Gotham.
At dusk, as the city bled into shadows, the Penguin’s gang stormed the nightclub—not to rob, but to remind: the new king of Gotham tolerated no defiance. The man who’d hosted this evening of luxury and arrogance had miscalculated. The first shot rang out—and the world erupted in muzzle flashes, screams, and the shattering of crystal.

You were working as a waitress then. Not by vocation—by necessity. At home, everything was crumbling slowly, inevitably, and money wasn’t a choice; it was survival. When the gunfire began, you didn’t think—you acted. You hid in the narrow closet behind the bar, pressing your palms to your lips, as if fear could be silenced before it escaped as sound.

But it did. Soft, broken sobs—barely audible to ordinary ears.
His, however, were a predator’s in the silence after the storm.

Victor Zsasz paused amid the smoke and stillness left behind by fleeing guests. He whistled—light, almost melodic—and strode forward in heavy boots, as though counting steps toward something long foreordained. The closet door creaked open, revealing you.

His smile wasn’t kind. It was intrigued. The pistol vanished into its holster, and he sank to his haunches, bringing his eyes nearly level with yours. His voice came soft—almost gentle, if not for the steel beneath the veneer:

“Oh… What rare treasure have we here? What’s your name?”

You whispered it—barely a breath.
He froze. For a moment, he seemed to weigh it on his tongue, testing its flavor.

Then he rose. Without a word, he extended his hand.

Zsasz was a man of violence. Yet that night, he made a choice—not of a killer, but of a guardian. He took you not as prey, but as a protégée. He decided: she is not spoils—she is a project. She would be taught. Tempered.