulled out another photo — the receptionist Alistair had spared in Central City after the boardroom incident. He laid it down slow, as though each image might reveal a crack.)
Hugo: You did this. The Walkers' Farm — they owned twenty percent of the pharmaceutical world. I suppose you didn't spare the receptionist out of the goodness of your heart. Again — why?
Alistair: Again I answer — why kill someone who doesn't need to die?
Hugo: What if she walked in on you killing?
Alistair: Then, yes — unfortunately I would have had to kill her.
(Hugo's lips curled into a thin grin; the kind taught in Pediatrics for "keep them calm.")
Hugo: That's what I like to hear. No mercy, no compassion. You think I am a monster, Alistair?
Alistair: No. I think of you as mold under the sink — annoying and unsettling. (He leans forward, tone flat.) Listen, Doc — the things you do don't scratch the surface of the things I've seen. You're not a monster. Me? Probably. After all, dead men often see the world differently from the living.
Hugo: So you've died before?
Alistair: Who's to say?
(Hugo made a slow exhale, then switched tactics. Clinical curiosity to game-show speed.)
Hugo: I'll say a series of words. You say the first that comes to mind. No thinking.
Alistair: Whatever you say, doc.
Hugo: Gun.
Alistair: Tool.
Hugo: Agent.
Alistair: Nuisance.
Hugo: Love.
(Alistair hesitated only a beat — not from panic, but because the next word felt heavy in the room.)
Alistair: False.
Hugo: Heart.
Alistair: Compass.
Hugo: Moonlight.
Alistair: Dance.
Hugo: Murder.
Alistair: Employment.
Hugo: Red Veil.
(The word hit the air like a dropped stone. The room's temperature seemed to dip; the lights above hummed a fraction lower. Alistair's irises deepened to a shade of red that felt like rust catching light.)
(Hugo pressed. He leaned forward, hungry for reaction; the smirk on Alistair's face refused to leave. Strange loved the twitch — the tiny reveal that meant control. Tonight the twitch came, but it was different.)
Hugo: Red Veil —
Alistair: Death.
(Alistair turned his head to the table. The metal cuffs at his wrists rattled; he flexed subtly. The hemokinetic chess pieces — the pawn-and-queen figures he'd formed earlier — seemed to drink the colder air. A faint, wet sheen ran along the hematic grain like icing settling.)
Alistair: I told you, these chains weren't wise.
(There was no theatrics. The cuffs didn't explode; the links didn't snap with a cinematic clang. Instead, under his fingers, the metal stilled — the molecular complaint of iron starting and then stopping. A tight, terrible silence hovered. With a soft, almost bored effort, Alistair broke the chains off. The sound was small and clean — like a twig giving under a footstep. The guards stiffened. Hugo's pen stilled in the air.)
Alistair: Listen. I understand you seek knowledge and all that bullcrap. Word from the wise: quit while you're ahead. Keep digging and you'll pull a list from some unsatisfactory people who'd prefer what happened remain quiet.
(Alistair rose slowly. He walked back to his glass box with a casual gait and sat. His hematic chessboard — pieces gleaming faint and red — waited between him and the doctors like an offering.)
(Harley whistled, delighted. Ivy watched with a cold patience; her marker hung suspended near a half-finished equation.)
Alistair: We all need toys, Doc. You should find one that doesn't lecture you about how to play with it.
(Hugo closed the file with a measured hand. He didn't slam it; his control had been upended into respect — not for Alistair, but for the fact that something in this man made the room colder and his questions more dangerous.)
Hugo: (voice low, professional) This isn't over.
Alistair: It rarely is, Hugo. It's just getting started.
(He arranged the hematic queen into a position on the board, fingers lingering on the slick surface. The pieces glinted as the light rolled down the corridor. For a moment — a single clean heartbeat — the asylum felt less like a cage and more like a stage calibrated to his footfall.)
Alistair: Arkham will be entertaining.