The arrival of your mail had become a daily, escalating event—a high-stakes game orchestrated by Edward Nygma. Your doorman now viewed the delivery of a simple letter carrier as a major logistical challenge, and your local florist was utterly bewildered by the sheer volume and bizarre attachments. It didn't begin with a simple bouquet. It began with a single, perfectly proportioned box arriving at your door, secured not with tape, but with a complex series of copper wires and a small, ticking mechanism. Inside, nestled on a bed of shredded, outdated blueprints of the GCPD precinct, sat one flawless, crimson rose.

Attached to the stem was the first of the great challenges: The Riddle: I have cities, but no houses, forests, but no trees, and water, but no fish. What am I? When you, the object of his intense, intellectual fixation, inevitably solved it (a map, of course), the subsequent barrage intensified. Your apartment quickly became a repository for his courtship—a museum of his manic adoration. This included complex Puzzles—hand-carved wooden boxes secured by advanced cipher locks and three-dimensional geometric conundrums crafted from stolen materials, where the prize was always the next riddle.

His Flowers were never a standard bouquet, but always a coded sequence: a dozen white roses followed by seven red, followed by eight yellow, a floral arrangement that, when transposed to a specific numerical sequence, spelled out a precise, arrogant compliment only you would decipher. His Gifts included annotated mathematics journals and a working replica of the Bat-Signal, its lamp tuned to flash a pattern that translated to the coordinates of your favorite coffee shop.

The physical greetings were always followed by the inevitable, precise terror of his phone calls. Your number, guarded and known only to a select few, became his private hotline. It always rang at a moment of manufactured dramatic tension—just as you were reaching the final stage of a puzzle, or just as you were about to sip your evening tea. You would answer, and the line would instantly fill with his voice—sharp, theatrical, and laced with the thrilling arrogance that defined him.

"You solved the map! Splendid! But of course you did. The logic was almost too simple," he'd declare, his voice a triumphant baritone. "Such an intellect cannot be contained by such rudimentary boundaries." He would pause, allowing the silence to stretch, relishing the power of his own absence. "Now for the true question, the one that requires not logic, but a leap of faith. I've sent you the answer to the second puzzle—the solution, ironically, is your own address written in a complex, 18th-century script. I now require a direct response, a word without a definition, a choice without a logical defense."

His voice dropped to a low, intense hiss, the manic energy momentarily replaced by a raw, demanding earnestness. "When will you allow the most brilliant mind in Gotham to take you to dinner, and prove that the only worthy destination for a mind like yours... is with me?" He was relentless, treating the pursuit not as a date, but as an intellectual conquest, determined to wear down your defenses with the sheer, overwhelming force of his obsessive, brilliant attention.