#Edward Nashton Arkham Origins | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

adhdnursegoat · 2 months ago

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Episode 4

Word Count: 14.4k

Content Warning: none right now

Pairing: Edward Nashton X OC Romy Winslow

Setting: Pre-Arkham Origins; 2013

Jack Ryder: "Good morning, Gotham! It's 6:00 AM on January 11th, 2013, and you're watching Gotham City News. III'm Jack Ryder."

Summer Gleeson: "And I'm Summer Gleeson. Starting your Friday off right with the news you need—"

Jack Ryder: (interrupting with a smirk) "-and maybe a little news you don't. Like how I prefer my ladies how I like my liquor—intoxicating and bad for my health—in case anyone out there is wondering." (winks)

Summer Gleeson: (rolling her eyes with a laugh) "Right, because that's exactly what Gotham tuned in to hear. Don’t do it ladies, a real walking red flag over here.” (jerks thumb to her partner before shifting in her seat, becoming more serious) “Today, let’s start with Mayor Hamilton Hill's latest initiative, or as some are calling it, his latest attempt to win brownie points before reelection season."

Jack Ryder: "You’re referring to his new ‘Community Clean-Up Program,’ right? Mayor Hill has announced the allocation of $500,000 to fund neighborhood beautification efforts in lower-income areas. That includes fixing potholes, planting trees, and—wait for it—installing decorative streetlights. Because what says 'safe Gotham streets' more than better-lit crime scenes?"

Summer Gleeson: "Hill says it's about 'restoring pride in our neighborhoods.' And while it’s a nice sentiment, critics are pointing out the glaring issue: no amount of flowers or freshly painted benches is going to stop the rising crime rates. Concerns are growing over his administration’s lack of action against Gotham’s criminal underworld, with many residents saying this is just a single band-aid for several bullet wounds."

Jack Ryder: (leaning back smugly) "But hey, at least those bullet wounds will be framed by lovely begonias."

Summer Gleeson: (shaking her head) "Moving on, though, not everyone is waiting for City Hall to act. Gotham’s own Dark Knight continues his crusade against crime. Last night, Batman was reportedly seen stopping a hostage situation in Coventry."

Jack Ryder: "That’s right. The vigilante saved three employees trapped inside a late-night pharmacy after a robbery turned violent. While many are calling him a hero, as always, there are those who criticize his methods, describing them as overly brutal and, let’s be honest, a little melodramatic."

Summer Gleeson: (nodding earnestly) "Still, it’s hard to argue with the results. For some, he represents the only hope left in Gotham. Let us know what you think—hero or menace? Share your thoughts on our website at www.GCN.org/Batman."

Jack Ryder: (grinning) "I’m calling it now—‘no capes’ is going to be trending by lunchtime."

Summer Gleeson: (adopting a more serious tone) "Well, Jack, humor aside, it’s hard to ignore that the city’s problems are growing more dire. Gothamites are looking for hope wherever they can find it. Just this morning, we received a troubling report about another missing young woman. Janice Owens, 19 years old"—(a photo appears on screen of a smiling young woman with dark curls and bright eyes)—"a student at Gotham University, was reported missing after a party last weekend. Friends say she was last seen leaving the event alone, and no one has heard from her since. If you have any information about Janice, please call 201-551-HELP or visit www.gcn.org/findjanice."

Jack Ryder: (softening, but keeping his tone light to ease the tension) "And if you see someone wandering around in socks and sandals, Summer, that’s your first suspect right there."

Summer Gleeson: (biting back a smile) "Jack, this is serious."

Jack Ryder: (grinning) "I’m just saying, Gotham’s fashion crimes are almost as bad as its real ones. Almost."

Summer Gleeson: (suppressing a chuckle) "Well, let’s lighten things up before we go. In some good news, Gotham Zoo has welcomed a new addition to its penguin exhibit: a fluffy chick, hatched just yesterday. The zoo is asking for name suggestions, and the top contenders include Waddles, Snowball—

The screen abruptly cut to black as Edward Nashton’s finger pressed the TV remote power button.

The device clattered onto the desk without a glance from him, sliding to the side and forgotten as his focus remained laser-sharp on the glowing monitors surrounding him. Strings of code and complex algorithms flashed across the screens in rhythmic chaos, a language only he could interpret. His mind hummed with activity, far removed from Gotham’s morning fluff or the platitudes of its ineffectual mayor.

With a quiet scoff, Edward muttered, “‘Beautification’... Ridiculous.”

He leaned back momentarily, the chair’s worn springs creaking under him. A half-eaten piece of toast, gone cold, sat abandoned alongside a mug of coffee that had long gone stale. On the desk beside him, a cigarette smoldered, its faint, acrid scent mingling with the stagnant air of the room. A thin wisp of smoke curled lazily upward, occasionally dissipating when a chilly breeze drifted in through the cracked window.

This space, officially designated as the second guest room, was anything but welcoming. The walls were bare, painted in an uninspired off-white that did nothing to soften the harsh glare of the fluorescent desk lamp overhead. There was no art, no photographs, no hint of personality or warmth—just a single shelf crammed with books, binders, and puzzles, and a desk overflowing with tools, cables, and scraps of paper: organized chaos.

The hum of his computers was a soothing lullaby, the rapid flicker of code on his monitors more invigorating than any rest. He typed furiously, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. Each burst of keystrokes was punctuated by the occasional satisfying click of a compiled program or decrypted file. The light from the screens reflected in his glasses, casting faint, distorted patterns onto his pale face, taut with focus and intensity.

He hadn’t slept. He didn’t care. Sleep was an inconvenience, a weakness he rarely indulged. What others called exhaustion, he framed as clarity—his sharpest insights always seemed to arrive in these quiet, liminal hours when the city was dormant, the world still, and his thoughts could run unchecked.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath, a sharp grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Even Gotham’s most ambitious criminals couldn’t hide their tracks from him.

He had been working on the response time case for weeks now, piecing together data Loeb and the other incompetents at the precinct would never bother to analyze. Dispatch logs, call center records, GPS coordinates from patrol units—all of it fed into his custom algorithm, meticulously designed to reveal the systemic rot buried within GCPD’s operations.

And it was working.

His monitors flashed with heat maps of Gotham, clusters of data points glowing brighter in certain areas. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as a string of data scrolled across his main monitor, a new pattern emerging amidst the chaos. His eyes zeroed in on flagged areas. The response times there were staggering—calls for help going unanswered for fifteen, twenty, even thirty-two minutes—if they were answered at all.

Meanwhile, similar incidents in neighborhoods like The Diamond District, Coventry, or Burnley received near-immediate attention. The contrast was glaring, and Edward felt a rush of satisfaction as his algorithm highlighted another anomaly. He tapped a key and fished for his cigarette while a series of flagged reports loaded. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as the results appeared: assaults, missing persons, .

In The Narrows, Park Row, Old Gothem, The Bowery and The Cauldron, these cases didn’t just take longer to respond to—they often disappeared entirely, the reports either “misplaced” or buried in backlogged paperwork. Patterns emerged, each one pointing to the same damning conclusion: Gotham’s police force prioritized the protection of the wealthy while leaving its most vulnerable citizens to fend for themselves.

He tapped ash into an overfull tray, his mind racing as he followed the digital breadcrumb trail. It was intoxicating—the hunt, the thrill of unraveling secrets buried in plain sight. There was nothing else like it. Every click, every discovery, was another piece of the puzzle falling into place, another thread of corruption exposed.

But it wasn’t just the response times that interested him. It was the timing, the frequency. A subtle spike in calls around specific hours—late evenings, early mornings. Patterns that aligned too neatly to be coincidence.

Edward’s fingers paused, hovering over the keys as his mind spun, piecing together the implications. He hadn’t turned this information over to Loeb yet. Not because he couldn’t, but because he wasn’t ready to let go of the thrill of discovery. Loeb didn’t deserve the credit, anyway. No, Edward would give him the data when the time was right—when it was undeniable, unassailable, a perfect storm of facts that would either force Loeb to act or reveal his complicity.

Edward shifted in his chair, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before he typed a name into the GCPD employee files (which no one knew he had access to):

Jack Hartley.

The query pulled at him like a loose thread, one he felt compelled to unravel. It wasn’t just about the man’s audacity—though Edward found Hartley’s overconfidence grating in the extreme—it was the way Hartley carried himself. The swagger, the smirk, the casual sense of entitlement. It irritated Edward in ways he couldn’t fully articulate, and irritation demanded answers.

The first results were standard fare: employment records, a GCPD personnel file, patrol routes, commendations for “bravery” during an apprehension in The Bowery three years ago. Edward snorted at that. Bravery? More likely brute force or sheer dumb luck.

He tapped a few keys, bypassing a surface-level firewall to access more detailed internal records. His lips curled into a faint smirk—so much for GCPD security.

Hartley’s disciplinary file was sparse but not empty. A single flagged report caught Edward’s attention:

Complaint filed by a civilian.

Allegation: Excessive use of force.

Status: Dismissed.

Edward’s fingers hovered over the keys. Dismissed? Of course, it was. Most complaints like this vanished under the weight of red tape or cronyism. Hartley wouldn’t be the first officer to benefit from a system designed to protect its own.

Still, it was a lead. Edward’s eyes narrowed as he dug deeper, cross-referencing Hartley’s name with incident reports and internal communications. Patterns began to emerge—subtle, but visible to someone who knew where to look.

Hartley’s name was tied to a disproportionate number of incidents in The Narrows, Gotham’s red-light district. Those nagging, lagging response times, assaults, questionable arrests, and more than a few vague, unexplained “interventions.” Edward’s scowl deepened as he pulled up Hartley’s patrol logs. He saw the gaps immediately—times when Hartley was unaccounted for, “off-route,” with nothing to show for it in the official records. No arrests, no reports, just blank spots in his timeline.

Edward leaned closer to the monitor, tossing his cigarette butt toward the ashtray. Where were you, Officer Hartley? What were you doing?

He dug further, following the digital breadcrumbs with the precision of a surgeon. Each file, each string of data, was another piece of the puzzle, another thread in the tapestry of Gotham’s corruption.

A flagged entry caught his eye—an arrest made by Hartley in The Narrows, just over six months ago. The details were sparse, almost deliberately so, but the key points stood out: charges filed against the arrestee were dropped within 48 hours.

That alone would have been suspicious, but it was the name that made Edward’s fingers pause over the keys. The arrestee? A known associate of Black Mask—Jeremy Ritter.

Edward’s brows furrowed as his mind processed the connection, dots aligning faster than his screen could refresh. An arrest like that should have made waves, especially given Roman Sionis’s reputation. Instead, it had vanished into the void, scrubbed clean of any official scrutiny. Hartley’s involvement, paired with the rapid dismissal of charges, suggested something far more deliberate than mere incompetence.

He leaned back in his chair, tapping another cigarette loose from the pack and lighting it. The sharp scent filled the room as he took a drag, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips while he leaned forward again, diving deeper into the data. The implications were tantalizing, a thread he couldn’t resist pulling.

Exiting the GCPD server, Edward pivoted, running a full background check on Jack Hartley. It took mere seconds for the first wave of data to populate his screen:

Education: High school diploma, minimal academic achievement.

Military Experience: Served in the army, honorable discharge with a medal of valor.

Edward snorted. A "hero," then. Of course.

He dug deeper, combing through public records and local news archives. Something caught his attention—a police report filed two years ago. Arrest for domestic assault. The victim? A girlfriend at the time.

Edward’s lips curled into a cold grin as he opened the file, scanning the sparse details. Charges dropped. No surprise there. He didn’t need to see the rest to know what likely happened: intimidation, pressure, and a system designed to protect men like Hartley.

The grin widened as Edward switched focus, pulling up more personal details:

Current address: Apartment in Coventry. 1701 33rd Ave, apt 25, Gotham, New Jersy 23537

Financial records: A trail of minor but telling inconsistencies—cash deposits that didn’t align with his salary, credit card transactions placing him in areas of Gotham he shouldn’t have been patrolling.

Edward tapped ash into the tray, flicking the butt with his thumb. His monitors flashed with the growing dossier on Hartley, the pieces of the man’s life falling into place in stark, damning detail.

Hartley wasn’t just a nuisance. He was a liability. A jarhead with a violent streak and a penchant for cutting corners when it suited him. And now, with his potential proximity to Sionis, Hartley was also a potential informant—or worse, an asset to one of Gotham’s most dangerous crime lords.

His grin sharpened, his mind racing with possibilities. This was more than just satisfying curiosity. Hartley’s connections, his history, his patterns—they were all data points, pieces of a larger puzzle.

He added the information to his growing compilation—every flagged incident, every suspicious deposit, every loose end waiting to unravel. By the time he was finished, Edward knew Hartley would never cross his path again.

“Oh, Hartley, Hartley,” he muttered to himself, the faint edge of a grin tugging at his lips. With a few taps, he powered down his personal computer.

The more he uncovered, the clearer the picture became. Hartley wasn’t just another mediocre cop puffed up by his own sense of self-importance. He was worse—a cog in Gotham’s corrupt machine. A man who used his badge as leverage, whether for power, profit, or both.

Edward stubbed out his cigarette, pushing away from the desk before closing the cracked window. Within a few minutes, he tossed his toast, brushed his teeth, spritzed on cologne to mask the smell, and grabbed his coat and scarf. He clipped his keys to his belt loop, checked his phone—no notifications—the background as generic as it had been since he’d bought it.

Another day, another mess to untangle.

And then there was Romy.

Edward exhaled sharply at the thought, slipping his cigarettes, phone, and wallet into his pocket as he stepped out into Gotham’s cold morning air. She would be waiting at the precinct, no doubt eager to piss him off. Edward shook his head, trying to shove the thought aside.

The truth was, for all her confidence and wit, she was still a student—a fledgling in a field he had mastered. And yet, something about the way she worked, the way she challenged him, gnawed at him. It got under his skin, poking at places he didn’t even know were tender.

The streets of Gotham buzzed faintly as Edward trudged toward the GCPD, the hum of traffic and distant sirens blending into a white noise that filled his mind.

He had never wanted this. To precept Romy. To precept anyone. The very idea of teaching someone felt like a cosmic joke—especially after the years he spent tormenting his own teachers.

Edward had taught himself everything he knew. Beyond the basics hammered into him in elementary school, he had quickly realized he didn’t need the people at the front of the classroom. Most of them hadn’t understood the material as well as he did.

He remembered the shift vividly. At first, he had been the quiet student, the one who raised his hand only when he was sure the answer was correct. But then, there had been the first time he had corrected a teacher—a simple arithmetic mistake during a lecture. The teacher had dismissed him, brushing it off like an irrelevant interruption. But Edward had been right.

That dismissal had ignited something in him.

It had started small: muttered quips under his breath when a teacher had fumbled through an explanation, little digs that had earned scattered laughter from classmates. But it had grown quickly. He had begun questioning everything, openly challenging authority figures in the most obnoxious way possible. His corrections hadn’t been polite—they had been biting, precise, and delivered with an air of superiority that had made it clear he didn’t just think he was smarter than them. He had known it.

Chemistry teachers who couldn’t balance equations. History teachers who had glossed over inaccuracies. Geometry teachers who hadn’t understood the proofs they were assigning. Edward had exposed them all, one by one, with the kind of cold precision that had earned him grudging respect from his peers and thinly veiled disdain from his teachers.

And the worst part? He had thrived on it.

He remembered the looks on their faces—the tight-lipped frustration, the feigned patience as they had tried to maintain control of their classrooms. He had remembered the way they had fumbled for explanations, trying to regain the upper hand, and how he had already had the answer, waiting, like a loaded weapon.

Edward Franklin Nashton hadn’t needed teachers—not when he had known everything.

But that hadn’t been enough for his father.

“Do it yourself, Edward,” the man had barked, his breath heavy with the stench of beer and cigarettes. “ Don’t expect anyone to hand you anything. You want something? You earn it.”

The hypocrisy of it still churned in Edward’s gut. His father, the bloated, useless excuse for a man, who had never lifted a finger to improve his own life, had dared to demand perfection from his son.

Edward had learned early that the world wouldn’t help him. If anything, it would try to drag him down, to shove him into the same mediocrity everyone else wallowed in. So he had taught himself, rising above the noise and filth around him through sheer force of will.

And now, he was supposed to teach Romy.

Romy, with her smartass mouth and maddening persistence. Romy, who seemed to question him as much as he had questioned others, as though she had the right.

Edward’s scowl deepened as he approached the GCPD, the looming building a monument to the incompetence and corruption he had worked so hard to distance himself from.

He didn’t like her. He didn’t want to like her. And the way she approached problems, the way she wasn’t intimidated by him or his intellect—it unsettled him. There was something in her that reminded him of something—someone.

And he hated it.

Just as he planted a foot on the precinct steps, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He didn’t miss a beat, continuing his ascent to the top step as he pulled it out and answered.

“Nashton,” he said, his voice clipped, already bordering on exasperated.

The voice on the other end was brisk and professional—one of the precinct’s administrators. “We’ve got a situation. Vincent Carlyle. We need you on-site for a search warrant—suspect laptop, sensitive data, the works. High stakes.”

Edward listened without breaking stride, pushing through the precinct’s heavy glass doors and into the cacophony of fluorescent lights, ringing phones, and overlapping conversations. The administrator rattled off an address.

Carlyle.

The name stuck, tugging at the edges of his memory. Some kind of hedge fund manager. Edward’s lips twitched in a faint grimace. The type of man who probably thought himself untouchable, hidden behind layers of encryption and NDAs. Idiots like that always made the most satisfying targets.

He rolled his eyes, glancing at his watch as he sidestepped a cluster of uniforms loitering near the bullpen. 07:13. Traffic would be terrible.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he replied curtly, ending the call without waiting for acknowledgment. The phone slipped back into his pocket as he continued his path through the precinct, his mind already dividing itself between Carlyle’s laptop and the growing annoyance that was Romy Winslow.

If nothing else, this would be a distraction—a reprieve from the tangled mess she was making of his carefully ordered life. His scowl deepened at the thought.

Edward shook his head, forcing his focus back to the task at hand. Carlyle. Laptop. Sensitive data. High stakes.

As he neared his office, he considered his approach. Should he leave her behind entirely, trusting she’d remain occupied? Or should he drag her along, hoping the field trip would appease her incessant pestering? Neither option seemed particularly appealing. No, he would make her stay here. Yes, there would be less to worry about and a brief reprieve from her. He could only hope Romy would actually stay quiet today, buried in whatever busywork he assigned her. But something deep in his gut told him that was wishful thinking. She didn’t have it in her.

There was a certain energy about her—a need to push, to probe, to test boundaries—he could already tell.

Edward exhaled sharply as he reached for the door handle, steeling himself for whatever chaos the day would bring.

Sure enough, there she was—the thorn in his side, the perpetual disruption to his carefully constructed routine. Romy was seated at her desk, wired earbuds in, looking entirely too comfortable in a space that belonged to him and him alone. She was a sight that stuck out against the room like a sore thumb. Edward’s eyes lingered for half a second, cataloging the details without conscious effort.

Wednesday, lavender. Yesterday, gray and green. Today, a mix of the two. Her turtleneck was a soft lavender, tucked neatly into a gray skirt that fell just above her knees. And, of course, she was wearing those thigh-high stockings again, paired with knee-high black boots. Edward’s scowl deepened.

Did she own any pants at all?

The thought irritated him, though he couldn’t quite say why. Perhaps it was the impracticality of it. Gotham was freezing this time of year, and yet she walked around as if immune to the cold. Her hair was draped across and behind her shoulders that day, smooth and deliberate in its placement. Another detail he wished he hadn’t noticed.

Edward exhaled sharply, a sigh meant more for himself than for her, and strode into his office. He didn’t bother to announce his arrival. The click of the door, the scuff of his shoes against the floor—those were enough. As he moved past her desk, the faint trace of her perfume caught his attention. Floral, that time. Something light, subtle, but still noticeable enough to pull him from his thoughts for just a moment.

Why did she always disrupt everything? Even when she was silent, she was a distraction.

Edward spared her a brief glance, his eyes flicking toward her and then away just as quickly, as though acknowledging her any further would give her the satisfaction of knowing she had taken up space in his mind.

That day would be different. That day, she would not get under his skin.

Without a word, Edward strode into his workspace, setting his bag down on the desk with more force than necessary. The thud reverberated through the quiet room, cutting through the faint hum of electronics. He didn’t bother removing his coat or unpacking anything—he’d just have to put it all back on soon enough.

The sound of drawers opening and closing filled the space as he moved around with clipped efficiency, gathering what he needed.

It was only when he started making enough noise that Romy finally looked up. She pulled an earbud out, tilting her head to the side as if she had just noticed him. That infuriating half-smirk of hers was already in place.

“Good morning, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward didn’t respond. He simply continued rummaging, pulling out an external hard drive, a toolkit, and a few other necessities. He placed them on his desk with precise movements, methodically packing them into his bag.

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning forward slightly in her chair.

“Collecting equipment,” he replied curtly, his focus unwavering.

“For…?”

He doesn't pause his movements. “Got a call for some fieldwork.”

At that, she sat up straighter. “Ooh, a field trip. Where are we going?”

Edward froze for a split second before continuing. “Fieldwork,” he snipped. “Not a field trip. And we aren’t going anywhere. I’m going. Alone.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a mock pout. “Why so secretive, Mr. Nashton? What kind of super-important work are you up to?”

He sighed, zipping the bag shut with deliberate force. “Investigating a laptop belonging to an idiot who thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants.”

“Cool. Let me grab my stuff.”

“You are not coming,” he snapped, spinning to face her.

“Why not?” she shot back, adding a subtle pout that Edward refused to acknowledge. “This is supposed to be a learning experience, right? What better way to learn than by watching the brilliant Mr. Edward Nashton in action?”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening, the muscles working as he gritted his teeth. Was she trying to appeal to his ego? Was she trying to challenge him? Goad him into proving himself?

The thought gnawed at him, and Edward narrowed his eyes slightly, scanning Romy’s expression for any hint of mockery or insincerity. Her words seemed deliberate—too deliberate. Was this calculated? A ploy to manipulate him?

If it was—it was working.

And he hated it.

The idea of her following him, asking endless questions, disrupting his carefully ordered flow—it was maddening. Absolutely maddening. But the look on her face told him everything he needed to know.

Part of him realized that maybe it was not a good idea to leave her there alone. There was no telling what she could ruin or break in his absence. He took a deep breath. Yes, no matter how much he hated the idea of babysitting her, he would much rather deal with that than the aftermath of her subsequent meddling.

Plus, she wasn’t going to back down.

She hasn’t in the three days he’s known her.

Edward exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp and clipped. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice heavy with exasperation.

“Cool.” The grin that spread across Romy’s face was infuriatingly self-assured, her confidence somehow amplifying his irritation. “Love a good field trip.”

“ Work. Field work. We are working. Not taking a fun little trip.”

Edward sighed sharply, the weight of his decision already pressing down on him. He slung the bag over his shoulder, heading for the door and outside without waiting to see if she’d follow. Of course, she did. The telltale click of her boots against the linoleum floor trailed after him, each step like a needle pricking at his patience. He took a brief detour to sign out a set of keys for one of the department’s unmarked vehicles.

By the time the two of them reached the precinct parking lot, Edward’s irritation had only grown. He headed toward the row of vehicles with purposeful strides, his coat flaring at his sides as he moved. He stopped by one of the sedans, pulling the key fob from his pocket. “Get in,” he said curtly, opening the passenger side door without looking at her.

“So demanding,” Romy quipped, sliding into the seat with a grin. In his periphery, he watched as she swung her legs inside, noting the black trench coat she wore, and the matching Michael Kors bag. Edward ignored the comment, snapped the door shut, and rounded the car to slip into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. The faint scent of stale coffee and vinyl filled the car.

As he started the engine, she settled in beside him. He didn’t even look at her as he muttered, “If you so much as breathe too loudly, I will throw you out of this car.”

She smirked, clearly unbothered by his sharp tone. “Noted.”

The drive began in silence. The hum of the engine filled the cabin, accompanied by the honks of traffic around them and the occasional squeak of the suspension as the car navigated Gotham’s congested streets. Edward’s eyes remained fixed on the road, but even as he focused on the task at hand, he was acutely aware of Romy sitting beside him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her—her expression calm, as if this were just a leisurely outing. He hated it. Hated how her presence shifted the energy in the car, how it disrupted the careful balance of his focus, his life. She was too calm, too composed, as if she were waiting for something—or worse, planning something.

This was going to be a long day.

The silence stretched on, taut and heavy, until it felt almost unbearable. And then, as if on cue, Romy sighed—a long, exaggerated exhale. Edward’s lips pulled into a flat line. He had told her not to breathe. Without a word, she reached forward, her hand hovering over the radio controls before twisting the knob and tuning the station. The soft static faded, replaced by the upbeat rhythm of a pop station.

“What what, what, what. What what, what, what—"

Edward blinked.

Then, he reached forward and cut the radio off with a sharp jab of his finger, his eyes never leaving the road. For a moment, there was quiet again. But then, as if testing him, Romy turned it back on.

“I’m gonna pop some tags—”

Edward scowled. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his hand moved with the same deliberate precision as he shut it off again.

She waited a beat before reaching forward once more. The pop music resumed, the silly notes filling the car, mocking him.

“... walk into the club like, ‘What up, I got a big cock—’”

His hand shot out, slamming the power button harder than necessary.

She reached—

“Touch it again,” he hissed, “and I will turn this car around and drop your little ass on the precinct steps.” He cast her a brief side-eye, his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

Romy paused for a beat, her hand hovering over the radio controls. And then, with a slow, deliberate grin, she leaned back in her seat. “Alright, whatever you say, daddy,” she purred.

In response, Edward’s breath caught. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there—a tightening low in his abdomen that he most definitely had not asked for, nor did he welcome. His posture stiffened immediately, his spine snapping straighter against the seat.

No. Absolutely not.

For a moment, it was as though his brain stalled, caught between processing Romy’s words and the way she had said them. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, fingerless gloves squeaking. His eyes darted to her, just for a second, but it was enough to catch the amused glint in her verdant gaze and the deliberate twitch of her smirk. He snapped his attention back to the road immediately.

He cleared his throat, the sound coming out squeaky. Edward’s pulse felt heavier. “Don’t—” he started, his voice tighter than he’d like. But the words faltered, falling flat before they could fully form. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that? How did you even respond to something so—so absurd, so wildly inappropriate, so Romy? “Were you dropped on your head as a child? What is wrong with you?” he finally snapped.

“Lots of things,” she replied breezily, dismissing the insult with a casual wave.

Edward glared at the road ahead, his jaw working as he bit back the string of colorful expletives bubbling in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to speak further, not without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she had gotten under his skin.

Which, of course, she had.

He inhaled through his nose and exhaled out of his mouth, adjusting and relaxing his grip on the wheel, trying to ground himself in the monotony of the snail-paced traffic ahead. He was going to get through the day. Seven more hours—seven more hours and he would be free of her until next Wednesday. Four days—four days, and everything would be back to normal.

Normal until the next Wednesday, that was...

What had he done to deserve this? What had he done to have his well-managed, solitary peace disrupted like this? What had he done to deserve this little, bratty twit sitting next to him in the passenger seat? What had he done to have someone so arrogant, so annoyingly confident charged to him? This was his curse—his personal hell, his Sisyphean task, his—

Tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap...tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

Edward’s eye twitched, the muscle beneath it spasming in time with the rhythm of the sound. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of his attention. But his periphery betrayed him, catching just enough to confirm what he already suspected.

Those fucking nails.

Romy was on her phone, thumbs flying across the screen with practiced ease, her mint-green acrylics emitting a maddeningly rhythmic symphony of taps against the glass. Edward had thought—hoped—that the car ride would grant him a reprieve from the incessant clacking, tapping, and clicking she did all day. But no. Even here, in the small confines of the vehicle, she had found a way to test his patience.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap...

The rhythm escalated, a relentless barrage that crawled under his skin, settling in his nerves like a splinter he couldn’t reach. He tried to drown it out, focusing on the road, the faint hum of the heater, the dull ache in his jaw, the twitching of his eye, the warmth in his—no, no. No.

T-t-tap.

T-t-taptap.

Tap-t-tap-tap-tap-t-t-t-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-t-t-tap-tap-tap...

...

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-t-t-t-tap-tap-ttttt-tap—

“Are those ridiculous nails really necessary?!”

She blinked, then tilted her head slightly, as though genuinely considering the question. Then, as serious as the grave, she quipped, “Oh, they’re absolutely essential.”

“I fail to see the purpose other than to piss me off.”

At that, Romy shifted in her seat, angling herself toward him with deliberate ease. She propped her elbow against the door, resting her cheek on her fist, and paused just long enough to make him even more uncomfortable. He could feel her gaze boring into his profile.

“Then you, Mr. Nashton, have obviously not had a girl run her nails through your hair,” she chided, tone sly, “or your neck, chest... or—well—anywhere really.”

Heat flooded Edward’s face, creeping up his neck like an unstoppable tide. His scowl deepened, his gaze fixed intently on the car ahead. Move. Move. Move. His mind commanded it with such intensity he half-expected the vehicle to vaporize. Anything to escape this conversation.

His thoughts betrayed him, spiraling against his will. The images her words conjured—hands, nails, touches—were too vivid, too sharp in his imagination. Not that he had any real frame of reference, though... No, he hadn’t felt that. Not a girl’s nails, not soft fingers, or kisses, not anything…

And it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. No, it was just... circumstances. Yes, that was it. Circumstances. He’d never had the time. Between school, work, and his ever-expanding projects, his life hadn’t left room for such trivialities. Relationships, intimacy—those things were distractions, irrelevant to his goals. Not that he hadn’t thought about it before. But those thoughts were fleeting, inconsequential. They didn’t matter. They shouldn’t matter.

It felt too warm in the car, the heater suddenly oppressive. That was it. The heater was to blame. But his face burned, and he knew—oh, he knew—she was watching him.

Finally, he forced out a response, his tone sharper than intended. “That is entirely irrelevant.”

Romy’s chuckle was soft, almost purring, a sound that rippled through Edward and made his grip on the wheel falter for the briefest of moments.

“If you say so, Mr. Nashton,” she replied, and he could hear the grin in her voice, even without looking at her.

The car ahead lurched forward, and Edward seized the opportunity to accelerate, focusing intently on the road. His foot pressed harder on the gas than necessary, the sudden speed a welcome distraction from the unbearable weight of her words.

But then she spoke again.

“So—” she began, and he already heard the mischief in her tone, “is it that you’ve never dated anyone who wore them? Or...?”

His breath caught. A storm brewed in his chest—embarrassment, irritation.

Don’t answer. Just ignore it. It’s a trap.

But the silence was uncomfortable, and he could feel her gaze like a laser, dissecting him, poking at cracks he didn’t even know he had. His jaw clenched, teeth squeaking audibly. The truth sat heavy and bitter in his throat. He’d never dated anyone. Not seriously, not romantically, not in the way she was implying. The few fleeting interactions he’d had were awkward at best, disasters at worst. He’d always been better with knowledge, education, facts, logic, reasoning, puzzles than people.

And this—this conversation—was a prime example of why.

Edward inhaled sharply, his chest tight, and chose the only defense he had left.

“That’s none of your business,” he grumbled.

Romy leaned back slightly, her smirk widening, and he knew he’d just handed her exactly what she wanted—a reaction.

Edward exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp and controlled, an effort to tamp down the simmering irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. He didn’t respond, didn’t dignify her words with an acknowledgment. She was fishing for a reaction, and he refused to bite.

Instead, he locked his gaze on the road ahead, scowling at the snail-paced traffic, trying to will her out of his mind. But it was too late. Her words, her teasing, her relentless prodding had made him acutely aware of something he tried very hard not to think about.

Thirty years old and still a virgin.

How pathetic.

The thought crept in, uninvited and unwelcome, like a spider skittering into the corner of his mind. He tried to squash it, to smack it aside with cold, logical reasoning. It was his choice, after all. It had always been his choice. He’d been too busy, too focused on his work, too... selective. Yes, that was it. Selective. No one had been good enough for him.

But even as he repeated the justification to himself, it felt hollow. Had it truly been his choice? Or had it simply never been an option?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, but before he could spiral further, another sound cut through his thoughts.

A shutter click.

Edward flinched. Another click. He spared Romy the briefest of glances, just enough to confirm what he already suspected.

She was taking selfies.

Sitting in his passenger seat, completely at ease, she held up her phone, adjusting the angle as she cycled through expressions: a bright, charming smile; a sultry smolder; a dramatic pout. Each click of the camera was like a needle pricking at his patience, unraveling the fragile thread of control he was clinging to.

Why was she so disruptive?

Click.

“Really?” he muttered, the word escaping before he could stop it.

Click.

She glanced at him, unbothered, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “What?”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

Click.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked finally, his tone clipped and weary.

“Stop what?” she replied innocently, though the glint in her eye betrayed her.

“Stop existing."

She laughed softly, the sound light and unbothered, and it grated on him in a way he didn’t fully understand. She took another picture.

“You’re the one who agreed to let me come along. You could have said no.” And another.

“I did tell you no!” Edward growled, his voice a little too loud. His mouth snapped shut. He took a deep breath. “You know, you are intolerable. A gnat. A pest. A menace.”

“Aw.” She gave him a mocking pout. “And here I thought you were starting to like me.”

“I can’t stand you.”

“Then you should try me lying down...”

His mind tripped over itself in a desperate attempt to process her words. He blinked once, twice, his vision tunneling as entirely unbidden images invaded his thoughts. Her lying down. Him beside her. The suggestion was so absurd, so impossible, and yet his brain conjured it with maddening clarity. His scowl deepened as though sheer willpower might banish the thoughts. He focused on the road, willing the asphalt to crack apart and swallow him whole. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He didn’t want to be thinking about this.

Why would she say something like that?

Edward gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white under his gloves, the smooth leather creaking beneath his gloves. His mind screamed at him to shut down the train of thought before it careened into dangerous territory, but it was already too late. The images lingered, vivid and intrusive, like a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong spot—wrong, out of place, but impossible to ignore.

He cleared his throat, the sound harsh and forced. "Do you ever listen to yourself?" he muttered, voice strained. "Or do you just say the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind and hope for chaos?"

Romy spoke in an almost absentminded manner. "A little from column A, a little from column B." Her fingers trail idly over her phone screen. Another click sounded, and Edward's eye twitched.

"Enough with the photos!" he snapped, his voice rising before he could stop himself. "What could you possibly need so many pictures for?"

"For posterity, bro.” Romy shrugged, tilting her phone to show him the screen, where a string of perfectly angled selfies displayed her smug expression. “Gotta commemorate the first time you let me tag along. It’s a historic day."

"Historic," Edward repeated flatly, his jaw tightening. "If by 'historic,' you mean the first and last time, then yes, absolutely. You have been nothing but a pest."

She chuckled softly, the sound buzzing under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch. "You wound me, Mr. Nashton."

"Good," he shot back, his voice sharp. "Maybe you'lllearn to shut that smartass mouth of yours."

Her laugh bubbled up again, lighter this time, almost genuine. "Oh, you love it, and you know it."

Edward didn’t respond. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he focused on the road, the traffic, the cacophony of Gotham’s streets—anything to drown out the chaos sitting in his passenger seat.

But even in silence, Romy was a presence he couldn’t ignore. Her perfume lingered faintly in the air, floral and warm, and every now and then, he caught the faintest sound of her shifting in her seat, her nails tapping against her phone, her amused hums as she scrolled through her gallery or apps.

She was infuriating. Impossible. Distracting in ways he couldn’t fully articulate.

The light ahead turned green, and Edward seized the opportunity to accelerate again, the engine’s low rumble a temporary balm for his fraying nerves. But as the car sped forward, Romy spoke once more, her voice soft but unmistakably playful.

"You know, I think you might eventually like having me around.”

"I would rather chew glass."

"Now that sounds like a date," she quipped without missing a beat.

Edward groaned audibly, his head thudding back against the headrest for just a moment before he forced himself to refocus. "This is going to be the longest day of my life," he muttered under his breath.

Romy heard him, of course. And when she laughed, soft and wicked, he knew—deep down—she was enjoying every second of his torment.

“You know...” Romy said, her voice dropping, “you’re kind of adorable when you’re this frustrated.”

Adorable.

No one had ever called him that before.

He didn’t want to be called that.

He didn’t want to like being called that.

And yet, there was no denying the fresh, unwelcome wave of heat creeping to the tips of his ears. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, as though it held the answers to his sudden and overwhelming discomfort. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding together.

Romy settled back into her seat, entirely too pleased with herself. He didn’t have to look to know she was smiling—that maddening, self-assured smile that made his stomach churn in a way he didn’t understand. The tension in the car was unbearable now, suffocating in its weight.

Edward didn’t know what bothered him more—her audacity, her unwavering confidence, or the way she made him feel so completely out of his depth. Romy was unlike anything he had ever subjected himself to before. Girls like her always pissed him off.

They were the ones who ruled the hallways of his childhood: the cheerleaders, the popular girls, the preps. The ones who didn’t bother hiding their disdain, who sneered at him for daring to exist in the same space—forget even approaching them. They made him feel small, invisible, undeserving of their time and attention.

Yes, that was why he didn’t like Romy. Because she was everything he despised: girly, obnoxious, vain, pretty, styl—

Pretty.

The word dug into him like a splinter under his nail. It wasn’t just that she was pretty—it was the way she knew she was pretty. It was in the effortless way she drew attention without calling for it, the way her every movement seemed calculated for maximum impact.

And it infuriated him.

The sharp, electronic sound of coins falling shattered his thoughts, yanking him back to reality.

Edward’s head jerked slightly, his eyes darting toward her before he could stop himself. Romy giggled softly, tapping quickly on her phone, her expression lit with amusement as she swiped and typed with practiced ease.

“What now?” he grumbled.

She glanced at him briefly, her smile turning sly as she returned her focus to her phone. “Nothing.”

Edward bit the inside of his cheek, his scowl deepening as his mind raced. What was she doing? Why did she make so much noise? Was she built to piss him off?

Yes, that was it; she was specifically crafted for his torture.

The car fell into relative silence again, but it wasn’t the relief he had hoped for. Instead, the quiet buzzed with unanswered questions and the paroxysmal tapping of her nails and clicking of her selfies.

Edward focused on the road ahead, counting down the seconds until the drive ended.

The Ryker Skyrise jutted into the air like a blade, nestled among the towering spires of Founder’s Island. Its sleek steel and glass façade gleamed in the pale morning light, a monument to wealth and power in a city where both were practically synonymous with corruption.

Founder’s Island was everything Edward despised about Gotham, concentrated into one suffocating district. Unlike the raw chaos of the Narrows or the festering rot of Crime Alley, the filth here wore a suit and tie—criminals all the same. Banks and brokerage firms lined the pristine streets, their marble steps and polished brass fixtures gleaming with an almost obscene clarity. The sidewalks were scrubbed clean, the cracks in the pavement filled with fresh mortar, as though the island could somehow mask the rot lurking just beneath its surface.

It was all an illusion. The buildings might shine, but the people inside were nothing more than predators in expensive wool, preying on Gotham’s already-broken underbelly. Edward’s lip curled as the car inched forward, traffic snarling in its usual morning crawl.

He hated it. He hated all of this.

And worse than the traffic, worse than the oppressive air of Founder’s Island, was Romy.

The ride had been unrelenting. Exhausting.

Edward wouldn’t allow himself to admit it, but she had drained him. Romy, with her prickling yet well-timed chatter, her phone’s incessant notifications, her very presence. She was a little vampire, sucking him dry of his near-limitless resources of energy and patience.

That was impossible.

She was a child.

Not literally, of course. He knew Romy’s age, her background, the purpose of her being here. But in every way that mattered, she was brash and entirely too comfortable dismantling his carefully maintained composure. No wonder she had gone to juvie; even if it had only been for hacking, he had a feeling she would have wound up there one way or another.

He kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, as the car finally reached the entrance to the Ryker Skyrise’s subterranean parking deck. The sleek metal gates slid open, and he descended into the shadows of the underground lot.

The deck was silent save for the sticky sound of tires rolling over smooth concrete. It was cavernous and nearly full of gleaming vehicles that screamed of excess. Edward found a spot near the other GCPD personnel vehicles—a patrol car and a detective’s unmarked one—easing the car to a stop beside them. He cut the engine, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence. It soothed his ears, offering a reprieve from the sound of Romy’s voice, her tapping nails, her phone’s incessant jingles.

Edward exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the wheel as he stared straight ahead. He didn’t look at her, didn’t want to see whatever expression she was wearing. He could already feel her gaze, her amusement, her disruption.

“You’re not going to sit there all day, are you?”

Edward didn’t even glance at her. “Stop talking.”

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the car door open and stepped out into the chilled, slightly stale air of the parking deck. He grabbed his bag and closed the door with a little more force than necessary. The sound of his shoes against the smooth concrete echoed faintly, a rhythmic beat that only served to highlight the maddening clack of her heeled boots as she followed. Every step grated on him.

The elevator awaited, its metal doors sliding open with a smooth sequence. Edward let Romy step in first and followed behind, the enclosed space becoming stifling. He could feel her beside him—not touching but impossibly present, her perfume faint but noticeable in the still air. He stared at the control panel as he punched the button for the 49th floor, his fingers pressing harder than necessary.

The elevator hummed to life, climbing rapidly, though not fast enough for his liking.

Romy didn’t speak, and for a blessed moment, he dared to hope the ride might pass without incident. The silence felt precarious, though, like a thread stretched taut, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Edward kept his eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors, watching as they climbed higher and higher.

The elevator dinged as it passed each floor.

Finally, 49.

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Edward gestured for Romy to step out first. She sauntered out, her boots clicking against the polished floor, and Edward followed close behind, eventually passing her. But the two of them didn’t get more than a few steps away from the elevator before he whirled around. His finger held between them, stopping just short of her nose.

Romy blinked before her gaze slowly crossed, centering on his finger. A cheeky smirk grew on her face, spreading like a sunrise as she looked back up at him with a delicate tilt of her head. Edward’s lips pressed into a thin line, his tension faltering for a split second before he doubled down. His voice was low, measured, and brimming with barely contained frustration.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything. Don’t touch anything. Don’t breathe. You. Don’t. Exist.”

Romy’s lips pinched to one side, and she tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with amusement. Slowly, deliberately, she raised two fingers in a mock salute.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Nashton, sir.”

Edward lingered, his finger still in the air to make his point. His gaze bored into hers, trying to intimidate, to assert control, but her smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it widened.

With a sharp huff, he spun on his heel, his coat flaring slightly with the motion as he marched ahead. He didn’t look back, his pace brisk, purposeful, his entire being focused on putting as much space between himself and Romy as possible. She fell into step behind him, her boots clicking merrily against the floor, and Edward’s jaw tightened. This day had already stretched him thin, and it had barely begun.

The sleek, clinical air of Ryker Skyrise was stifling, the polished marble floors and minimalist decor projecting an aura of wealth and power. At the end of the long corridor sat a desk manned by a meticulously dressed secretary, her ginger hair pinned into a flawless bun, her glasses perched precisely on the bridge of her nose. She glanced up as he approached, her expression professional but faintly wary.

“Edward Nashton, GCPD Cybercrime Division,” Edward announced briskly, gesturing to his laminated badge. It glinted under the cold overhead lighting as he dangled just long enough for her to confirm it.

The secretary studied it briefly before nodding and picking up the phone. “One moment, Mr. Nashton.”

Edward stood stiffly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as a faint hum from the office filled the silence. His eyes darted around the room, cataloging the details with mechanical precision: the polished black marble floors, the modern abstract artwork lining the walls, the sleek tables adorned with spotless vases and plants arranged with mathematical symmetry.

Then his gaze caught on Romy.

She had wandered a few steps to the left, giving him her profile as she gazed out the glass corner over the city below. The skyline stretched beyond her, softened by the remnants of dawn. The bright orange of the early morning had melted into a hazy peach that hung like a veil over the buildings. Against the glass, her figure was outlined sharply, statuesque despite her shorter stature. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back, a posture that suggested ease but carried a deliberate elegance. She tilted her chin up slightly, her gaze narrowing at something on the horizon.

His eyes lingered longer than he intended, drawn to details he hadn’t noticed before. The curve of her jaw caught the soft light, a faint shadow tracing the line of her neck. The sunlight played across her skin, creating subtle highlights that added depth to her features. In this light, she seemed almost otherworldly—sharp edges smoothed by the morning’s luminescence, every detail strikingly clear. There was a glow about her, he noted reluctantly, and he told himself it was just the sun. Of course, it was the sun.

Edward realized he was staring. Before he could force himself to look away, Romy’s eyes flicked to him in a subtle, sideways glance. Her lips twitched, curving into a small, almost knowing smile. The expression was maddeningly effortless, a quiet acknowledgment that she had caught him, yet she said nothing. Instead, she turned her face fully toward him, the soft quirk of her mouth sharpening the tension in his chest.

The light shifted as she moved, catching along the curve of her cheek, the glossy texture of her hair, and Edward felt the heat rush to the tips of his ears. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a knot of irritation. He jerked his gaze away, his focus snapping to the nearby table adorned with flowers, their delicate petals a safe, inanimate alternative to the unsettling presence of her.

Asters. Pale pink camellias.

The burst of purple from the asters was almost too vibrant against the muted tones of the room; their intricate petals fanned out like tiny fireworks frozen in time. The soft pink camellias beside them carried an elegance, their velvety folds unfurling with quiet grace. The combination should have been meaningless… decorative fluff for the sleek, soulless space they inhabited. His jaw tightened, and he dragged his attention away, the flowers offering no solace, only an aggravating sense of mockery.

His posture stiffened as he straightened his shoulders, his body snapping back into its usual rigidity. He pushed the moment aside, burying it under layers of practicality. His mind scrambled for something to ground him, to steady the fraying edges of his focus. The task ahead. The case. The comfort of the structured, logical world of data and analysis waiting just beyond this room.

That was what mattered.

The secretary’s voice broke the silence, pulling him back. She finished her call, hung up, and stood, smoothing down her skirt with practiced precision. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Mr. Carlyle’s office. Your team is already there.”

Edward nodded curtly, his fingers curling slightly around the strap of his bag. Without a glance in Romy’s direction, he stepped forward immediately, falling into step behind the secretary. His focus locked onto the path ahead, his mind circling the problem like a shark scenting blood in the water. He didn’t need distractions.

Not from the flowers. Not from Romy.

The walk was short, the muffled sound of voices growing louder as the three of them approached a set of heavy double doors. The secretary pushed them open, revealing a spacious office dominated by a large, sleek desk and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of the city.

Inside, Detective Hall, a port man, and two uniformed officers stood near the desk, their expressions varying shades of boredom. The detective, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a poorly tied tie, looked up as Romy and Edward entered. His gray eyed gaze briefly flicked over Romy before landing on Edward.

“Nashton,” the detective greeted, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. He gestured toward the desk, where a sleek laptop sat closed, flanked by a neat stack of files. “Glad you’re here. We’ve got a situation.”

“I was briefed on the basics.” Edward stepped forward, setting his bag down on the desk. “Embezzlement and fraud allegations. What are we looking at?”

“Vincent Carlyle. CEO of Ryker Capital.” Detective Hall crossed his arms. “There’ve been whispers for months about shady practices—money disappearing, shell accounts, that kind of thing. We finally got enough to move forward. Carlyle’s agreed to cooperate, but he’s adamant that his devices stay on-site.”

Edward’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed this. “Where’s Carlyle?”

“In another room. Didn’t want no funny business.” The detective gestured toward the device. “So, do whatever it is you do. But we’ve got to do this by the book. If we screw this up, the whole case falls apart.”

“What I do is nothing short of amazing.” Edward doesn’t look at the short man as he sits in Carlyle’s plush brown leather riveted chair.

The detective rolled his eyes before shifting them to Romy. “And you are?”

She opened her mouth.

“A student and no one.” Edward’s tone was clipped as he still focused on the space before him.

The detective raised an eyebrow but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he nodded toward the laptop. “The device is password-protected. Carlyle claims he’ll provide the password if needed, but I’d prefer if you can get in without him.”

Edward smirked faintly, a flicker of confidence crossing his face. “That won’t be a problem.”

Without waiting for further comment, he opened the laptop with poise much like a surgeon preparing for an operation. He motioned for Romy to follow, his focus already locked onto the task at hand. As he pulled his supplies from his bag—an external hard drive, a set of cables, and a sleek USB forensic toolkit—his movements were quick, deliberate, almost mechanical as he plugged everything in and prepped what he needed, having it all at the ready.

The officers exchanged murmurs near the door, their voices barely audible. The detective stood nearby, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on Edward’s every move.

The steady clack of the keys filled the room, a rhythmic sound that cut through the oppressive silence. He began the delicate process of creating a forensic image of the laptop’s drive, isolating its data to ensure nothing was altered in the process.

“What are you doing?”

The soft question pulled him momentarily out of his focus, his fingers pausing mid-motion.

He had told Romy not to talk. To not exist.

Still, Edward was not one to pass up an opportunity to demonstrate his genius. He glanced at her briefly, irritation flickering in his expression before his tone softened slightly. “I’m creating a forensic image of the hard drive. Think of it as a snapshot—an exact copy of all the data on this laptop. This way, we preserve the integrity of the original while being able to analyze the contents freely without compromising the evidence.” His gaze shifted back to the screen, his fingers resuming their rapid typing.

“Why—”

“Shut up.” He didn’t look at her, his attention glued to the stream of data unfolding on the screen.

The room settled back into silence, save for the rhythmic clacking of Edward’s keys and the occasional low beep from the laptop. Edward’s world had narrowed entirely to the task before him, the outside distractions melting into a distant haze as he dove deeper into the labyrinth of data.

“Almost there,” he muttered, the words more habit than communication.

Edward was aware of Romy leaning over his shoulder but didn’t pay attention. No. Not now. On the screen, a progress bar inched forward as the forensic imaging program meticulously copied the contents of the laptop’s hard drive. It was painfully slow, every tick of the bar dragging seconds into what felt like hours. Even Edward was, at times, impatient with the already fast flow of technology—nothing was ever fast enough.

Then, the screen flickered.

“Wait,” Edward said sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. His hands froze mid-motion, his eyes narrowing. And then he saw it—the cursor moved on its own, erratic and deliberate.

“Is that—”

“Remote access,” Edward hissed, cutting her off, his tone laced with low urgency. “Someone’s trying to wipe the drive.”

The calm precision of his movements shattered as his fingers danced over the keyboard. The sharp beeping of an alert pinged, warning of imminent data loss.

“Can you stop it?” Romy asked, her voice tight with concern.

“Stupid question,” he bit, not even glancing at her. His jaw was set, his focus absolute, but the progress bar tracking the remote wipe continued its relentless climb.

Ten percent. Twenty.

His hands blurred over the keys, the machine chirping angrily in response.

Thirty. Forty.

With the external hard drive already connected, its LED light blinked faintly as Edward worked to redirect the data flow. His commands were precise, calculated, but the remote signal fought back with equal intensity.

Fifty percent. Sixty.

“Faster.”.

Seventy.

The lines of code shifted rapidly, Edward’s commands racing to intercept the malicious signal. His face was tight with concentration.

Eighty.

With a final, decisive keystroke, the screen froze. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still, the tension hanging so heavy it felt like the air itself had thickened.

Then, the progress bar vanished.

Edward exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping just slightly as he leaned back in his chair. The faint whir of the laptop’s fan filled the silence.

“Idiots,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The adrenaline still thrummed in the air, but Edward’s calm, measured demeanor had already returned, as if the near-crisis had never happened.

Romy let out a breath, leaning a little closer to his shoulder. “That was close.”

“Too close,” he replied, his tone clipped as he sat forward again, already refocusing. His eyes locked back onto the screen. “But they didn’t get everything. Now let’s see what they were trying so desperately to hide.”

Edward’s hands moved with a steadier rhythm now as he began analyzing the cloned data. The cloned drive opened like a vault, spilling its contents onto the screen—directories, files, metadata, layers of encryption—all waiting to be picked apart. He muttered to himself occasionally, faint snippets of thought escaping as he worked, his concentration absolute. He sifted through hidden files with methodical precision, isolating metadata, piecing together patterns.

At one point, he paused, his brow furrowing. “Interesting…”

Romy leaned closer. “What is it?”

“A poorly hidden directory,” he replied, his tone almost dismissive as he clicked through a series of files. “Either he thought we were idiots, or he’s trying to waste our time. Look.”

He opened a file filled with mundane-looking spreadsheets, columns of numbers that seemed utterly ordinary at first glance. But with a few keystrokes, Edward overlaid the data, lines of code intersecting and rearranging themselves on the screen. What had looked harmless seconds ago now revealed hidden markers embedded within the spreadsheets.

“These,” Edward explained, pointing to the highlighted markers, “are coded references to offshore accounts. The spreadsheets are a cover—a way to bury the transactions in plain sight.”

“Money laundering,” she murmured.

“Exactly. Sloppy work, really.” Edward smirked faintly, his fingers already back to work, the clack of the keys a steady rhythm undercutting his words. “But effective enough to fool anyone not paying attention.”

“That’s… really cool, Mr. Nashton.”

The compliment caught him off guard. His fingers faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm, but his eyes flicked to her, his expression hovering between skepticism and disbelief. Cool? Of course, it was cool. He knew it was cool. What he couldn’t fathom was what Romy, of all people, could possibly understand about it.

He opened his mouth, a retort already forming on his tongue, sharp and dismissive. But the words stuck in his throat the moment he registered how close she was. She was still leaned over beside him, hands braced lightly against her thighs, her posture casual and unbothered. From this angle, her proximity felt intrusive, overwhelming. Far too close for his liking.

And from this angle, he could see everything.

The soft sweep of makeup, precise and deliberate, catching the light just enough to highlight the healthy flush of her cheeks. Her cheeks were dusted with freckles, giving her an extra youthful appearance. The lavender of her turtleneck framed her face, making her mossy eyes—always easy and observant—seem brighter, deeper.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Edward cleared his throat, the sound a little forced, and sat up straighter in his chair. He retreated to his sanctuary: brusque words and deflective logic. “Of course it is. I’m doing it,” he said, his tone sharp and cutting. His fingers resumed their rapid pace over the keyboard, the clacking loud against the quiet hum of the ambiance. “It’s basic pattern recognition,” he continued, his voice clipped. “Anyone with a decent grasp of logic could have figured it out.”

He didn’t dare look at her again, his focus pinned to the screen like his life depended on it. But the heat crawling up the back of his neck told him all he needed to know.

“I definitely wouldn’t have even known where to begin,” Romy admitted, her tone light but tinged with genuine admiration. “You really are brilliant.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean much, because you’re an idiot,” Edward said flatly, his tone clipped and biting. His narrowed gaze locked onto the screen, refusing to drift toward her. “And, of course I’m brilliant. You’ve been told that.”

“Forgive me if I needed to see you walk the talk,” Romy replied smoothly, her grin evident in the teasing lilt of her voice. There was no edge to her words, no malice—just that persistent confidence that grated on him. “But, I understand now… I see you, Mr. Nashton… Good-looking and actually smart—not bad.”

His fingers paused mid-keystroke. Against his better judgment, his gaze shifted to hers again. Her eyes met his, and the faint grin tugging at the corners of her lips only unsettled him further. His mouth opened slightly, the barest movement, as though searching for a retort, but no words came out. Romy cocked a brow, giving him an expectant look.

What did he say to that? Thank you?

The idea alone felt ridiculous, absurd. Thanking her would imply that he appreciated her words—he didn’t. Or at least, he shouldn’t. But the praise…

He shifted in his seat, his hands flexing atop the keyboard. He told himself that her comment was meaningless, empty flattery, designed to distract or unnerve him. And yet… there was something about the way she said it. Casual. Effortless. Honest, even. It scratched an itch inside him.

Just as he found his words, the sound of the door opening cut through the thought. Their heads snap towards the sound as a tall, young man in a pinstripe suit strode in, his presence sharp and commanding, flanked by a shorter man in a tailored gray suit, his briefcase dangling like a weapon of choice.

“Mr. Nashton, I presume,” the shorter man began, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “I trust you proceeded within the boundaries of the law. My client,” he gestured to the taller man, “has been cooperative thus far, and I’d hate to see that trust compromised by overreach or… questionable methods.”

“Everything we’ve done is by the book,” Edward replied, his tone sharp but calm. He smirked and resumed his work. “Your client’s cooperation—begrudging though it may be—is noted.”

The taller man’s, Carlyle’s, jaw tightened, impatience flashing across his face. “How much longer is this going to take? I didn’t agree to an expedition.”

Edward paused, his gaze lifting to meet Carlyle’s. His expression was flat, unimpressed. “Mr. Carlyle, it’s a forensic analysis.” He gestured to the screen. “And your laptop? It’s proving quite... enlightening.”

“If you’re so confident in your findings, why not share them with us? We have a right to know what you’re accusing my client of.” The lawyer stepped forward, his hand twitching as if to grab the laptop himself.

Amused, Edward’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he swiftly tilted the laptop away, angling the screen so it was just out of the lawyer’s line of sight. “Chain of custody,” he said coldly, enunciating each word with precision. “If you want to tamper with evidence, feel free. It’ll save us the trouble of proving intent in court.”

“You’ve yet to establish anything substantial.” The lawyer bristled, his composure slipping just slightly. “Any so-called evidence gathered here could be circumstantial, at best.”

“Circumstantial?” Edward gestured toward the device. “These encrypted markers hidden in your client’s spreadsheets link directly to offshore accounts. Shell companies. Consistent patterns of money moving in and out, all flagged under high-risk AML regulations. Circumstantial, maybe, but damning all the same.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Carlyle’s face darkened, his impatience shifting into something closer to anger. “Those are routine transfers—completely legitimate.”

“Routine transfers don’t require this level of obfuscation. Nor do they pass through networks tied to organizations flagged by the International Financial Action Task Force.” Edward raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “But if you insist, I’m sure a forensic accountant will have a field day verifying your claims.”

The suspect stiffened. “You’re making assumptions—dangerous ones.” He set his jaw, nostrils flaring as he stared Edward down. “I have the resources to bury this, you know.” His lawyer shot him an incredulous look, clearly telling his client to shut up.

Edward’s expression hardened, the smirk disappearing. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. “And I have the evidence to make it stick. You can delay this, stall it, drag it through every court in Gotham—but every move you make will only make you look more guilty.” He narrowed his eyes, pinning Carlyle to the spot. “So, by all means, Mr. Carlyle, proceed.”

Carlyle opened his mouth again, frustration evident, but his lawyer cut him off, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Enough.”

The lawyer’s glare shifted to Edward, his jaw tightening. “Do what you have to do.” He straightened his jacket, his posture rigid as he threw a pointed look at Edward, the detective, and then Romy. “We’ll be seeing you in court.”

With that, the lawyer gripped Carlyle’s arm, steering him toward the door. Carlyle hesitated for a moment, his face a mix of indignation and anger, but he followed, the door clicking shut behind them.

The tension lingered in their absence, the room tense with residual hostility.

Detective Hall, who had been standing silently by the desk, shifted and crossed his arms. His gaze moved between Edward and the laptop. “Well, that went about as well as expected,” he said dryly. “What a dumbass. Can’t even keep his mouth shut.”

“They’re like clockwork.” Edward didn’t look up, his fingers moving to save and secure the data he had gathered. “Predictable, dull. Trying to remote into the desktop was their most creative move, and even that failed spectacularly.”

Hall snorted faintly, his gaze still fixed on the laptop screen. “What exactly are we looking at here, Nashton?”

Edward glanced at Hall, his expression neutral, before adjusting his glasses with a precise push up the bridge of his nose. His fingers hovered briefly over the keyboard, then resumed their rapid rhythm. Without looking up, he spoke, his tone measured and deliberate.

“Detective, humor me for a moment. What is something that grows the more you hide it but can collapse in an instant?”

Hall’s brow furrowed, his annoyance evident in the bent lines of his brow. “I don’t have time for this, Nashton.”

“It’s relevant.” Edward allowed himself the faintest smirk, his gaze fixed on the stream of data crawling across the screen. “Trust me.”

The detective groaned, rolling his eyes before looking to the side, very obviously trying to ponder the question. “Aghhh…” He made several unintelligible grumbles as he grasped for the answer. It only made Edward's smirk grow.

What a moron. Couldn't even answer if his life depended on—

“A lie.”

The words, said in a higher pitch than Hall's, stuttered the rhythm of Edward’s typing and his thoughts. His head snapped toward Romy. Her smirk was maddening, a sharp curve of confidence on her lips. She raised her hand in a mockingly cheerful wave, her green eyes glinting with mischief.

“Correct,” Edward hissed, tone terse. “Though I was hoping the good detective might work it out, girl.”

“Seemed obvious.” Romy shrugged, her smirk widening as though she were utterly immune to his irritation.

He stared at her for a long moment. Edward’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as well, then he turned back to the screen. She had answered correctly. Again. The second time she had done this. It wasn’t just the answer—it was the ease with which she offered it, as though it had taken no effort at all. Worse still, it was that damn smirk. A smirk that said, I’m not impressed by you, Edward Nashton.

The thought coiled in his mind, a small, simmering ember of frustration. He did not tolerate being underestimated—or outshone. She was quick, yes, but her eagerness to outpace him grated on his nerves. Was she trying to impress him? To undermine him? Either possibility was equally infuriating.

And yet, he couldn’t deny the way her quick wit stirred something deeper. Annoyance, yes—but also an unbidden flicker of... respect? No. He crushed the thought as soon as it formed. She was a student, a fledgling who still stumbled through basic coding syntax. Whatever spark she displayed now was meaningless, a fluke.

“Alright, fine,” Hall interrupted, his groan breaking Edward’s reverie. He gestured impatiently to the laptop. “What’s the point, Nashton? How does that relate to Carlyle?”

Edward’s irritation evaporated, replaced by the sharp edge of satisfaction. His smirk widened as he brought up a series of transactions on the screen, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his glasses.

“Carlyle’s entire operation is built on lies,” Edward began, gesturing to the laptop. “He’s using shell companies—fake businesses that don’t actually provide goods or services—to create a paper trail of invoices and transactions. On the surface, it looks like legitimate income.”

He tapped a key, overlaying a web of connections onto a digital map. Red and green lines crisscrossed the screen, forming a tangled mess of offshore accounts and suspicious transactions.

“But when you dig deeper, you find inconsistencies. Money flows between accounts in different countries, moves through currencies with no clear purpose, and always ends up back in his hedge fund. It’s the textbook definition of layering.”

Hall squinted at the screen, leaning in. “So he’s cycling the money through fake businesses?”

“Exactly,” Edward replied, his voice sharp with satisfaction. “By the time it reappears in his hedge fund, it looks clean—legitimate profits from supposed consulting services or international trade. It’s integration, the final step in laundering. Simple. And completely illegal.”

Romy leaned closer, peering at the screen. “And he kept records of all this?”

“Well, yes, that brings me to the nail in his coffin.” Edward allowed himself a low chuckle, though his eyes remained on the data. “Carlyle made one fatal mistake. He kept detailed logs—encrypted, of course—of every fake invoice, every fabricated transaction. Sloppy for a man who thought himself untouchable.”

“So, this enough to bury him?” Hall asked, his tone grim.

Edward’s fingers clicked over the keyboard, pulling up the final piece of incriminating evidence. “Absolutely suffocate him,” he said, his voice steady, but his smirk faintly triumphant.

“Good.” The detective nodded, stepping back and crossing his arms again. “Compile all of this into a report. Detailed but tight—we’ll need to send this up the chain. This isn’t staying local for long.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, still working. “FBI?”

“Most likely.” Hall nodded. “Something this big? It’s going to get their attention. And when it does, we’d better have every ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed. I want it by tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll have it by tonight,” Edward bit and closed the laptop with a snap. Then, with efficient movements, he packed up his equipment in the reverse order of when he laid it out, before pulling his bag over his shoulder. Not sparing Romy a glance, he finally spoke to her, his tone brusque but lacking its usual disdain. “Let’s go.”

He strode to the door with purpose, his long steps echoing faintly against the sleek floors. Romy followed without hesitation, her heels clacking in a steady rhythm as she fell into step behind him.

The sound, once a source of irritation—a relentless distraction he couldn’t tune out—now seemed to blend seamlessly with the cadence of the moment. He noticed it but didn’t bristle. There was no tension in his shoulders, no frustrated scowl tugging at his lips. They rested instead in a neutral line, his expression unreadable.

As the two of them moved through the corridor, the world outside the task at hand seemed to fall away. Edward didn’t analyze the change, didn’t question why the sharp, deliberate clicks of her boots no longer grated on his nerves. It was a shift he chose to ignore. Instead, he simply walked, the faint echo of her footsteps trailing him until they both reached the elevator.

“Is this something you do often?” He could hear the smirk in her voice without turning to look. His hand hovered over the elevator call button for a beat before pressing it.

“Do what?” Edward asked, his bespeckled gaze fixed on the display panel as the numbers above the elevator doors ticked steadily upward, red digits against a black background.

“Oh, nothing… just absolutely dominate people like the daddy you are?”

His shoulders stiffened instantly, the faintest twitch tugging at the corner of his eye. For a moment, the space between them filled with nothing but the low hum of the building and the faint mechanical whir of the elevator ascending.

Edward glanced at his watch—10:01 AM—and back to the car position indicator. The day already felt endless. And now, he had the rest of it to spend in her godforsaken presence. “Please refrain from projecting your disgusting Oedipal complex onto me, you silly little girl.”

Romy tsks. “You see, when you say things like that—‘princess,’ ‘silly little girl ’—you’re not helping your case.”

The elevator dinged, the sound sharp and precise. The doors glided open with a faint hiss, and Edward reluctantly gestured for Romy to step in first. “I should leave your ass here to walk back to the precinct,” he muttered.

“You talk about my ass a lot.” She brushed past him with deliberate confidence, chin held high, smugness radiating from the sharpness of her stride.

Edward’s eyes flicked to her for half a second—longer than he intended—his gaze catching on the sharp turn of her heel and the deliberate clasp of her hands behind her back. There was something in the motion—practiced, poised, irritatingly graceful—that held his attention before he wrenched it away. His neck felt hot, an unwelcome warmth crawling along his skin, seeping into his collar. He pointedly ignored it, stepping into the elevator after Romy, his expression carefully composed into a mask of indifference.

Without a word, he punched the button for the basement garage.

“Sooo…”

He rolled his eyes and exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. His head tilted slightly, his brows knitting in a way that spoke of his disdain before he even looked at her.

Romy leaned casually, her shoulders against the elevator wall, that easy, half-lidded gaze fixed on him—a look she had mastered, one he found infuriating in its effortlessness.

“...are you this dominant in the bedroom too?”

The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, cutting off the sound of Edward’s sharp inhale.

Later that evening, Edward lit a cigarette, the flick of his lighter sharp and deliberate in the stillness of Gotham’s biting cold. The flame flared briefly, casting a fleeting glow against the shadows, before surrendering to the wind. Smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils, dissipating into the night like his futile attempts to purge her from his mind.

The rhythmic tap of his footsteps against the cracked pavement was a steady counterpoint to the chaotic loop of his thoughts. He pulled his scarf tighter against the unforgiving chill, his strides sharp, purposeful, as though walking faster might leave her behind.

It didn’t work.

He didn’t like how easily Romy had burrowed under his skin, how her presence lingered like the acrid burn of cigarette smoke in his lungs. She was a nuisance—a fleeting, irrelevant distraction in his otherwise meticulously ordered existence. And yet, her voice, her glances, her noisy nails, even the maddening percussion of her heels clicking against the floor, reverberated in his mind with infuriating clarity.

Her existence in his world was contentious, like a grain of sand caught in the smooth workings of a finely tuned machine. She was disruptive, inappropriate, too bold for her own good—and worst of all, she was competent . Annoyingly so. Just smart enough to demand his begrudging tolerance.

“Quiet, submissive, obedient, my ass…” he muttered, the words spilling out like a curse to the night. His breath fogged in the frigid air, an outward manifestation of the exasperation knotting tighter in his chest.

He shivered again, this time telling himself it was the cold, though he knew better. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, the worn leather biting into his fingers as he pulled it closer. The weight of it pressed into his shoulder—a grounding sensation, a reminder of where his focus should have been. The work. The work was all that mattered. It was the singular thing that gave shape to his otherwise chaotic existence, the only arena where he felt truly in control.

But tonight, there was no peace to be found in that thought, no comfort in the familiar rhythm of his logic. Instead, irritation lingered beneath his skin like a low-grade fever. Not the sharp, crackling irritation born from the incompetence of Gotham’s criminal elite or the blundering idiocy of his colleagues at the precinct. No, this was different—softer, quieter, and infinitely more insidious.

It gnawed at the edges of his mind, this odd, unfamiliar discomfort. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even the sharp sting of humiliation he felt when someone dared to challenge him in his arena. It was something else entirely, a dull, unsettling calm that he couldn’t quite name. Like the strange stillness that follows a storm, when the air is heavy with the smell of rain and the earth feels too quiet.

He hated it. He hated the way it lingered, like settling dust that refused to be brushed away. She was to blame for this—for intruding on his carefully structured reality with her quips, her smirks, her intolerable self-assuredness.

Edward's jaw tightened as he thought of her again, her voice and face echoing in his mind. The ease with which she had answered his riddle, the glint of mischief in her emerald eyes as she waved at him, her smirk daring him to respond. She was a disruption, a wrench thrown into the precise gears of his life. And yet, despite his best efforts, she had lodged herself firmly in his thoughts.

He shook his head, as if the motion could dislodge her from his mind, and quickened his pace. His shoes struck sharply against the pavement, their rhythm purposeful, almost aggressive, as if he could outwalk the unease coiling in his chest. He reminded himself that he was in control. He reminded himself that she was nothing more than a temporary nuisance, an irritant he would endure until her presence in his life—this semester—was over.

Four days. He had four blissful days to himself before he had to deal with her again. Four days of routine, of normalcy, of silence unmarred by her incessant tomfoolery. The thought brought a flicker of relief, but it was short-lived, swallowed quickly by the lingering discomfort she left behind.

This season, this semester, couldn’t end soon enough…

3 months and 15 days

15 weeks and 1 day

105 days

2,520 hours

151,200 minutes

9,072,000 seconds

9,072,900,000 milliseconds

9,072,900,000,000,000 nanoseconds

1. 683×1048 Planck seconds

Edward lit a second cigarette before he even realized it.

Link to AO3 here!

#Edward Nashton #Edward Nashton Arkham Origins #Enigma #Enigma Arkham Origins #Arkham Origins #Pre-Arkham Origins #The Riddler #Riddler #Edward Nigma #Arkhamverse Riddler #Riddler Arkhamverse #Edward Nashton x OC #Edward Nashton x Female OC #Edward Nashton x Romy Winslow #Goat #ask the goat #sit with the goat #The Edge of Us

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