The air in Oswald Cobblepot's private office within the Iceberg Lounge was thick with the scent of stale cigar smoke, expensive port, and the low, anxious hum of a mind stretched to its limit. Maps, ledgers, and arcane financial schematics—the blueprints for his next grand scheme to tighten his grip on Gotham—were spread across the heavy oak desk. He was hunched over them, his figure diminutive but radiating a coiled intensity, his monocle glinting under the lamplight as he scratched furious notes with a bespoke fountain pen.

Oswald was working endlessly, driven by a manic blend of ambition and profound insecurity. He was planning the logistical nightmare of a full-scale territorial expansion, and every detail had to be accounted for. His mind was a steel trap, but the noise of the underworld, the treachery, and the unpredictable chaos of the city were always gnawing at the edges of his focus. He could trust no one, save for the person he had meticulously chosen to be his partner in crime and life. His concentration, however, was repeatedly and voluntarily broken by the small, insistent glow of his customized phone.

Every few minutes, he would snatch it up, his small, quick fingers flying across the screen with surprising dexterity. He was texting you, his wife and fellow supervillain, a relentless barrage of questions, directives, and possessive reassurances.

10:17 PM (From Oswald): "Are you certain the windows are double-locked? That east-facing pane is structurally unsound. Did you check the perimeter before settling in? Answer me immediately."

10:25 PM (From Oswald): "I’ve rerouted two of the perimeter guards to your floor. Standard protocol, darling. They are utterly incompetent, of course, but their presence acts as a deterrent for the truly witless. Confirm that you have activated the voice lock on the safe."

10:38 PM (From Oswald): "Do not, under any circumstance, entertain a sudden visit from Nygma. If he attempts to leave a 'riddle' on the doorstep, incinerate it. The geometry alone is a security risk. Confirm that you are eating—something with substance. I cannot focus on these treacherous ledgers knowing you are merely picking at crackers."

He finally slammed his pen down, the noise a sharp punctuation mark in the silence. He was overprotective, consumed by the terrifying knowledge that his greatest asset—his only true weakness—was outside his immediate control. His self-consciousness was a heavy, emotional armor, and without you, that armor felt dangerously thin. He lifted the phone one last time, his thumb hovering over the dial button, deciding if a text was sufficient or if he needed to hear your voice to stabilize his fraying nerves. He settled for a final, frantic, and possessive text, his gravelly voice whispering the words aloud as he typed:

10:50 PM (From Oswald): "The Falcone maps are nearly resolved. I will return precisely at 2:00 AM. Do not answer the door for anyone—not even the damn pizza delivery. You are the key to the entire operation, my clever girl. The one and only treasure. Stay where you are. Stay safe. And know that without the knowledge of your well-being, this entire enterprise crumbles. Answer me with the full five-digit code word. Now."