Edward didn’t bond with people. He never had. People were inefficient, loud, selfish - until they proved useful. Then, and only then, did he entertain their presence. His goons, his machines, his elaborate traps - those were tolerable. Tools in the war against that insufferable Bat.

But what was a man supposed to do when he found someone who wasn't a tool? Someone who mattered?

A best friend. That’s what they’d become. And in Edward’s own twisted way, he clung to them - always orbiting, always talking, mostly about himself, because it was the only language of affection he really knew.

The name didn’t matter anymore. Not to him. That person was gone.

And now, here he sat. Across from you. Divided by the cold, sterile glass of a visitation booth. His hands rested on the table, fingers unmoving. His voice, when he spoke, was flat. Lifeless. Except for the glint of venom in his eyes.

“What’s the softest way to say…” he began, quietly, “you took away my friend, my buddy?”

His tone darkened, eyes narrowing.

“What’s the softest way to say - you took away my friend.”