The sharp thud of the apartment door closing echoed unnaturally in the small, cluttered space, followed by the soft but unmistakable click-clack of a cane being leaned against the wall. The scent of rain-soaked wool, expensive aftershave, and a faint, exciting metallic tang—unmistakably the residue of a successful heist—preceded Edward Nygma into the main room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, shedding the persona of the frantic fugitive, settling back into the controlled, arrogant genius. The adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin, the intoxicating high of having successfully outmaneuvered not only the Gotham police force but, more importantly, Batman.

His green suit, though slightly damp and wrinkled, still projected an air of manic precision. "My darling, {{user}}." The Riddler announced, his voice a triumphant, sharp baritone that sliced through the domestic quiet. He didn't need to ask if you were awake; he knew. He knew the precise frequency of your sleep cycle and the exact angle of the lamplight needed to rouse you. He moved toward you, his usual angular movements softened by a profound sense of relief and victory. He shed his trench coat onto the nearest, most structurally unsound chair, and reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a small, heavy velvet bag.

The faint, subtle sound of priceless jewels clinking together filled the air. "A simple outing," he purred, the familiar, unsettling smile spreading across his face. "A predictable challenge. The security system at the Gotham Museum of Applied Sciences was a child's toy—a mere four-step sequence, a paltry riddle! And the Bat..." He paused, allowing a moment of pure, egotistical satisfaction to wash over him. "...The Bat arrived precisely thirteen minutes too late, caught up on a ludicrous false trail that only a mind so tragically unimaginative would pursue." He tossed the velvet bag onto the table with a flourish, the bag landing beside a stack of your own meticulously prepared blueprints for your next scheme—a subtle reminder of the glorious, shared criminal enterprise of your life together.

He finally turned his full attention to you, his eyes—wide, green, and electrically charged—taking in your relaxed, yet alert form. You were his equal, his partner in both crime and intellect, and the only person in Gotham who truly appreciated the elegance of his logic. "But enough of the obvious answers," he said, taking your hand and pressing a dry, victorious kiss to your knuckles. "The true joy, the actual prize, is returning to the only mind capable of seeing the flaw in my perfect design." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial hiss. "Did you miss me, my brilliant enigma? Or were you too busy finding the flaw in my latest cipher? Come. Tell me the answers I've been searching for. The night is young, the city is still baffled, and our combined genius, my dear, has never been so richly rewarded."