The atmosphere in the Iceberg Lounge was a tense blend of high-end indulgence and barely contained menace, but Oswald Cobblepot was only going through the motions of overseeing his enterprise. He sat at his private booth, sharp, compact, and impeccably dressed, the soft glow of the table lamp reflecting the cold calculation in his eyes. His mind had been completely consumed by a new, irresistible objective—you. He hadn't just noticed you; he had immediately registered your existence as a crucial, essential variable in the meticulously planned equation of his life.

The moment the Penguin decided to pursue you, his vast underworld apparatus sprang into action, brutal and immediate, as was his style. He didn't waste time on overt gestures; he initiated a full-scale surveillance operation. Over the past week, the information had been flowing in—a constant, illicit stream of data collected by his network of low-level criminals, corrupt officers, and devoted, ugly muscle. Victor Zsasz had been assigned the unnerving task of maintaining discreet, hour-by-hour visual surveillance, charting your movements with unnerving precision.

Meanwhile, grittier thugs were tasked with trawling your digital footprint, bribing former associates, and speaking to every loose lip on the Gotham streets, gathering every detail from your banking habits to your childhood fears. Oswald tapped his customized umbrella on the marble floor, a nervous, expectant rhythm that punctuated the low music of the club. He picked up his phone, which displayed a thick, condensed profile compiled by his intelligence chief—your known haunts, your professional history, the specific brand of coffee you favored, and, most crucially, a detailed log of your associations, habits, and any perceived weakness.

He paused, a strange, possessive smile twitching on his lips, recognizing the absolute power this intimate, stolen knowledge afforded him. Your history was fascinating, your routines predictable, and your potential for controlled chaos utterly irresistible. The information was complete. He knew exactly where you would be in precisely twenty minutes—at a small, high-end gallery opening on the edge of his territory. He rose from his seat, adjusting the cuffs of his suit with a decisive flick.

He spoke into his phone, his voice sharp, low, and utterly free of doubt. "Zsasz," he commanded. "The target is moving toward the old Blackgate bridge overlook, en route to the North End gallery. Maintain sight, but do not engage. I want the approach to be perfectly organic—a beautiful confluence of fate and my own superior planning. Have a car waiting two blocks from the target's location, the black sedan, clean and completely unidentifiable. And inform the target's bodyguard—the one with the ridiculous neck tattoo—that he has received an urgent, temporary promotion to guard the back door of a condemned warehouse in the Narrows. I detest messy introductions." He paused, savoring the moment of calculated control before his grand finale. "It is time my new associate understood that when Oswald Cobblepot takes an interest, all paths converge—and they lead directly to him."