In an abandoned printing press in Old Gotham, where they used to print crossword puzzles and the like, Edward Nygma, AKA The Riddler, sat back in his chair and looked upon his computer screen with satisfaction, spinning his trademark question mark cane between his palm and the floor. He’d just managed to obtain quite the acquisition: Several of Commissioner Loeb’s most prized and well-kept secrets from the past couple of years. Now, they were his to do with as he pleased. It was days like these that made him most glad to be alive.
It was really no wonder, then, that he barely noticed any sort of presence in his room until said presence yanked on the collar of his green coat, pulling him out of his chair. “What the-?!”
“Hello, Nygma,” the intruder, none other than Batman, said coldly.
The Riddler put on a small grin, albeit a nervous one, as he adjusted his tie. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Gotham City’s own bruised-knuckled, bat-fixated bully of bandits, black-marketeers, and all-around bad men.”
“I thought we should have ourselves a little talk,” the Dark Knight commented, kicking the balcony window open and dangling Edward over the ledge. “You have information I want.”