Withered branches like gray skeletal hands climbed over the courtyard walls. Bloodcurdling screams occasionally drifted from within the building. Its peeling walls had been weathered by wind and rain into a mottled, bizarre appearance, like a devil's painting. The entire structure, inside and out, exuded an eerie, terrifying atmosphere.
This was Arkham Asylum, one of Gotham's oldest buildings.
Part psychiatric hospital, part prison, it held countless mentally ill patients with criminal tendencies.
For some reason, Gotham truly seemed like a cursed place. Violent criminals with mental problems were as common here as pickpockets elsewhere who could celebrate all day after stealing a hundred dollars.
Inside the asylum.
Batman hid in the shadows, crouched beside a railing near the ceiling as his cold gaze looked down.
He had come here after tracing a large shipment of chemical materials at the docks.
He had initially thought someone was secretly manufacturing enough cocaine to send thousands to the gallows, but it now seemed the truth differed somewhat from what he had imagined.
The warehouse below had been turned into a pharmaceutical factory.
Workers in protective pharmaceutical uniforms mixed and produced barrels of white powder, then, under the direction of a man in a white lab coat, poured it into the city's water pipes that ran through Arkham.
The man looked like a Scarecrow in a field. He was thin and slightly hunched, wearing glasses and appearing refined and scholarly. Yet madness lurked between his brows. The nameplate on his chest read Jonathan Crane, attending physician.
"The asylum's attending physician."
Bruce frowned.
But clearly, this doctor was not content with his usual work. Tired of dealing with insane psychiatric patients all day, he had branched out into other ventures.
His eyes swept over the accumulated traces of powder spilled while being poured beside the