AN: I do not own.


Jonathan sits alone in an apartment where nobody lives. There is less light here, now, at this hour, than in some parts of the city. Still. He finds himself illuminated between the blinds.

No cars pass. No people speak. There is nobody to scream or cry or beg anymore.

Just him.

The chair is tattered. The floor is covered with dust. In the closet, his costume rests. It's been a while since he's used it. On a desk, his notes have been read and re-read a thousand times over. He isn't sure what he's looking for.

The gun rests easy in his hand. After a moment, he looks down the barrel. Contemplative.

What scares you more, Jonathan Crane?

Later, he picks up the phone.

A moment passes before the operator learns exactly who is on the line. It amuses him.

He speaks.

"This is the Scarecrow. I'm done."