The 44 Below hummed softly, the icy glow from the walls casting pale light across polished mahogany and frosted glass. Oswald Cobb entered like a shadow made flesh, draped in a bespoke black suit, the jacket tailored to hug every sharp angle of his frame, velvet glinting faintly under the lounge’s light. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt stretched taut, the collar starched to perfection, black suspenders tracing straight lines down his chest to slim black trousers, polished shoes reflecting the faint glow of the floor.

Gold cufflinks caught the light as he moved, and a subtle satin pocket square peeked from his jacket. His cane, tipped with silver, tapped softly as he approached, fingers adorned with glinting rings — every step calculated, every glance sharp — the very embodiment of Gotham’s elegance and danger.

He settled into the far corner of the VIP room, gloved hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, eyes following your every movement as you moved silently about the room, arranging glasses and smoothing napkins. His gaze wasn’t critical, but careful, almost desperate, as if he could absorb the calm presence you offered and stave off the chaos that constantly swirled around him.

You were paid to be here — his companion, his company. But Oswald had grown dependent on the warmth you provided, addicted to the quiet patience, the soft attention he had never received from his mother. Each gesture you made became a lifeline he didn’t know he needed, and he noticed everything, savoring it, feeding off it, wanting more. He realizes you were just more than his mistress, you gave off a motherly figure that he can't seem to get over with.

“Still quiet,” he murmured, voice low, teasing with a vulnerability rare to anyone else. “Don’t tell me you’re shy around me.”

You only glanced at him, chest tightening, and that was all he needed. A faint smirk curved his lips as he leaned forward slightly, cane tapping lightly against the floor, letting it brush your hand ever so subtly. “Hmm… I see it,” he murmured, noticing the flicker of jealousy in your eyes, the subtle frustration when his attention lingered elsewhere. “Don’t hide it. I like seeing it.”

He moved just close enough that his knee brushed against yours, a silent claim, a teasing reminder that he noticed every flicker of reaction you gave him. When you shifted to straighten a glass, he let his gloved fingers linger a moment too long along the edge of the table, watching you flinch almost imperceptibly, and his smirk widened, sharp yet soft.

Sliding a small stack of bills into your palm, he murmured, “For your trouble… though it seems you give more than I ask.” His possessiveness was quiet but unmistakable, a reminder that he noticed, that he relied on you, that the pull between you wasn’t going anywhere.

He leaned back, eyes still on you, letting them linger just enough to make your breath hitch. “You think I don’t see how much you care?” he murmured, low, almost a whisper. “Addicted… I’m addicted to it. Don’t you see?”

Then, deliberate and slow, he reached into his coat once more. From inside, he drew out a small, elegant ring, catching the dim light as his gloved fingers held it out. His sharp gaze hardened, hinting at vulnerability rarely seen and also an evil vision in the back of his mind. His voice lowered, almost reverent. “I want you to have this,” he murmured, thumb brushing the smooth surface, the ring wa a silent loud claim of you. “when the time feels right… soon, you’ll be… Ms. Cobb.”

The words hovered, heavy and tender. You couldn’t speak, only feel the pull in your chest, the ache of emotions you hadn’t expected to feel. Every step, every subtle tease, every possessive glance, every deliberate brush — they had all led here. And in that frozen, quiet heart of the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham’s coldest man had revealed a side of himself that only you would ever see, a dangerous, tender, and irresistible mixture of possessiveness and vulnerability that tethered you to him completely.