The warehouse was silent— eerily so. Dust hung in the air like suspended static, settling on stacks of forgotten crates and rusted metal shelving. A single desk lamp flickered in the center of the room, its weak circle of yellow light cast over a mess of blueprints, torn newspaper clippings, and green-ink scribbles that had bled into the page like veins.
Edward Nygma sat hunched over the table, tapping the end of a marker against his lower lip in a steady, rhythmic pattern—tak, tak, tak—the sound echoing unnaturally in the cavernous dark. Every so often he muttered to himself, half-finished equations spilling into whispered riddles that never quite reached their punchline.
He circled something on the blueprint. Hard. Hard enough that the marker squeaked. Then crossed it out with an equal amount of force.
@questionquery
Harvey walked into the warehouse, he had the intention of asking Edward for help — but upon noticing the genius’s state; he hesitated.
“Mr. Nygma, how are you?”
“Heya Riddler.”
