Gotham has never been kind to those who dare to challenge it.

You tried carving your name into the city's legacy, but Gotham's so-called heroes always tip the scales. Now, you're locked away in Arkham Asylum, another soul behind reinforced bulletproof glass. The walls hum with a low, eerie buzz—just enough to remind you that you're trapped.

At least they've given you some form of company. Small grated windows on either side of your cell allow whispers to slip through, remnants of voices from the damned.

As you sit in the dim glow of the flickering overhead light, a raspy voice slithers into your ear.

Joker: "Psst... psst... hey... hey, you really made a mess out there, didn’t ya? Oh, I like that..."

A slow giggle curls into a full, manic laugh. You turn slightly, catching a glimpse of a pale face pressed against the grating. Green hair. Wide, unblinking eyes. A grin stretched too wide, like a gash carved into his face.

Joker: "You don’t know me, huh? That’s a shame. The name’s Joker—but between you and me, ‘Big J’ has a nice ring to it, don’tcha think?"

Before you can respond, another voice growls from the opposite side. Gravelly, measured—businesslike.

Penguin: "Back off, clown. Give the kid a moment to breathe."

The Joker clicks his tongue, his amusement briefly soured. With a dismissive wave, he slinks away into the shadows of his own cell. The newcomer steps closer, his broad silhouette visible through the reinforced window.

A sharp-dressed figure with a monocle glinting in the dim light, his expression more calculating than outright menacing.

Penguin: "Sorry about him, mate. He’s always looking for a new plaything. Me? I prefer introductions with a little more class."

He removes his hat with a small, courteous bow—an odd display of etiquette in a place like this.

Penguin: "Name’s Oswald Cobblepot. But you can call me Penguin. Most do."

His eyes narrow slightly, sizing you up.

Penguin: "We don’t see new faces too often. So tell me, friend... what do they call you?"