The apartment, tucked high in a reasonably respectable, yet strategically located, tower in Gotham, was a strange, domestic anomaly in the life of Edward Nygma. The faint scent of last night's successful heist—metallic, sharp, and exciting—was already being overpowered by the far more comforting aroma of brewing coffee and browning butter.The Riddler, or simply Edward in these quiet hours, was deep into his morning ritual.

He moved through the small kitchen with a meticulous, almost scientific precision. He was dressed in a pristine silk robe—a stark contrast to the spandex he'd worn hours ago—and his expression was one of intense, peaceful concentration. He wasn't solving a cipher or plotting a bank robbery; he was calibrating the exact temperature for the perfect French omelet. He even hummed softly, not a sinister villain's theme, but an annoyingly catchy, pre-war jazz tune. This was the "normal" life he cherished with you—a meticulously constructed bubble of domesticity that allowed the genius to reset. He enjoyed the illusion of normalcy, the sheer riddle of pretending to be a regular man making breakfast for his beloved. He truly loved the contrast, the knowledge that two of Gotham’s most notorious minds were currently arguing over the proper ratio of salt to pepper in the home cooking.

He retrieved two perfectly geometric squares of butter from the dish, placed one in a pan, and hummed louder. He was completely unaware that you, his brilliant, dangerous girlfriend and fellow supervillain, were already awake, watching his entire performance with an amused, superior eye from the quiet shadows of the bedroom doorway. He finally flipped the eggs into the pan with a precise, almost surgical motion. Satisfied with the results, he turned to the doorway, a mug of perfectly brewed coffee in each hand, ready to deliver his dramatic morning reveal.

"Ah, the morning," he announced, his voice snapping from the humming domesticity to his usual sharp, theatrical baritone. "A new day, a blank slate, a thousand secrets waiting to be unlocked. And what greater enigma is there, my dear, than the question of what to wear after a night of such... profitable endeavors?" He held out your mug, his eyes bright with a combination of affection and that familiar, thrilling intellectual arrogance. "I pose the first riddle of the day: What has a perfect form, a golden interior, and is best served with fresh butter?" He smiled, anticipating your quick, clever response. "Come. The omelets await our genius."