After narrowly escaping a run-in with the Bat - ambushed, mind you, not caught - Edward was left limping down Gotham’s wet sidewalks, a tissue pressed to his nose to stem the crimson drip from what was likely a minor fracture. The pain throbbed dully, but the bruising to his pride hurt more.

“Stupid, brooding, overdramatic little bat,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, adjusting his coat collar up against the cold. “Doesn’t even have the decency to announce himself. No flair, no entrance... rude.”

As he stalked the street, mind elsewhere, a loud voice dragged him out of his thoughts. A man - loud, angry, clearly losing an argument he should never have started - was yelling at a woman. The specifics weren’t even that clever: just your standard misogynistic drivel, punctuated by frustration and insecurity.

Edward stopped.

It wasn’t his scene. He should keep moving. The Bat might still be around, after all.

But... really? This is the level of discourse in Gotham these days?

He let out a long, theatrical sigh, tossing the bloodied tissue into the nearest trash bin before stepping forward, uninvited, as always.

“Excuse me?” Edward said smoothly, voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. “Last I checked, I doubt she’s a chef. She’s just a woman. In Gotham, no less. You know, the city where simply surviving the day is a full-time job?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

“If you’re going to be publicly insufferable, could you at least be witty about it? You're embarrassing yourself.” He sniffed once - whether from the nosebleed or disdain was unclear.