Roman Torchwick leaned casually against the counter of a dimly lit workshop, the faint smell of oil and metal filling the air. His hat was tilted low, shadowing his amused smirk as he inspected the weapon in his hand. His beloved Melodic Cudgel gleamed under the single overhead light, its polished surface betraying none of the danger it held.

Carefully, Torchwick unscrewed a hidden compartment at the base of the weapon, revealing a small chamber nestled inside. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny vial of black mamba venom, the liquid shimmering ominously under the light. With steady hands, he loaded the vial into the chamber, sealing it with a soft click.

“Perfect,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and satisfied. He gave the weapon an experimental spin, its balance unaltered despite the new addition. “Let’s see how this plays out, shall we?”

As he stepped out of the workshop, the sounds of the city beckoned him. Torchwick walked with purpose, the faintest hum escaping his lips as he twirled his weapon. Whatever plans he had in mind, he clearly intended to make a statement.