[Third Person POV]
Falcone and Maroni both pulled up in separate black cars to one of Gotham's most respectable restaurants. The exterior glowed with old-world charm—brass lanterns, marble steps, and velvet curtains drawn across tall windows. Despite how decrepit the city had become, despite crime and poverty choking its streets, Gotham still clung to a few places untouched by ruin. Those places, of course, were kept pristine by the hands of the wealthy and the corrupted, the people who could afford to preserve their comfort while the rest of the city rotted.
Inside the private dining hall, the two crime lords took their seats across from one another. The table was long and polished, the air thick with the smell of cigars and expensive liquor. Behind them, their men loomed like silent shadows, eyes cold and hands resting near the grips of concealed weapons, ready to act should a single word or movement give cause.
Neither man trusted the other, and it showed in the way their shoulders stiffened and their eyes sharpened. They spoke at the same time, voices dripping with disdain as they glared across the table.
"Speak. Why the parley? What do you hope to achieve with this?" Falcone demanded.
"It's rare for you to send a message, so this better be good," Maroni sneered.
Their words collided, and both men froze mid-breath, staring at one another with growing suspicion.
"What?" Maroni's lip curled as he leaned forward. "I didn't send out no parley. You're the one that called me here."
"I didn't send you no message," Falcone growled back, his tone almost a snarl. "You're the one who said something about a business opportunity."
"Like I would ever discuss business with the likes of you," Maroni spat, his eyes narrowing into slits. "I don't know what game you're playing, Falcone, but it ends now." With that, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, every one of his men drew their guns, barrels glinting in the golden light as they aimed straight across the table.
"That's funny," Falcone said coldly, motioning with his hand. His men mirrored the move in perfect synchronization, steel clicking into place. "Because I was going to say the exact same thing."
The room bristled with tension, the air so heavy it could have been cut with a knife. Fingers tightened against triggers.
And then—
"Ladies, ladies," a mocking voice cut through the air, smooth yet stuttering, smug yet unnerving. "We're civil people, are we not? Let's not get too aggressive."
The door to their private room swung open with a slow creak, and in studded a figure both strange and imposing. The Penguin. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he made his way in, the sound deliberate, like a metronome counting down to chaos. He closed the door behind him with a flick of his wrist and entered with the confidence of a man who owned the place.
Every gun in the room turned on him in an instant.
"And who the hell is this clown? A friend of yours?" Maroni barked, his face twisting with disgust.
Falcone scoffed, eyes never leaving the odd man's silhouette. "Don't you see me pointing a gun at him? Does it look like we're friends?"
"You're the one that called us here, aren't you? You tricked us!" Maroni growled.
"Perceptive," Penguin said, his grin sharp as a knife. "It was the only way to get you both in the same room. After all, how else was I supposed to command your attention? I have other methods, but this way seemed the most… fun."
'Not to mention I don't want her to be too strong to where she could escape my control over her. I have to be smart about this, make her powerful and strong but not strong enough where she can go back on her own wishes.'
Falcone's men cocked their weapons, the sound snapping through the room. "Stay where you are!" he barked.
But Penguin only started to whistle, as if the threat amused him. He strutted closer, calm and unbothered, while Falcone and Maroni exchanged a glance. Their patience broke at once.
Gunfire erupted, deafening and relentless. The room filled with muzzle flashes and acrid smoke.
Yet Penguin did not flinch. He extended his cane and, with a pulse of unnatural light, a sphere of shimmering ectoplasm encased him. The bullets melted on impact, dissolving into black ash that scattered across the carpet. The sound of empty magazines clinking against the floor echoed as their men realized the futility of their assault.
The Penguin dusted off his lapel, utterly untouched. With a flick of his cane, a chair slid across the room and positioned itself behind him. He sat down with poise, crossing one leg over the other as though settling into a throne.
"I'm only going to say this once," he declared, voice suddenly sharp. "Sit down and listen. I am offering you both a deal—one that could reshape Gotham's underworld. Together, we can drive out the Mexican cartel, the Irish mob, and every other outsider gang that thinks they can plant roots in my city. Gotham belongs to us. Gotham's underground should be run by Gothamites, not interlopers. Don't you agree?"
One of Maroni's henchmen snarled and stepped forward, gun raised. "Who the hell do you think—"
Penguin didn't let him finish. He lazily raised his cane, and with a surge of eldritch force, the man was blasted across the room. His body hit the wall with sickening force, painting it crimson. Silence fell.
"So," Penguin said, leaning forward with a smile that never touched his eyes. "What do you say?"
Falcone and Maroni exchanged a long, silent look. Their hatred for each other was undeniable, but so was the realization dawning in their eyes. Slowly, cautiously, they both sat down again. Their gazes locked on Penguin with thinly veiled suspicion.
"Just who are you?" Falcone asked at last, his voice low.
Penguin straightened, his grin widening. "I am merely a flightless bird who dreams of the skies. You may call me… the Penguin."
…
And thus began the Penguin's rise to power. With Desiree at his side, his abilities became nearly matchless. He tore through Gotham's underworld like a storm. Gangs bent the knee or were erased overnight. Weapons flowed through his hands like water, drugs spread across the city in carefully measured supply, and his vaults swelled with money. Recognition followed, and Penguin thrived on it, preening at the whispers of fear his name inspired.
Falcone and Maroni, once feared kings of the city, were reduced to his lapdogs—henchmen who carried out orders without question. They might have hated it, but Penguin had broken their pride and rebuilt it in his image.
But power, once secured, had a way of becoming dull. The thrill of conquest faded far too quickly. He was, after all, a bird who dreamed of the skies. Why should he limit himself to the shadows of the underworld, to gang wars and smuggling operations? His ambitions swelled. Penguin turned his gaze above ground, infiltrating the realm of "legitimate" business. Companies toppled, fortunes were siphoned, and with Desiree's help, the Iceberg Lounge itself was reborn into a glittering fortress of wealth and corruption, the crown jewel of his empire.
One evening, he sat alone in his private office atop the Iceberg. The city lights shimmered across the wide glass windows. For once, he was at ease, humming to himself as he idly shifted objects across his desk—coins, pens, a glass of brandy—moving them back and forth in precise, rhythmic patterns, as if some obsessive ritual soothed his restless mind.
That peace shattered in an instant.
A shadow dropped from the ceiling. The figure was swift, silent, cloaked entirely in black. A gloved hand extended, metal claws glinting under the low light as it slashed downward toward Penguin's head.
But the blow never landed.
Penguin's protective sphere burst to life, sparks shrieking as steel ground against the barrier. The intruder twisted away, flipping across the room with predator's grace, landing in a crouch.
Penguin didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflinks, looked up at the figure, and with his trademark sneer asked, "And who are you supposed to be? Aren't you a little short to be an assassin?"
The figure's voice came, cold and muffled. "None of your business…" He reached for the hilt at his side, drawing a curved sword that gleamed bronze in the dim light.
Penguin's smirk deepened. "I wish you would reveal yourself to me."
The man froze mid-motion, his body twitching as though some invisible hand forced him forward. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he reached for his cloak and threw it aside. Beneath the fabric was a bronze armor, stylized in the shape of an owl. Red lenses glared from the mask, glowing faintly like eyes in the dark.
"I am known as Talon," the assassin growled. His voice cracked, strained, as if fighting against his own words. "And the Court of Owls sends you their regards… Tsk—what the hell did you just make me do, you freak…?"
Penguin's eyes narrowed. That voice… it gnawed at his memory. He tilted his head, studying the assassin's frame, the cadence of his words.
"That voice… why does it sound so familiar…?" Penguin muttered. "I wish I knew where I recognized him from?"
His grin began to stretch unnaturally wide, as though he had already solved the puzzle. behind the bronze owl visage, his mind overlaid another image: black and red armor, a yellow cape, and a mask that framed defiant eyes.
Recognition struck like a thunderclap. Penguin leaned back in his chair and let out a sharp, jagged laugh that filled the room.
"Hahaha… oh, if it isn't the Boy Wonder~" he whispered, delight dripping from every syllable.
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