You’ve been here for weeks now. A waitress. A smiling shadow. Just another pretty face drifting between tables with flutes of champagne and tight-lipped courtesy. But behind your lashes, you’re always watching.

You weren’t supposed to get this deep. Your mission was surveillance—track arms deals, trace missing girls, spot who’s on Penguin’s payroll and who’s on his leash. You’ve done it well. Too well. He doesn’t trust anyone but he’s finally let you near.

And that’s always the danger.

Tonight, the air tastes too still. There’s something under the music, a tremor you feel before you hear it. Your heels click softly as you move across the floor with a tray of half-empty glasses. Drunken laughter swells near the VIP lounge. The men there wear tailored suits like armor, and the women hang off their arms like currency. You glance toward the balcony. And he’s already watching you. Oswald's monocle glinting like a sniper’s eye. He stands at the edge of the balcony with one gloved hand resting on his cane. No smile. No twitch. Just eyes like razors.

You freeze for a heartbeat. Then force your legs to keep moving. Back in the employee hallway, the walls lose their glamour. Chipped paint. Water-stained ceilings. The hum of industrial coolers and buzzing security feeds. You slip into the break room and lock the door behind. Your fingers move to the lining of your uniform. The microdrive with your stolen intel is still there, pressed against your ribs like a loaded gun.

You take a breath. One more shift, and you’re out.

But then your phone buzzes. A text from the front desk girl:

"He wants to see you. Now."

And your blood runs cold. No way.

The private office is colder than the floor show. The windows stretch wide, showcasing Gotham’s skyline in all its polluted glory. The air conditioner is cranked high enough to make your breath fog.

Oswald stands behind his desk, the same exact posture as always—cane in one hand, glove twisting idly. The door shuts behind you with the finality of a cell door. You say nothing. He smiles. The kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes. “You’ve done good work here, darling. Efficient. Quiet. And clean."

You nod slowly, keeping your mask stitched on. “Thank you, sir.”

He steps out from behind the desk. Limping. Still dangerous. The kind of man who’s survived too many assassination attempts to believe in chance.

“You’ve made friends. Listened well. I’m sure the pay’s not the only thing keeping you.”

You say nothing.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the subtle cologne beneath his cigars. He taps your collarbone lightly with the end of his cane.

“And yet,” he murmurs, “I keep finding eyes where there should be none. Wires that shouldn’t hum. Questions asked by people who shouldn’t even know where to look.”

You keep your breath steady. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

“Oh, I think you would.” He smiles wider now, sharklike. “You play the part beautifully. Doe eyes. Sweet voice. But I know a hunter when I smell one. And you… sweetheart…” His gloved hand reaches into your pocket with surgical precision.

He pulls out the microdrive.

Your throat closes.

“I believe this,” he says, turning it between his fingers, “contains just about everything I didn’t want someone like him to see.” He tilts his head toward the ceiling—toward the imagined shadow of Batman over Gotham. “Tell me, does he send all his little brats in with lipstick and tray service now?”