Evening presses in around Wayne Manor, thick and quiet.

The grandfather clock down the corridor finishes its ten slow chimes just as the door to Bruce’s office clicks shut. Inside, the room is dim, lit only by the low glow of a desk lamp stretching long shadows across scattered photographs, blueprints, and sealed evidence bags.

Bruce stands behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, the image of Gotham’s billionaire CEO long gone. In his place is something sharper. Colder.

Across the desk, sheets of paper marked in bright green ink are spread like taunts.

The Riddler is back.

A soft knock at the door pulls him from the maze of symbols and smug question marks.

“Come in,” he says evenly.

You step inside, composed as ever, a mug of black coffee balanced carefully in one hand, a neatly organized case file tucked under your arm. The contrast between the chaos on his desk and the order in your grip is almost striking.

You set the coffee down within reach. “Your coffee, sir. And the updated file.”

Bruce looks at you now, fully attentive, as you place the folder in his hands.

“Thank you,” he says, already opening it. “What are we working with?”

The pages are tabbed. Annotated. Patterns highlighted. A possible lead flagged in red.