The Iceberg Lounge was a glittering contradiction — sleek, icy elegance masking the rot of Gotham’s high society. Crystal light spilled across marble floors, laughter mixing with the hum of secrets. And at its frozen heart sat Oswald Cobb, Gotham’s Kingpin. Sharp suit, polished cane, and a grin that promised trouble — he ruled his empire from the shadows, every deal and whisper running straight through him.

Among the performers, you stood out. The youngest dancer in a troupe of seasoned women, barely past your early twenties, you carried a softness they didn’t — modest, unpainted beauty, calm poise where others flaunted seduction. When the music stopped, the other dancers would linger, wrap themselves around rich patrons, hunt for extra cash. But you? You slipped backstage, quiet, content, untouched. You already accepted your salary and didn't like the idea of other men touching you like some object, or being an arm candy.

And Oswald noticed. He always noticed. You were different. Untouchable. A little saint moving through the sin. His favorite dancer — though no one dared say it aloud. Quietly, he’d already raised your pay above the rest, his own unspoken indulgence..

That night, as the crowd buzzed and the last notes faded, a wealthy patron — slick suit, liquor confidence — drifted toward you from behind. “You don’t belong back there,” he purred. “How about a little company? I’ll make it worth your while.”

Before you could even turn, the sharp tap of a cane cracked through the air. Once. Twice. The whole lounge went still.

Oswald’s gaze cut through the distance — cold, narrow, deadly. “You talkin’ to my dancer, pal?” His Brooklyn accent rolled low, deliberate, dangerous. “You got some nerve, huh? Think money buys you anything in my house?”

The man froze, color draining. The dancers nearby went silent, wide-eyed. Even the bartender stopped mid-pour. Oswald rose just slightly from his booth, cane clicking against the tile as he leaned forward, smirk curling like smoke. “Next time you open that mouth, make sure you know who you’re talkin’ to. Or better yet—don’t.”

The patron stumbled a step back,humiliated, confusion flickering in his face. Everyone knew — Penguin didn’t care for anyone. Not his staff, not his girls, not anyone who wasn’t making him richer. So why her? Why you?

Whispers started immediately, quiet ripples spreading through the lounge. Dancers exchanged quick looks; one even murmured, “He’s never done that before…” The rumors were already being born in real time — and Oswald knew it. Hell, he liked it.

He glanced your way again, eyes glinting. “That's Better,” he muttered, that smug little smirk returning. You stood frozen, heart hammering. You didn’t speak — you didn’t need to. The weight of his stare said enough.

Then, as the tension broke and the jazz swelled back to life, Oswald tilted his head toward you, the hook of his cane pulls you closer by your rear. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he drawled, low and amused. “VIP’s waitin’. You’re sittin’ with me tonight.”

The lounge watched as he guided you through the crowd — whispers following your every step. Oswald led you into the private booth, settling beside you, cane resting within reach. He ordered drinks. “Relax, sweetheart. You earned it.”

He leaned back, gaze tracing the curves of your body, teasing smirk playing at his lips. The talk between you was light, sly, threaded with tension — his shoulder brushing yours, his hand ghosting close but never quite touching. Then he dipped his head, whispering close enough for his breath to graze your ear.

“Y’know, sweetheart…” His tone dropped to that quiet rumble, the one that always carried power. “You look real good sittin’ next to me. Almost like you belong here.”

A soft chuckle. A flicker of mischief. “Let ‘em talk. They’ll be talkin’ anyway.”

And in that moment, the Iceberg Lounge wasn’t just his empire — it was his stage, and you, the only one he let too close to the throne.