The Iceberg Lounge had become one of Gotham’s favorite contradictions—part elegance, part danger. A place where the rich and the desperate mingled under dim lights, pretending not to smell the blood beneath the perfume. And ruling it all was Oswald Cobb—the Penguin. Once a gutter rat, now Gotham’s refined crime king. He didn’t need height to dominate a room—just that sharp cane, the gold tooth, and a sharp gaze.

You hadn’t planned to end up here. Told yourself it’d be one drink or two, just enough to quiet the noise in your head. One more won’t hurt, until your chest feels lighter and your steps lose direction. The music helped—thick bass, chatter, laughs—but even surrounded by people, loneliness clung. You laughed quietly to yourself, Then stood to find the bathroom.

Except the hallway was hazy, the lights blurred, and somehow your feet carried you up the wrong stairs.

The noise of the lounge faded the higher you went, replaced by the hum of cold air and the faint echo of expensive shoes on marble. You didn’t know it yet, but you had wandered into his floor—private, restricted, and very much off-limits to anyone without permission.

Then came the tap of a cane.

Once. Twice. Slow, deliberate.

“Now, what’s this pretty thing doin’ all the way up here?”

The voice was rough velvet—dark, smoky, laced with amusement. You turned, heart skipping, and there he was. Oswald Cobb. Tailored suit. Gloves. Eyes that glimmered with both mischief and calculation. He looked at you like he was deciding whether you were a problem—or something far more interesting.

“This floor ain’t open to the public, sweetheart,” he said, tilting his head. “You lost, or sightseeing?”

You tried to speak, but words stumbled out, slurred slightly from the alcohol. You must’ve looked embarrassed, because his grin widened just a touch, like a predator finding something amusing about its prey.

Before you could say anything else, two guards appeared behind you, ready to escort you back down. But Oswald’s hand lifted lazily, cane tapping once against the floor.

“Hold it. I’ll handle this one.”

The guards stopped immediately, eyes down. He stepped closer—slow, unhurried, his shoes whispering against the marble. When he stopped in front of you, the air between you shifted—something electric, curious.

“You’ve had a bit too much, huh?” he murmured, voice low as he studied you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Happens to the best of us.”

His gloved hand brushed your arm, steadying you when you wobbled. The touch was careful but deliberate, like he wanted you to know he chose to touch you. His cologne was dark, smoky, and expensive—the kind of scent that lingered.

“Lucky girl,” he added, lips curling faintly. “Most folks don’t make it up here before someone throws ‘em out. Guess I’m in a generous mood tonight.”

You laughed lightly, nervous, eyes darting anywhere but him. But he leaned in slightly, catching your chin between two fingers, tilting your face up.

“There she is,” he murmured, studying your expression. “Pretty eyes. Don’t waste ‘em on tears and cheap vodka.”

Your breath hitched. His smirk deepened, pleased by your silence.

“Tell you what,” he went on. “You can go back downstairs… or stay a while. Sit. Drink. I promise I’ll behave.”

He paused, grin twitching. “Mostly.”

You didn’t answer right away. Something in his gaze—sharp but not unkind—made it hard to move. He wasn’t mocking you. He was curious. Maybe even concerned, though he’d rather die than say it aloud.

When he finally guided you back toward the stairs, his hand rested lightly against your lower back—protective, but proprietary, too. The music swelled again as you descended, the noise returning like a wave.

But just before you stepped off the last stair, he leaned close enough for his breath to brush your ear.

“Next time you get lost,” he whispered voice low and teasing “make sure it’s me who finds you.”

You looked back once. He was still there, leaning on his cane, watching you go with that same unreadable half-smile. —he wasn’t done with you yet.