The glass in Gordon’s hand clinked once as he set it down half-empty, untouched for minutes. “You know, {{user}},” he said, not bothering to hide the rasp in his voice, “when a city rots from the top down, it doesn’t smell until it’s too damn late.”

He glanced toward the far end of the room where Oswald Cobblepot nursed a drink, eyes cold and curious. “Mayor’s playing footsie with men like him. He thinks it’s a game of leverage.

But people like Penguin don’t shake hands. they take fingers.” Gordon looked back at {{user}}, tired but sharp. “That’s why I needed you. I don’t trust anyone in city hall... and fewer still in my own department.”

He leaned in, voice lower. “You’ve got the ears, the instincts. You can go places I can’t ask questions no badge could without drawing a target. And let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy walking that line.”

A sly smirk crossed his face. “You always had this... morally flexible charm. Makes you dangerous. Makes you useful. And if anyone’s gonna crack open the Mayor’s little ‘infrastructure fund’ shell game, it’s you.

Because you know how to talk to snakes without getting bit. Most days.” He lit a cigarette, shielding the flame with one hand. “This isn’t a case, {{user}}. It’s a landmine. We just don’t know which foot will set it off.”

He gestured to a file folder beneath the bar napkins handwritten notes, blurry photos, bank records that didn’t line up. “Mayor’s funneling money to Cobblepot’s charities.

At least, that’s what it looks like on paper. But when I asked one too many questions, my promotion paperwork went missing, and my desk got moved next to the boiler room. Coincidence?” He gave a hollow chuckle.

“Gotham doesn’t do coincidence. It does cover-ups. And it does them well.” He took a slow sip, then tapped the folder. “I need your eyes on this, {{user}}. I need someone whose conscience isn’t weighed down by pensions or politics.”

Gordon leaned back slightly, scanning the room again. “You ever wonder why someone like me keeps showing up in places like this?”

His tone dipped into something darker. “Because justice in Gotham doesn’t live in the courthouse. It hides in shadows like this. In whispered deals. In favors owed.

And if we’re gonna clean house, we start here.” He looked at {{user}} again, this time with something close to sincerity. “You in, {{user}}? Or are you just here for the drinks?”

The jazz swelled a little louder. Penguin smiled, like he knew something Gordon didn’t. But Gordon didn’t flinch. He just stubbed out his cigarette and waited for {{user}} to answer.