"Penguin?"
Bruce's voice was low as he turned off the voice analyzer and stood from his chair. "He's always up to something."
"Yes, Master Bruce, but he's also Gotham's most predictable villain, isn't he?" Alfred replied with his usual dry humor, pouring another cup of black coffee.
Bruce allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Predictable or not, Penguin's never harmless."
He took a sip from the cup, frowning at the bitterness before setting it aside. "I don't see any connection between Penguin and the one they call Owl. Wait…"
A spark of realization flashed in Bruce's mind. A single image surfaced—an umbrella, black and sleek. The one the mysterious man had used during their encounter in the rain.
He'd dismissed it before, his vision too blurred by the storm to focus on it. But now, it stood out like a missing puzzle piece.
He immediately sat back down and began typing rapidly on the console. Data scrolled across the glowing monitors as he pulled up every known record of Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin.
Alfred, unaware of Bruce's revelation, continued, "If I may, sir, attending the banquet tonight might do you some good. Fresh air, social interaction—maybe even a pleasant conversation."
"Batman doesn't need fresh air," Bruce muttered without looking up. "He needs leads. And right now, there's someone in Gotham moving faster and hitting harder than anything we've seen before."
Lines of data flashed on the screen.
Bruce's eyes narrowed as two images aligned—the black umbrella from his memory and Penguin's signature weapon. The same craftsmanship. The same hidden mechanism.
"Yes…" he murmured, almost to himself. "Some gain indeed."
Alfred raised a brow as Bruce stood and began putting on his coat. "Master Bruce, am I to assume you've changed your mind about attending Mr. Cobblepot's dinner party?"
"I found something that ties him directly to my investigation," Bruce said, his voice clipped and focused.
"How unfortunate," Alfred replied with a sigh. "Here I was hoping the sunlight and fresh air might have been the reason."
Bruce said nothing, his mind already two steps ahead.
---
At the Gotham Grand Hotel, Adrian sat alone in his suite, a leather-bound book open in his hands. The cover was etched with arcane symbols—the Black Magic Codex, a relic seized from the remnants of the Metropolis Owl Council.
Its pages pulsed faintly with energy, resonating with something deep within him. The words—strange incantations and forbidden rites—etched themselves into his mind as if they'd always belonged there.
He could feel their pull, like whispers in the dark corners of his consciousness.
Raising his hand slightly, he could almost sense the power begging to be unleashed.
"Is this all?" Adrian muttered, closing the book with a faint smirk. "If this is the so-called darkness of men's hearts, then it's underwhelming."
The temptation of the magic was real, but it didn't consume him.
To someone like Adrian, whose power rivaled gods, it was merely a curiosity. A toy.
He tossed the book onto the sofa and moved toward the tall window.
Beyond the glass, Gotham sprawled before him—its skyline a jagged silhouette against the storm clouds.
His gaze drifted across the city, through towers and alleys, over the glimmering Gotham River and the mist-shrouded Burnley District.
Every flicker of violence, every heartbeat of corruption.
Then, something caught his eye.
On the hotel's third floor, a young woman in a black cleaner's uniform was pushing a cart down the hallway.
Even from this distance, his enhanced sight took in every detail—the pearl necklace at her throat, the slender grace of her frame, the poise in her movements.
There was something feline about her—elegant, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
She stopped at a door and knocked.
A middle-aged man opened it. "You look familiar," he muttered suspiciously.
The woman smiled sweetly. "Do I? Hold this for me."
She handed him a dust cap—then suddenly swung her fist. It connected squarely with his jaw.
He stumbled back, dazed, as she twisted behind him with practiced precision, hooked his arm, and flipped him over her shoulder.
He crashed onto the carpet with a thud.
The man groaned, clutching his ribs, but managed to draw a pistol and fire wildly.
Gunshots echoed through the room—sharp, deafening.
The woman dove to the side, rolling behind a chair.
Then, with catlike speed, she kicked off the furniture and lunged forward.
Her heel struck his waist—then another swift, ruthless kick landed squarely between his legs.
"Sorry," she said with a teasing grin. "You forced me to go low."
The man crumpled to the floor, groaning in agony.
Calmly, she searched his suitcase, finding a velvet pouch of jewelry. A satisfied smile curved her lips.
She walked to the mirror, fixed her hair, adjusted her uniform, and turned to leave—only for the door to explode with fresh gunfire.
Wood splintered. Bullets tore through the air.
Her instincts took over.
She bolted for the window, leapt up, and scaled the outside wall, gripping the smooth surface like it was nothing.
Below, more of the man's guards were rushing in.
Adrian watched her ascent with quiet intrigue.
There was something familiar about that confidence.
Seconds later, the woman hoisted herself up to his floor and swung into his open window.
Their eyes met.
Adrian didn't move.
His posture was relaxed, his gaze cool but sharp, assessing.
The woman blinked, startled to find anyone there.
Then, composing herself, she smiled. "Sir, would you mind if I came in?"
Her tone was casual, but her eyes flicked briefly to the book on the sofa—then back to him.
Adrian said nothing for a moment, his calm expression unreadable as faint city lights reflected in his eyes.
Then he gave a slow, knowing smile.
---