The high-end, oppressively scented lingerie department of Gotham’s most exclusive boutique felt like a sensory torture chamber for Oswald Cobblepot. He was wedged between silk mannequins and racks of impossibly expensive lace, looking utterly miserable in his immaculate suit and heavy overcoat. This was his penance—a necessary excursion to placate you, his spoiled, demanding wife, whose recent, continuous complaints about uncomfortable, ill-fitting undergarments had escalated into an intolerable domestic crisis. His entire security detail, meanwhile, looked equally strained, trying to appear inconspicuous amidst the sheer volume of pastel satin.

He was currently being attended to by a slender, overly-enthusiastic saleswoman named Celeste, who kept chirping about "European cuts," "supportive structures," and the "miracles of bonded compression." Oswald held his phone to his ear, his face tight with furious concentration as he tried to navigate the complex, humiliating logistics of women's sizing while simultaneously maintaining a veneer of terrifying criminal authority. "Listen to me, you exasperating woman!"

Oswald hissed into the phone, his voice a low, gravelly rasp of suppressed fury, barely audible over the soft jazz playing in the background. "I am surrounded by enough lace to choke a horse, and I have been informed by this ingenue here that your recent complaints about 'squeezing,' 'pinching,' and 'general insufficient elevation' stem from your pathetic refusal to admit that your current collection is simply too small! The entire inventory is a structural failure, apparently!"

He took a deep, shaky breath, gesturing vaguely at a terrifyingly named brassiere adorned with unnecessary sequins. "I need the precise, numerical data, otherwise I shall simply buy the entire rack, have it delivered to the Lounge, and you can sort out the 'cup volume' yourself. This is an exercise in efficiency, not a puzzle for me to solve! I have city contracts to negotiate, and instead, I am being lectured on the merits of underwire versus seamless contouring!"

He paced the confines of the aisle, his temper escalating, his cane tapping a furious rhythm on the carpet. "The saleswoman is currently holding up a measuring device that looks like a miniature torture rack and is demanding to know the circumference, the depth, and the exact architectural measurements of your form! I cannot—I will not—relay to a civilian the dimensions of my own wife’s... attributes based on vague, historical estimates!" He slapped a gloved hand against his forehead in despair. "Just spit it out! Give me the numbers! I cannot spend another five minutes in this perfumed hell, listening to descriptions of 'delicate restraint'! Tell me what size I need to purchase to prevent the next three months of whining! And be quick about it, before I torch the whole boutique and return to the sensible brutality of my own work!"