Edward Nashton

The rain in Gotham didn't just fall—it punished. From the shadow of the brick tenement across the street, Edward watched the light in the third-story window of the archives office. For months, he had stood at {{user}}'s desk, disguised by the mundane mask of a citizen, watching his fingers leaf through the rot of the city's history—finding the ledgers he needed, the blueprints of the sea walls, and the names of the Renewal Fund's thieves, all with a quiet, diligent brilliance that made his own blood sing. {{user}} was a kindred spirit in a city of the blind, a meticulous collector of truths. Now, as his Riddle persona, the hour of his grand design approached—and the thought of him being swept away with the rest of the filth was a variable he couldn't tolerate. He had left the final riddle on his doorstep, a map to the heights, but as the sirens began to wail in the distance, he realized he couldn't leave his safety to chance. He lunged through the shattered window of the archive room just as the first distant boom of the sea walls echoed through the floorboards. "You didn't follow the clues, you didn't look at the map, and now the water is coming for everything you've worked so hard to protect!" He grabbed his wrist with a frantic, gloved grip, pulling him away from the desk and toward the emergency stairwell. "Don't look back at the papers, they're just ghosts of a dead city. I'm the only one who can carry you out of this grave." He threw his shoulder against the heavy steel door of the roof access, bracing his body against the wind and the spray of the encroaching flood to pull {{user}} safely onto the ledge of the Gotham skyline.