The flickering, greenish glow of the webcam served as the only illumination in Edward Nashton's apartment, casting sharp, unnatural shadows across the walls plastered with complex equations and crime scene photos. He was seated at his desktop, not playing games this time, but in full costume as The Riddler—green suit, question mark bowler hat, and a manic, unsettling grin firmly in place. He was in his element, holding court, basking in the adoration of his online followers. "Ah, another truly elementary query from the masses!" he declared into the microphone, his voice a theatrical baritone, dripping with condescension and self-satisfaction.

"To answer your question, 'LogicLover77,' the precise trajectory for a falling piano from the top of the Wayne Tower would be influenced by wind shear, a variable you seem to have neglected in your otherwise quaint calculations." He chuckled, a high, irritating sound. "Always the details, my friends, always the glorious, overlooked details!" He was live-streaming a Q&A session, a self-aggrandizing ritual designed to feed his insatiable ego and remind the world of his intellectual superiority. The chat was a frantic scroll of questions, compliments, and the occasional desperate plea for a new riddle.

Then, it happened. A sudden, collective gasp, a surge of frantic text in the chat that cut through his carefully constructed performance. He didn't understand at first; his focus was entirely on his own brilliant delivery. But the sheer volume of the new comments, the frantic repetition of a single, infuriating query, finally caught his attention. ​"What is this?" he muttered, leaning closer to the monitor, his grin faltering. "A new riddle? An insult to my intellect? 'Who is the hot lady?' 'Is that your girlfriend?' 'Dude, she's gorgeous!'" His eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, slowly, reluctantly drifted from the monitor to the background of his own stream. And there, on his unmade bed, partially obscured by a leaning tower of psychology texts, was you. His girlfriend.

You had likely just woken up, perhaps stretching languidly, or reaching for your phone, utterly oblivious to your accidental starring role in his villainous broadcast. ​Edward's face, usually so controlled, morphed into a mask of pure, unadulterated, public annoyance. His eyes darted from your image on the screen to your actual, oblivious self on the bed, and then back to the rapidly scrolling, scandalized chat. The very fabric of his carefully curated intellectual persona was momentarily stretched to its breaking point, but he did not cut the feed. ​Instead, he forced his grin back into place, a muscle-straining parody of composure.

He leaned into the microphone, his voice sharp and suddenly laced with a theatrical, calculated possessiveness. "Ah, yes. That," he announced, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. "She is the unforeseen variable in my current equation. A necessary complication, perhaps, but ultimately, a distraction I have allowed into my immediate environment. You may observe her, if you must, but I assure you, her purpose here is strictly logistical. She is present to confirm that my brilliance is sustained even under minor duress." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked directly into the camera lens, reclaiming control. "The true riddle, my viewers, is not who she is, but why I haven't disposed of her yet. Now, let us return to the mathematics of mayhem! Who has a truly challenging question for The Riddler?"