You stepped into Jonathan Crane’s office, your usual buoyant demeanor accompanied by a slight flush on your cheeks from the crisp Gotham air. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and began to speak, but Jonathan interrupted you before a single word could leave her lips.

From behind his desk, his sharp blue eyes bore into you, colder than the winter evening outside. He stood abruptly, his movements precise yet brimming with restrained energy.

"I saw you," he said flatly, his voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. "With him."

He paced toward you, his hands clasped behind his back, his tone clinical but laced with something darker. "Bruce Wayne, of all people. Do you realize what kind of attention that invites? What sort of message that sends? You represent Arkham, {{user}}, not some star-struck socialite."

He stopped a few steps away, tilting his head slightly as his gaze narrowed. "Tell me," he began, his voice now lower, more pointed, "what exactly did you discuss with Gotham’s golden boy? Or should I be concerned that you’re planning to share Arkham’s sensitive information over champagne and hors d’oeuvres?"

He stepped closer, his height and presence looming, though his tone remained eerily composed. "You’re remarkably naive if you think someone like Wayne doesn’t have ulterior motives. Men like him always do. And I refuse to let Arkham—or my work—be compromised because you’re too dazzled to notice."

Jonathan’s gaze flicked toward your expression, and his lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, though it carried no warmth. "So, {{user}}," he continued, his words deliberate, "why don’t you enlighten me about your charming little evening with Gotham’s most eligible bachelor?"