chapter 3: Dreams of Arkham

Michael woke up screaming, drenched in sweat. His eyes were red, and his body trembled as he gasped for air. Slowly, he muttered to himself, trying to convince himself it wasn't real.

"That was a shitty dream…" He rubbed his face, wiping away the remnants of the nightmare. "Thank God that was just a dream… I thought I was gonna die."

He leaned back against the bed, his heart still pounding in his chest. It felt so real, like he could still feel the pressure of the Joker's grip and the smell of blood... everything.

He pushed himself back into the bed, pulling the blanket over him for comfort. The momentary panic subsided as he tried to calm his breathing.

His alarm rang loudly, breaking the silence. Without hesitation, he dismissed it and forced himself out of bed. He stretched his body and glanced at the clock. It was time to get moving.

Taking a deep breath, Michael looked around his small, somewhat cluttered apartment in the quiet neighborhood. He had been living alone for a while now, and the silence was always louder than he expected. His parents were divorced, and while he didn't like to talk about it, the distance between them was palpable.

Michael's life revolved around his studies at ______ University, where he was pursuing medicine. It was tough, but he was determined. It was the only way he could escape his constant thoughts and the restless mind that always seemed to push him further. His obsession with DC Comics? That was something else entirely—a world that allowed him to forget, even for just a moment, his reality.

As he jogged, he thought about his studies. Medicine. It was a path he had been on for as long as he could remember, following in the footsteps of his parents, both of whom worked in the medical field. But sometimes, he wondered if this was really what he wanted. It felt more like a dream he wasn't in control of rather than a choice he had made.

After finishing his jog, he headed back to his apartment. After a quick shower, he dressed in a smart shirt and pants, a necessary attire for his classes. As he left his apartment, he quickly checked his phone. No messages. Of course, he thought. He wasn't the most social guy in his class.

At the university, Michael met up with his friends: Sam and Dean. Sam, the younger brother figure, was the smart one, always serious and focused. Dean, the older brother, was easygoing and fun-loving, but when it was time to buckle down, he was surprisingly dependable. And then there was Clara. She was the reason Michael came to class. He had confessed his feelings to her a while back, but she rejected him, saying she was focused on her career.

"Hey, Michael!" Sam called as they walked to their first class together. "You ready for today?"

Michael nodded. "I'm always ready."

They sat through the lectures, but Michael's mind kept drifting back to Clara. He couldn't help but wonder if he would ever truly find his place. Sometimes he felt like a bystander in the real world.

After classes were over, Sam and Dean tried to convince Michael to join them for a night out, but he shook his head.

"I've got assignments to finish," he said, his voice distant. "Maybe another time."

The two brothers shrugged but didn't push him. Michael headed straight to the library to catch up on his work. His mind stayed focused on the textbooks, but it was hard to shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. The images from his dreams—the Joker, Arkham Asylum—haunted him.

Michael set up a small workout area in his room and did a few quick exercises to clear his mind. The movements were automatic, a way to release the tension that built throughout the day. His thoughts were still restless, though. The dream he had earlier lingered in the back of his mind.

After he finished working out, he prepared a quick dinner—something easy and filling. He didn't have time to cook elaborate meals, so it was just a simple plate of pasta, a piece of bread, and some water.

Sitting at his desk, he ate in silence, the glow of his lamp casting long shadows in the room. As he finished his meal, he leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the wall. His thoughts wandered back to the nightmare, the cruel laughter of the Joker, and the feeling of helplessness.

As Michael lay in bed, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. It felt like the dream wasn't just a dream. There was a connection to something deeper that he couldn't quite grasp yet. It was just a gut feeling, but it was enough to keep him awake.

His mind kept returning to one question: What if it wasn't just a dream?

The thought lingered as he slowly drifted off to sleep, and when he opened his eyes again…

"Oh shit, here we are again."