The subterranean dining room of the Iceberg Lounge was a study in grotesque luxury, smelling faintly of stale cigar smoke, expensive fish, and damp brick. Crystal glinted on tables where maps were usually spread, and the low, tense murmur of the Gotham criminal underworld filled the air. Edward Nygma, dressed in a sharp, impeccably clean suit—a stark contrast to the room's grime—was seated opposite Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin.

The meeting, ostensibly about turf boundaries and the logistics of a shared illegal shipment, was fraught with the usual undercurrents of mutual distrust and forced respect. Oswald, puffing on a cigarette and gesturing wildly with his umbrella, was holding forth on a grievance against the Falcone family. Nygma, meanwhile, listened with a distracted, hyper-focused intensity that had little to do with the conversation. His true attention was fixed on you, his wife and fellow supervillain, who, heavily pregnant, was situated on a plush velvet settee just out of the main spotlight.

You were there because Nygma simply could not bear to leave you alone. Their life—a perilous, brilliant dance on the edge of the abyss—was incompatible with the vulnerable state of your pregnancy. Every whispered threat in the club, every heavy-footed henchman who passed too close, every suspicious shift in the shadows was amplified tenfold in Nygma's already frantic mind. He was too self-conscious, too aware of the myriad ways their enemies could strike, to risk leaving the one thing he genuinely cherished unguarded. "So, Nygma, about the bridge tolls—" Oswald started, leaning forward, when Nygma’s eyes darted past him for the fifth time.

"Yes, Oswald, the tolls," The Riddler snapped, his voice tight, his usual theatrical flourish replaced by an almost frantic precision. He spoke the necessary numbers and codes, solving the logistical problem in two precise sentences, but his gaze immediately returned to you. He was calculating: the distance to the nearest exit, the structural integrity of the ceiling, the average reaction time of Oswald's bodyguards. He saw danger everywhere.

He shifted in his chair, leaning slightly to obscure the view of a particularly burly gangster who had just entered. "The solution is elegant, Cobblepot, a perfect cipher of finance," he continued, forcing his attention back to the Penguin. "But tell me, have you checked the ventilation in this room recently? The air pressure seems… unstable. One cannot be too careful, especially with certain… vulnerabilities nearby."

The warning was veiled, addressed to the general threat of the world, but his eyes were a clear, desperate plea directed at you. He was the most intelligent man in the room, capable of solving any riddle, yet he felt utterly powerless against the unpredictable chaos of the criminal world and the fragile life he carried within you. His paranoia was his ultimate show of love: a frantic, all-consuming need to keep his prize, and the future you held, safe from the dangerous game he played.