Song: "Devil Inside" by London Grammar

Prologue: Dark and Sinister

A man of twenty and eight sat in a car, waiting. Searching. Lurking. Sure of his intent, yet unsure of how he was going to carry out with his intent. He had anger and bitterness digging like a thorn in his heart, twisting and making him feel something, a feeling he could not identify as anything else but a mix of desire for what could not be and something far more darker. He stared out in the glittering streets of town, and he noted that the dark sky was clear, so clear that it seemed to be a sign of a fortuitous night. Maybe, just maybe, things would go his way tonight.

Something flashed at the corner of the lurker's eye. Or possibly... someone. It was just who he was waiting for. He hadn't expected to see him so promptly, so he got his thoughts together as quickly as he could and hurriedly caught his attention.

"Not another move, buster," he exclaimed, getting out of his car and revealing his presence to the man who had caused such anger in his life. The man's eyes widened with shock and surprise and his mouth twisted into a mocking smile.

"Riddle Man? What the hell are you doing creeping around here?" The man asked, but the lurker knew he did not care.

"You need to leave Gotham. Tonight. I won't let you hurt her. Never again."

The man laughed mockingly and its sound stung the lurker in the shadows. "Ah, I see. You've got a thing for my girl. That's nice." The man took a step closer to him, his face only inches away. "Don't take this personal."

The fist hit his stomach before he even knew what was happening. The force of the hit brought the lurker to his knees and onto the ground. Everything became a bit blurry for a moment, and it seemed that the lurker could not get enough oxygen into his lungs, which burned from the impact. He then noticed that his hand fell neatly upon his pocket, in which he could feel something hard and small. He slipped his hand inside and pulled out a knife, the light reflecting off of its sharp, metal blade. Then the man pulled the lurker up off of the ground, as if to punch him again.

This proved a fatal mistake.

The lurker reacted all too quickly. The knife buried itself in the man's stomach. Both the man and the one holding the knife looked down at the metal blade whose curved handle was in the hand of the one seeking revenge. The blade was sheathed in the man's flesh and blood, and the lurker was stunned to the core. He pulled out the knife and stared at it in shock as he whispered:

"Oh, dear."

When he looked up at the man again, the man grabbed his shoulder, and the lurker stabbed the man again out of fear. Then it all became numb to him; almost indifferent, stabbing someone. He knew it was wrong, but he didn't care. He loved the rush it gave him, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he stabbed the man again and again and again, over and over, letting the anger he had hidden inside for so long seep into his actions. Once more did the lurker draw the knife from its human sheath and the man began to fall backwards, onto the ground. But not before he uttered the two words in his dying breath that would change the course of the lurker's life for eternity.

"Riddle Man," the man whispered quietly in a passing breath, the words almost lost in the dead silence, rescued by the ears of the one so tortured by his feelings within.

The man fell to the bare, concrete ground in a heap at the lurker's very feet. The feet moved back a few steps from the body and the lurker threw his hands up, as if in both disbelief and shock, staring at the man's bloodied corpse in a mix of both horror and a sort of wonder. The lurker looked at his hands and at the knife clutched in one of them, covered in blood, dark and sinister. Then, at that singular moment, the lurker lost both his very logic and self.

He laughed. He laughed as he looked at the knife in his clenched hand. He laughed the body on the ground. He laughed at the situation as a whole.

Then the lurker's maniacal laughter cut off abruptly at the sound of the man's final, passing words rang in his head like a resounding gong hit over and over again.

Riddle Man... It echoed in his mind over and over, making the lurker want to cover up his ears. With every echo of the man's final word, thus came the words from the lurker's lips in a strangled voice:

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh. Dear."

Backing away, more and more, out of horror, he repeated the two strangled words again and again as the sound of a train on the tracks above grew in amplification as it neared closer and closer. It drowned out the sound of the lurker's words, carrying away the man the lurker used to be, but was no longer, as it sped past.

Leaving the distraught Edward Nygma to deal with the aftermath of the war that raged inside of him and spilled out into the very world that he had made his home.

So I have a lot of people I'd like to thank, but it would take SO much time. Therefore, I will thank one person at the very end of each chapter. This story exists because of one show, and that is the show "Gotham." I thank the geniuses behind the show and the absolutely talented Cory Michael Smith for breathing life into the character that is featured in this story. But most importantly I thank YOU, readers. This story is worth NOTHING without you guys.

Until next time, dearies!

— IfYouCantBeatEm