I can't tell you how much it hurt, making my way through the halls of Arkham Asylum.

The classic, deep black cape swirled around me as I went, walking so fast that I was almost gliding. My boots thudded loudly on the linoleum floors, and I let the sound wash over me, replacing all thought. Instinctively, I was on guard, watching my back, making sure nobody was hiding around a corner waiting to jump me. The black metal Bat-symbol on my chest gleamed under the fluorescent light fixtures, my cowl snug against my face and head. And the whole time, I tried not to think of who I was going to see, who was going to be in that cell I'd be going into.

I can't tell you how much it hurt, walking to that cell in Arkham Asylum, opening up the door, and seeing Tim Drake sitting on the bed.

He sat there calmly, as if he didn't register where he was, as if nothing in the world were wrong with him. The orange of his jumpsuit stood out against the bright white room around us, the number on the chest—982317—seeming to glare even more at me, a cold reminder of what his fate was. His black hair hung down into his face, but he made no move to brush it away from his eyes. He didn't even act like he cared at all, about anything. My little brother, the one I'd had to lock away, was sitting there acting like everything was just fine when it wasn't, when…when he wasn't.

"Tim," I called.

He tilted his head up the slightest bit to look at me through his hair. It was a tiny motion, barely perceptible, but I caught it. Just like a good Batman is supposed to do.

"I'm in Arkham Asylum." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"I'm in a private cell, one of the nicer ones, probably…top floor, next-to-top, I'd guess."

"Yes."

"I'll be staying here a while."

I swallowed the emotions welling up inside me, and, after a small pause, answered, "Yes."

Tim laughed a choked, bitter laugh that sounded nothing like him. He shook his head at me, as if he was thinking I was pathetic or missing some obvious fact or not doing the math right. He acted as if none of this was a surprise to him. He acted almost like he…expected to be here. "Why, Dick?" he demanded, finally raising his face all the way. "Why am I here? What did I do? I'm not some psychopathic murderer. I'm not a bad guy. So why am I here?"

As much as I hated myself for doing it, I stayed where I was. I didn't cross the room to sit next to him; I didn't even let on that I'd thought about it, even briefly. I just stood there. He just sat there. We stared each other down for a minute or so, until I couldn't take the silence anymore. "Tim," I began hesitantly, "you've been…very sick, for a very long time." It sounded like I was talking to a little kid, and we both knew it. But Tim just laughed again, shook his head again in that same way, except this time, it was almost as if he were amused at some inside joke that I wasn't a part of.

"If I've been sick, I should be in a normal hospital, not a psych ward," he remarked.

"You haven't been sick in that way, exactly."

"Then in what way have I been sick?"

Again, I hesitated. I didn't want to have to tell him, as much for my sake as for his. But keeping him in the dark wouldn't help him or me. The best thing, whether I liked it or not, was for Tim to know about his condition, and to just let him deal with how well he'd accept it. I took a deep breath and responded, bluntly, honestly, as emotionlessly as possible, "You're mentally ill, Tim, emotionally and psychologically unstable. You've been on a downward spiral for something like two months now. Leslie and I came to the decision that the best thing for you was to have you treated in Arkham."

The smile faded from Tim's face and eyes. He stared at me in disbelief. "You're not serious, are you?" he demanded. "So now I'm 'mentally ill?' On what grounds; can you even prove it?"

I really didn't want to have to do this to you, little brother. I knew it'd only traumatize him, make him upset. He might've hated me for it. He might've finally seen it. I didn't know what to think except that I really didn't want to have to do that, but it looked like I'd have to, anyway. "Has anybody else come to see you recently?"

Tim seemed slightly puzzled, caught off guard by the question. "Um…yeah, Conner came this morning, and Bart was just here."

Some part of me had been hoping that he'd give the answer I was looking for, that he'd say he'd had no visitors other than me and the doctors. Some part of me had been hoping that I wouldn't hear those names I'd been hearing for the past two weeks, that he wouldn't really truly believe that they'd come to see him. All that hope, it was crushed in the whole four seconds it took Tim to say that. Now, it was my turn to shake my head. "Tim, Conner and Bart never came here," I informed him, trying to suppress the emotion welling up in my voice. "They haven't been in Gotham for a long time."

"That's—that's not possible. I just talked to them today, we were on the phone yesterday, I…what are you trying to say, Dick?"

"Has there been anybody else besides them?"

"Mom, Dad, Stephanie, Dana, Darla, and Bruce, but I don't get why it's such a big deal that they came to visit me. What are you telling me?"

I sighed and closed my eyes behind the lenses in the cowl in frustration. This was harder than I'd thought it'd be. "Tim, I'm telling you that you've been imagining all of that. Your parents are dead. Your friends are dead. Bruce…" My voice caught, so I swallowed to fix it and continued, trying hard not to break. "Bruce is dead."