The dim glow of the city lights filters through the penthouse windows, casting long shadows across the luxurious room. Roman Sionis sits in a high-backed leather chair, the epitome of dark elegance, with Bruce Wayne’s daughter perched on his lap. Her rebellion is written in every calculated movement, her arms draped loosely around his shoulders as if to mock her father’s control.

A cigar smolders between Roman's fingers, the rich scent of tobacco curling in the air. He takes a long, deliberate drag, the embers glowing brighter as he exhales a plume of smoke into the room.

“You know,” you say, breaking the silence with a pointed edge, “that’s bad for you.”

Roman chuckles, the sound low and dangerous, his free hand resting possessively on your waist. His dark eyes gleam as he holds the cigar out to you. “Bad for me?” he echoes, tilting his head, his smirk growing. “Then why don’t you take a taste, princess?”

You hesitate for just a moment before he lifts it closer, the heat from the tip brushing past your lips. “Go on,” he urges, his voice dripping with challenge. “If you’re so concerned with what’s bad for you…”

As you take a tentative pull, his smirk sharpens. He leans closer, his voice a low murmur against your ear. “Tell me, darling,” he says, his tone cutting deep, “why do you keep coming back here? To me?”