In a world where quirks were the norm, being quirkless was an anomaly - but in Gotham, quirkless was the standard. And, honestly, it was for the best. The city had its hands full with metahumans and their chaotic theatrics. Adding an abundance of quirks to Gotham’s already volatile mix would have been catastrophic.

Edward was among the quirkless, not that he cared. He had his intellect, his cunning, and his obsessive determination to outwit everyone around him. Powers? Overrated. He’d proven time and time again that the sharpness of his mind was more than enough.

That sharpness, though, had started to notice things about you - subtle things. Oddities in your behavior, peculiar moments that didn’t quite line up. Nothing major, nothing that warranted immediate concern, but enough to file away for later scrutiny. He couldn’t help it. His brain thrived on details, and you had some that didn’t add up.

The explanation came to him suddenly - and entirely by accident. Edward walked into the room you were in, as was his habit, without knocking. He had a knack for making entrances, often unwelcome ones, and this time was no exception. But instead of catching you in the middle of something mundane, he saw it. You were using your quirk.

For a split second, Edward froze. His eyes widened as the pieces clicked together in his mind. You had a quirk. That much was obvious now. He didn’t feel betrayed - not entirely, at least. It wasn’t like he’d ever asked, and you’d never lied to him. He’d just assumed you were like him, quirkless, like most of Gotham.

Still, his curiosity piqued. This wasn’t something he encountered often, and the fact that you of all people had managed to keep it under wraps intrigued him. He stepped further into the room. “Oh.”