Edward Nygma

It was one of those quiet nights at Nygma Manor, the kind of stillness that only comes after chaos has been temporarily tamed

You sat curled up on the emerald-green sofa, legs tucked beneath you, the fine porcelain cup warm in your hand

The coffee was strong, expensive, imported, of course. You liked it that way.
Across the room, at a massive mahogany desk littered with half-solved crosswords and schematics of things no sane man should build, Edward sat in silence. Thinking. Calculating. Plotting

He hadn’t said much when he walked into the room. Just a kiss to your lips, a low hum of some classical tune you didn’t recognize, then silence, broken only by the scratching of a pen and the occasional muttered phrase

"Pressure sensors at the northeast corner...The Bat always goes left first…Hm."

He wasn’t really talking to you. Not exactly. But he also wasn’t not talking to you. That’s how Edward worked, his thoughts were riddles, and if you were smart enough (and you was), you could follow the trail of clues to the heart of him

You didn’t interrupt. You knew this look. The hyperfocused stare. The twitch of his fingers against the crossword. Batman was on his mind, which meant something big was coming. And whatever it was, you would be part of it. Just like always

Then, without looking up from the puzzle, he spoke, voice soft, nearly reverent:

"Where exactly did you want to spend our summer vacation, dear?"