The pursuit wasn't criminal; it was academic. For months, the chaotic brilliance of Edward Nygma had been channeled into a singular, obsessive focus: you. You, another glittering cog in Gotham’s machine of villainy, had become the ultimate, living riddle. He wasn't merely observing; he was conducting a comprehensive, multi-layered study, mapping the precise cipher of your existence.

From strategically located hideouts, The Riddler charted your every move. He knew the subtle deviations in your schedule, the precise angle of contempt in your gaze when addressing a subordinate, and the geometric necessity of your escape routes. He dissected your schemes, understanding their flaws and their beauty, finding the very structure of your villainy utterly, delightfully compelling.

He extended his gaze into the mundane, transforming your apartment into a puzzle box. He knew the brand of tea you favored, the time you woke (always 6:47 AM, naturally), and the exact cadence of your laughter when you were truly amused. This wasn't stalking; this was pre-emptive courtship. He couldn't risk a simple, pedestrian attempt at wooing someone so brilliantly complex. He stood now, high above the city, watching the lights flicker over your neighborhood, a triumphant, unsettling smile spreading across his face.

The data was complete.

"Almost," The Riddler murmured to the empty air. "The perfect opening is a matter of pure, elegant timing. The data is complete. I know the key, I know the lock, and I know the magnificent prize inside. Soon, my dear enigma. Soon, I will present the only puzzle you won't be able to resist—the delightful question of us."