i start the day lying and end with the truth. // the riddler.

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His heavy boots splashed in the puddles, quick in motion. The alley he walked was dark, and secluded, a place he should feel safe in with his profession, but in Gotham, the underbellies knew better. He did too.

The Batman was brilliant in that way. To use the thing that shameful men would find comfort in, to spout fear and paranoia as if the city wasn't tense enough, was something only someone who truly knew the state of this place could comprehend. Despite having been left to his own devices in the dark, forced to live in a pit of vile pigs that ruled the real Gotham, The Riddler enjoyed it. He was practically giddy from the feeling. The idea that Batman was watching him carefully, muffling those heavy leather boots as he matches the Riddler's stride... oh, how exhilarating. He was so tempted to search for signs of the vigilante's presence, to let his senses have complete and utter control, but where was the fun in that? If Batman was there, he would have let the events play out. He needed him to find him for the entire thing to work, anyway. He would leave it to be.

The Riddler broke his train of thought as he leaned against an overflowing trash container, glancing at the opening at the end of the alley. It was still as it was every night, the yellowish lights of the street glinting in the reflection of his glasses. Still, he remained pressed against the cold metal, tucking himself away and out of sight. He removes his glasses with precision, folding them up and carefully holding them in his grasp.

A sigh leaves his lips as he rips his mask away. Unwrapping his head, the cool wind brushes through Edward's disheveled hair, placing his glasses back on his flushed face. Neatly, he folds his mask, tucking it into the deep shirt pockets of his coat. His other free hand pulls a patch from his other pocket, and he places it over the particular but telling question mark he had scribbled onto the cloth.

With a short sniffle, he emerges from the shadows of the container. He walks nonchalantly, as he learned to do, back into the lights of Gotham, veering right. He glances up at his familiar but dingy apartment building. He checks at his window out of precaution, satisfied to see that the lights were as dim as he had left them. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he swipes his card in front of the intercom. It buzzes, and the doors open with a click. He walks swiftly through the empty corridor, paranoia seeping through his bones.

He didn't mind if the Bat found him, but he did not need a ratty neighbor to see him. They were not going to be a part of the plan. He had heard and seen the way they act between those thin, thin, walls. They didn't deserve a warning or any part in his cleanse.

Edward had tried to make sure his attire was less conspicuous. However, he could not change the nosey and endless personal questions some of his neighbors loved to ask anyone who happened to cross their path. It was not the idea of being identified that bothered him. It was the idea of socializing in a one-sided conversation, that he would be pressured into staying in, and being as polite as humanly possible, hitting all the proper social cues, until the other party grew tired of prodding and poking.

The idea drained him more than anything.

The echo of the creaking stairwell entrance disrupts his autopilot. He pauses halfway through, keen on the presence of, well, anyone else. It was late now; anyone on the steps would surely be up to no good. He didn't feel like fighting anyone else today. That commissioner did put up a fight, even to the end. It could have been commendable if he hadn't been a complete douchebag.

Once Edward was satisfied with his examination, he began the long stretch up the steep (and unsafe) stairwell. As he had heard, no one was around. No obnoxious children running through the levels while snickering to themselves, nor adults shouting back at them. There were no shady characters that stood idle by the entry doors; no vicious glares boring into Edward's awkward stare. Not even the strange lady on level four, who always managed to sneak upon him, stood by. He passes through the level, the strange indent of where the young woman would stand, leaning, eerie, and empty. Despite her stench of weed and colorful odd outfits, she was tolerable. She always gave him odds and ends on her sewing projects, such as a miniature rat plush that she had disliked, and so on. He didn't pride himself on being a stuffie collector, but someone in his life certainly did.

The loud (and hand-painted) number five on the wall, speaks louder than his thoughts, slowing his stride. Taking care to avoid the loud creak that could occur, he shuffles through the swinging door. This hallway was quiet, too. He had picked the right time to return home, it seemed. He would make a note of this for his next trip out.