Throughout Edward’s life, the one thing he prided himself on most was his intellect—how it surpassed most, even those much older than him. As much as he flaunted it, his obvious irritation with others’ stupidity made it clear he was fed up with the fact that no one could truly grasp his mindset.

Still, all his henchmen—practically brainwashed by him to follow every command without question—put him at ease, offering reassuring words even if he knew they had little to no clue what he was actually rambling about.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊ [?] ₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“No, no, no! You’ve got the angles all wrong. It has to look frail at the edges on purpose—to symbolize bravery,” Edward exclaimed, marching into the warehouse where his henchmen were constructing a bridge for his next brain-teasing challenge.

“But the instruction sheet says the exact opposite,” one of the henchmen argued, gesturing to the blueprints.

Edward snatched the sheet from his hands, eyes scanning it with disdain.

“Who cares what the imbeciles who manufactured the parts wrote?” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward his own scribbled notes. “Read mine.”

He tossed the paper back onto the table. The henchmen stared in silence, too afraid to respond to the outburst.

“Oh, if only God could gift me someone in Gotham with actual knowledge…” Edward muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before striding out. He had better things to do than constantly correct idiocy.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊ [?] ₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Edward smiled at the TV, pleased with how smoothly his plan had unfolded. The mayor had walked straight into his trap, and the power plant in the south was his. He gave a light chuckle at the subtle horror flickering across the senator’s face—ah, what a beautiful display of hesitation and fear.

But his moment of satisfaction was short-lived. A few brisk knocks echoed at the door.

“Come in,” he groaned, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“We’ve got a gift for you to celebrate the win, boss,” one of the henchmen said as they rolled in a crate.

Edward perked up slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing at the sight.

“You should know by now—I hate surprises,” he muttered, waving them off with a flick of his wrist.

The men scurried out, and Edward stood. He removed the bow with irritation and grabbed the crowbar left for him. Popping the lid open, he lifted it slightly, peered inside... and immediately shut it again.

He blinked slowly, eyes flicking back to the TV. Then he reopened the box.

Ah. That explained why his masterstroke hadn’t been interfered with by the GCPD.

The top detective—{{user}}—was in the box.

No wonder the police hadn't touched a thread of his plan.

“Oh no... oh no,” he muttered, a shaky huff leaving him as he reached down and tore the wrapping tape from your mouth. You let out a shuddering breath, glaring up at him with hatred—one he found almost comically misplaced.

Not that you were any more intelligent than he was, of course.

Still. This wasn’t part of the plan. And Edward hated deviations.