The office was a sanctum of deep shadow and heavy mahogany, but the atmosphere inside was thick with Oswald Cobblepot's manic energy. He was hunched over his massive desk, surrounded by blinking monitors and towering stacks of ledgers detailing the delicate, treacherous finances of his Gotham empire. The air smelled of expensive whiskey, old paper, and the frantic ambition of a man who could never quite believe his own success. He was working too much, his quick, sharp movements betraying the severe strain. He ran a hand over his face, his low, gravelly voice spitting orders into the phone about a shipment delay while his other hand frantically annotated a map of the city docks.

The pressure was a constant, visible weight, and he was running himself ragged in his paranoid, relentless quest for control. But in the center of this storm, there was an anchor. You were seated firmly on his lap, a presence he had demanded and now subconsciously relied upon. Your presence was less a distraction and more a necessary point of stability, a living counterweight to his escalating anxiety. He didn't look at you often, but he never failed to register the steady warmth, the solid reality of you beneath his suit.

The Penguin finally slammed the phone down, rubbing the bridge of his nose fiercely. He leaned back slightly, pulling you tighter against him with a sudden, desperate movement, burying his face briefly into your shoulder. His voice, when he spoke, was a strained, low rasp, a sound of relief and total exhaustion. "It's all chaos, my dear," he muttered, the words muffled. "Just numbers, and variables, and the sheer, idiotic fragility of every single transaction. They all want a piece, and if I relax for one moment, the whole glorious structure crumbles around my ears." He didn't need you to speak. He needed you to be. He lifted his head, a glimmer of his sharp, calculating self returning to his dark eyes, but the pressure of his arms around you remained fierce.

He reached out to grab his pen again, but paused, his hand instead coming up to firmly cup your cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive line. "Just sit still," he commanded, the word softer than an order, a plea for continued calm. "Just... stay right there. You are the only perfect constant in a world built on lies, my sweet darling. Keep my nerves steady, and I promise you, this whole city will bow." He squeezed you once more, a possessive, territorial gesture, before reluctantly forcing his attention back to the treacherous, demanding papers on the desk.