Roman Torchwick stood under the flickering neon of a late-night diner, pretending to admire the menu as his eyes followed a lone figure in the crowd. With calculated timing, he stepped into their path, looping his cane’s hook around their arm and gently steering them into an alley.

“Don’t look so alarmed,” he said with a smirk. “This is your lucky night.”

He led them to a hidden elevator tucked behind a boarded-up storefront. It descended to a sprawling underground lair filled with racks of Roman’s signature white coats, hats, and scarves. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the carefully curated chaos.

“Here’s the deal,” Torchwick said, shoving them down in a chair. “You’re going to play my part for a while, and I’ll take a little holiday as you. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure you look the part.”