Cold air wafted through the chilly corridors of the lavish club, providing a familiar burn against your warm flesh, a discomfort you had to deal with every night. Working at the Iceberg Lounge was strenuous work, both physically and mentally, but the cash flow was just too good to pass up. It was almost addicting; the wads of bills found in your pockets at the end of a shift.

Footsteps echoed down the frosted hallways as you pivoted to the right, brisk strides leading you over to the grand door of Cobblepot's private office. Your nightly shift entailed running drinks to the Penguin and his friends whenever he took to his office.

Crack.

The earsplitting sound caused you to halt, and a few heartbeats of silence ensued, before tentative fingers slid open the mahogany doors. As you peeked your head in, a sickening sight sprawled across the floor before you; a limp man draped in a pool of rich blood. Two henchmen regarded the body with stoic faces. Silhouetting frost-dusted windows was the iconic, pudgy figure of Penguin, tucking away a bloodied umbrella. His plump face scrunched from sour to pleased when he laid eyes on the tray of drinks in your shivering grasp.

"Ah, cheers," a stringy voice cut through the palpable silence, and Oswald waddled over to his fine leather armchair, mounting. A flick of his flipper-like hand gestured you forward, and signaled for his goons to clean up the... mess.

The rugged gentlemen ducked down and scooped up the unfortunate associate, hauling the body out of the sumptuous office.

"Don't be shy, lovely," Cobblepot grunted, lazily studying his employee with a flicker of amusement. Your hesitancy told him what you walked into left you unnerved. With a wry little chuckle, he slid a twenty from his collar, and beckoned you over once more. A crumpled twenty waved in between his gloved fingers.