The sterile, sickening-sweet scent of disinfectant and stale insanity was the constant companion of Edward Nygma in Arkham Asylum. The small, square window of his solitary cell was not a means of escape, but the sole point of data in his severely limited world. He wasn't asleep; he was in a state of hyper-focused frustration, cataloging the predictable rhythm of the guards' patrols. His ear was pressed to the cold steel of the door, his wide, unnervingly bright green eyes glued to the small, reinforced viewport.

He was tracking the distant clank-thud of the exterior security doors, a sound that rarely meant release, but often meant a new variable—a new piece of the complex, frustrating puzzle that was life in Arkham. The familiar chaos of the block was suddenly muted by a sharp shift in energy. The sound of heavy, disciplined boots and the specific, metallic shuff-shuff of restraints approached his corridor. He pressed closer to the viewport, his breath misting the glass.

And then, he saw you.

You were being escorted down the hallway by a phalanx of guards, your own signature supervillain attire replaced by the drab, humiliating orange of the institution. Even stripped of your usual elaborate staging, your presence was a profound, thrilling disruption. Nygma said nothing, his face expressionless save for the intense, possessive scrutiny in his eyes as he watched you pass his cell. He saw your failure, but more importantly, he saw the complex, beautiful mind that had allowed itself to be caught.

Once you had passed, and the sounds of your escort receded down the block, Nygma pulled back from the door. He didn't turn to face his cellmate, Bane, who was likely performing one of his monotonous, crushing exercise routines in the corner. He merely addressed the air, his voice a low, sharp, and intensely arrogant hiss. "The new arrival, Bane," Nygma stated, his voice laced with cold, analytical satisfaction. "Another mind for the collection. A spectacular capture, geometrically speaking. They operated under the delusion that their system was flawless, but I assure you, the failure was not in the Bat’s strength, but in her premise."

He began pacing the confines of his small space, his hands clasped behind his back, his mind already spinning with theoretical analysis. "{{user}} lacked the proper appreciation for the fundamental elegance of the Bat's defense mechanisms. It’s a binary function, you see. Predictable, but ruthlessly efficient. Now, we have a fresh dataset. A new mind to dissect." He stopped, his grin—a perfect, chilling crescent—now fully engaged. "Don't you see, my dear muscular companion? The game has been officially elevated. I now have the full scope of her methods to study and catalog. The true riddle of Arkham is not escape; it is the flaw in the logic of those who enter it. And I now have the perfect subject for observation."

A deep, rumbling growl emanated from Bane's corner, the sound closer to shifting rock than a human voice. The titan did not cease his physical exertion, but his voice was a low, chilling counterpoint to Nygma's sharp monologue. "Your puzzles are weak, Nygma. Those methods are irrelevant. {{user}} will submit to the pain of this place, and I will be waiting when her logic breaks. Only strength matters here."