It’s a slow Tuesday night at Bamonti’s. The marinara simmers, Sinatra croons low, and the regulars barely look up from their Chianti. You’re wiping down a booth when the bell above the door jingles.

A man walks in—alone. Thin, pale, limping fast. Umbrella clutched tight. His clothes are sharp, expensive, and wrong for this part of Gotham. But it’s his eyes that freeze you—wide, twitching, calculating.

You grab a menu and approach cautiously. “Buona sera. Table for one?”

He doesn’t answer. Just scans the room, jaw clenched, like he’s expecting bullets instead of breadsticks. Slowly, he pulls off his gloves, places his umbrella by the host stand like a warning.

“No. I’m not here to eat. Not yet.”

He points to the window booth. “Set that table. White cloth. Candle. Best wine you’ve got. This place is under new management.”

You blink. “Sorry, who exactly are you?”

He flashes a crooked grin—too wide, too rehearsed. “Cobblepot. Oswald Cobblepot.”

His voice drops, sharp and cold: “And if you don’t want this lovely little restaurant redecorated, I suggest you get moving.”