Song: The Recipe - Kendrick Lamar ft. Dr. Dre

Alexandra stepped into the dimly lit corridors of the Gotham City Police Department, her brown leather jacket creaking slightly with each confident stride. The GCPD Crimes Unit badge affixed prominently to her jacket glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights, a silent testament to her new role. Beneath it, the necklace given to her by her father nestled against the collar of her light brown dress shirt, its subtle shine a touch of personal armor in the gritty surroundings. Her black jeans were crisp, and a tactical belt circled her waist, each pocket strategically filled with essentials—pepper spray, lock picks, and cuffs—a ready arsenal for the day's challenges.

As she entered the main office, the murmur of activity momentarily paused. Eyes flicked in her direction, taking in the newcomer with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Commissioner Gordon looked up from his cluttered desk, his face breaking into a rare, albeit brief, smile of welcome.

"Morning, Alexandra," he greeted, his voice a gravelly echo in the bustling room.

"Morning, gentlemen," she replied with a nod, her voice steady, masking the adrenaline that thrummed quietly in her veins. Her eyes then shifted to her partner, Mark, who stood leaning against a filing cabinet. ''Morning miss victiore''.

"This is it," Alexandra thought, a silent affirmation of her commitment. First day at work instilling justice upon the filth of this city.

Commissioner Gordon motioned Alexandra and Mark to follow him into his office for a briefing. "We've got a serious case on our hands," Gordon began, his voice grave as he laid out the details. "A 19-year-old girl, Lila Saunders, barely escaped with her life last weekend. She's the only one who's come forward about Rupert Jones, though we suspect he's harmed more."

Rupert Jones, she read in the casefile, Jim handed her yesterday, a name that had brought fear to the streets of Gotham. A serial rapist and suspected murderer, Jones was known for haunting the city's clubs, his heinous acts cloaked under the guise of Gotham's vibrant nightlife. Despite numerous reports, solid evidence had been elusive; the case was as slippery as the man himself.

As Alexandra pondered

the details of the case—a 19-year-old girl named Lila—a brief, inexplicable ache flickered across her expression. She masked it swiftly, turning her focus back to the files in front of her.

Mark, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms, his brow furrowed in concern. Alexandra listened intently, her mind already turning over the details. "Lila reported that Jones drugged her and her friends at a nightclub. She managed to escape after being raped, but believes her friends were murdered," Gordon continued, his expression darkening.

"The club?" Alexandra asked, already suspecting the answer.

"The Iceberg Lounge," Mark interjected, "Owned by none other than Oswald Cobblepot."

Alexandra's eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Cobblepot, a known figure in the underworld climbing the ranks with a mix of charm and ruthlessness. "So, our first stop is the Iceberg Lounge," she concluded, her voice steady despite the gnawing anger at the thought of the young lives endangered.

"Exactly," Gordon affirmed. "We need to tread carefully, Alexandra. Cobblepot is not someone to be taken lightly, and he keeps his business under tight wraps. Gather what information you can discreetly. We need solid evidence if we're going to take down Jones and potentially expose any of Cobblepot's involvements."

"Understood, sir," Alexandra replied, her resolve firming. "We'll start with the club and see where the leads take us. If Lila is right, there might be more victims who are too scared to come forward."

Gordon gave a nod of approval, his gaze lingering on Alexandra for a moment. "Good. I'm putting a lot of trust in you on this one, Lacroix. It's your first day, but I've seen your records, and I know you're capable of handling this."

With their objectives clearly set, Alexandra and Mark left the commissioner's office, the weight of the assignment settling over Alexandra like a mantle. This wasn't just any case; it was a test of her abilities and a chance to make a significant difference on her very first day. As they headed out to their vehicle, the reality of the task ahead only sharpened her focus. Gotham was a city crying out for justice, and she was here to answer that call.

Song: Corset Theme – Teddy Loid

Mark and Alexandra's journey to the Iceberg Lounge was quiet, punctuated only by a sporadic conversation that did little to dispel the growing tension for what was coming for them. For Alexandra, everything was new, and a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach as they approached the infamous club. Though Mark had been here before, Alexandra felt the weight of her first visit—it was almost daunting.

Before they arrived, Alexandra had discreetly changed her badge to read 'Alex Victoire,' a precaution to maintain her anonymity. Only a select few outside the GCPD knew her as Alexandra Lacroix, and she intended to keep it that way.

The club's entrance was bathed in the glow of neon lights spelling out "Iceberg." It was a place where Gotham's elite either sided with the law that shielded them or dived into the shadows of the criminal underworld. As they exited the car, the pulsating rhythm of music greeted them, growing louder as they approached the doorway. The bouncer surveyed them, his gaze lingering on Alexandra's chest for a moment too long.

"Eyes up here, sir," Alexandra said, her smile polite but her tone laced with a clear warning. After Mark presented their IDs, they were allowed inside.

Inside the Iceberg Lounge, strobe lights cut through the darkness, illuminating a crowd that was a mix of Gotham's most notorious. Criminals mingled with the city's high society, all under the same roof, lost in the rhythm of the deafening music. Everyone seemed intoxicated by more than just alcohol.

Mark headed straight for the bar to start their inquiries, while Alexandra wove through the crowd, her detective instincts on high alert. She felt she was being watched, but she brushed it off. She was searching for any lead, any anomaly that stood out. Her gaze eventually settled on a bartender in her mid-40s, scantily clad and looking harried but knowledgeable.

Taking her chance, Alexandra approached. "Hi, Detective Victoire. May I have a few minutes to speak with you, please?"

The bartender looked startled, quickly brushing Alexandra off. "Ask the boss, sorry miss," she muttered before rushing off to serve another customer.

"Just a minute! Hey—" Alexandra called after her, but it was no use. The next few attempts to engage other staff ended similarly, with everyone directing her to speak to the boss.

Frustrated, Alexandra returned to Mark, who was receiving similar treatment from the bartender he was questioning. The man smirked, giving Alexandra a once-over that made her skin crawl.

"Listen, we'd like to ask you a few questions," Alexander said, trying to keep the conversation professional.

"No can do, toots. Gotta give me something in return," the bartender leered, his gaze unsettling and perverted.

"Like what?" Alexandra snapped, her patience fraying.

"A picture of your tits," he sneered.

"What the fuck?" Alexandra's voice was a blend of disbelief and anger. "Listen here, we're asking politely. We just want a few questions answered, then we'll leave."

Manners clearly do not exist in Gotham.

"Ask the boss," the bartender shrugged, nodding toward the back of the club.

"And where is this boss?" Alexandra demanded, her tone sharp.

"Right behind ya, sweetheart," came a deep gravely voice from behind them.

Song: 20202020 – Unholy

Alexandra executed a swift, sharp one-eighty-degree turn, coming face-to-face with an imposing figure. The man towered over her, his physique stocky and robust, exuding an air of undeniable authority. He was dressed strikingly in an all-white suit, impeccably tailored, contrasting sharply with a black dress shirt, the first two buttons casually undone. A golden Cuban link necklace glinted atop his broad, hairy chest, catching the relentless flicker of the strobe lights.

His boots were an unusual black with a subtle sheen—was it purple, or perhaps plum?—that shimmered under the continuous strobe lights, adding an eccentric touch to his ensemble. In one rough, calloused hand, he gripped a cane firmly, while the other was nonchalantly tucked into his pocket. Peeking out from the pocket was a wrist adorned with a golden Cuban link bracelet, matching his necklace. His other hand, resting atop the black cane, sported a large, ornate ring made of pure gold, the kind typically flaunted by figures entrenched in organized crime, a bold statement of power and wealth. A shiny gold watch dangled from the wrist of the hand holding the cane, completing his opulent display.

As Alexandra's gaze traveled upwards, she took in his face, marked by a rough, ruddy complexion and a distinctly crooked nose—evidence of past fractures. Cobblepot's hair is slicked back, adding to his greasy, disheveled appearance that belies his cunning and strategic mind. His small, shrewd eyes were set beneath heavy, greasy eyebrows, conveying a perpetual state of calculation and cunning. A snarky smirk curled his lips, revealing a set of pearly whites that included two golden teeth on the top row and one on the bottom, each a testament to his lavish yet dangerous lifestyle.

This was Oswald Cobblepot in the flesh, as formidable and calculating as the rumors suggested, a man who navigated the treacherous waters of Gotham's underworld with ruthless precision and a dash of flamboyance.

Oswald Cobblepot gave Mark, who stood beside Alexandra, a brief, indifferent glance before his gaze settled on Alexandra herself. He surveyed her from head to toe, taking in her stature, notably shorter than his own. Her red wavy hair cascaded flawlessly down her back, the strobe lights catching it in such a way that it appeared almost aflame. His eyes then met hers—the most captivating shade of green he had ever encountered, full of sharp intelligence and caution.

Her lips, plump and rosy, were set in a firm line, indicating her focus and resolve as she studied him. Oswald found this quality intriguing. Though petite, her form was well-defined, curves in just the right places to outline her slender figure. His eyes lingered a tad too long on her large chest, noting the Christian cross dangling from her necklace. A church girl, perhaps? he mused silently.

Leaning slightly forward, he cocked his head to one side with a calculating look. "Ah, Detective Victoire?" he vocalized, intentionally drawing out 'Detective' and mispronouncing her middle name as if it were 'Victor.'

"Since when did the GCPD start employing beauties like you? Remind me to get arrested sometime, darling—I'd love to see you slap those cuffs on me," he quipped, his thick New Jersey accent coloring each word, a mix of charm and challenge.

"What can I do for ya today?" Oswald continued, his smirk hinting at amusement.

"Mr. Cobblepot, it's Detective Victoire," she corrected him crisply, her pronunciation emphasizing the French nuance of her name. "We need to discuss a matter pertaining to an ongoing investigation. Could we possibly talk somewhere more private?"

"Of course, follow me, doll," he replied, a flicker of interest in his eyes as he turned to lead her upstairs.

They moved toward the stairs leading to the second-floor private room encased in opaque glass, strategically placed to overlook the dance floor and the main area. As Oswald led the way, Alexandra noted the pronounced limp in his step. Her mind, ever analytical and trained in medicine, started to hypothesize about the possible causes of his limp, pondering whether it was an old injury borne out of his notorious lifestyle or something more recent.

Oswald Cobblepot lounged against the edge of a polished mahogany desk, his cane propped next to him, exuding an air of casual authority. Alexandra, standing a few paces away, remained utterly composed, her posture rigid with determination. The low hum of the club's activity filtered through the thick glass of the private room, but within, the atmosphere was charged with tension.

"We've been tracking a disturbing pattern," Alexandra began, her voice steady but carrying an edge of severity. "A serial rapist has been targeting women here in Gotham. Victims drugged at nightclubs, taken away, assaulted... and worse. The latest incident occurred just two nights ago. A young woman reported she was approached by the assailant here, at your club. She was drugged and taken, but fortunately, she escaped before he could... proceed further with his intentions."

Oswald's expression darkened slightly at the description, his brow furrowing as he adjusted his stance, the click of his cane subtle but audible in the quiet room. "Detective," he began, his voice low and somewhat raspy, "I run a respectable establishment. If such a heinous act occurred under my roof, it'd be bad for business. Trust me, I don't condone such vile behavior—never have. I've got no interest in shielding scumbags."

Alexandra met his gaze, unflinching, her eyes sharp. "That's reassuring to hear, Mr. Cobblepot. But reassurances won't help us catch a predator. I need facts, surveillance footage, employee testimonies—anything that could lead us to him."

Oswald's lips curled into a half-smirk, his demeanor shifting as he leaned a bit closer. "You're quite the firecracker, aren't you, Detective Victoire? All work and no play. But perhaps, when this nasty business is over, you and I could—"

"Mr. Cobblepot," Alexandra cut in, her tone icy, "Let's keep this professional. The only thing I'm interested in is justice for these women. Your... flattery isn't just inappropriate; it's entirely unhelpful."

Taken aback, Oswald straightened up, his smirk fading into a more guarded expression. "Fair enough," he conceded, a hint of respect flickering in his eyes despite the rebuff. "I'll have my guys pull up the footage from that night. Anything that helps put this bastard behind bars, you'll have it."

"Thank you," Alexandra said crisply, her eyes still locked on Oswald. "And quickly, if you please. Every moment we delay could mean another victim."

As Oswald nodded and turned to speak into his phone, Alexandra's gaze briefly swept the room, taking in every detail. The opulent décor, the strategic placement of exits, and the view of the club below—all meticulously designed for control and surveillance. She couldn't help but wonder just how deep Cobblepot's knowledge of the club's nightly ongoings really went. Whether he was an ally or another adversary, only time would tell. But for now, she had a case to solve, and Oswald Cobblepot was going to help her, whether he liked it or not.

As Oswald concluded his call, he reassured Alexandra that the footage would be made available shortly and that she and Mark were free to start questioning the employees. Leaning back casually against the edge of his desk, he seized the moment to probe a bit more into the enigmatic detective who had piqued his interest.

"So, doll, where ya from? I detect an accent," Oswald inquired, a playful smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Vermont," Alexandra replied curtly, her voice clipped, showing no interest in small talk.

"Vermont? Didn't know they speak French in Vermont," he teased, attempting to draw a lighter response from her.

"When did ya join the GCPD? Ya don't exactly fit the blue-collar mold—no offense. But with that fiery personality of yours, I can see why they'd want ya," Oswald continued, his gaze appraising.

"Yesterday," she responded simply, maintaining her professional demeanor.

"Yesterday!? And they're sendin' ya here, oh boy, you must be givin' them a lotta hope and potential, doll," Oswald remarked, a hint of genuine intrigue seeping through his playful facade.

Alexandra shifted her focus momentarily to the plush chairs in the corner, clearly signaling her desire to disengage. She offered him a brief glance, her expression unreadable.

"Yes."

"Ya ain't much of a talker, are ya? Or is it 'cause of who I am? Don't like me much, do ya?" Oswald probed, his voice lowering slightly.

"Why would I have a reason to like you or the need to? No offense, Mister Cobblepot, but I'm well aware of your reputation, and I assure you, it precedes you," Alexandra retorted sharply, her patience thinning.

"Oz. Name's Oz, sweets. And you gotta relax, don't wanna see your beautiful cheeks get all wrinkled at such a young age," he quipped, winking at her in a manner that was both cheeky and disarming.

Alexandra merely rolled her eyes in response, unamused.

Oswald's phone buzzed with a text, and he retrieved it from his pocket. "Footage should be here any minute, toots. Feel free to start with the staff, but please, don't scare 'em too much, love," he chuckled, his tone light yet laced with a subtle undercurrent of authority.

"Pleasure meeting you, Mister Cobblepot. I'll proceed with that now," Alexandra stated formally, turning to leave.

"Detective," Oswald called out just as she was about to step away. He approached her slowly, his broad frame closing the distance between them more than she liked. Speaking in a low growling voice, that made the back hairs of Alexandr stand, he purred "Pleasure's all mine, babe. And if ya ever feel the need for some company, or wanna have a good time," he said, extending a business card, his fingers brushing against hers a tad longer than necessary. "Ya more than welcome to call me."

Taking the card briskly, Alexandra withdrew her hand sharply, her face set in a mask of professionalism. "Good day, mister cobblepot," she said, her voice cool, as she stepped away quickly to avoid any further interaction.

Oswald watched her go, hands buried deep in his pockets, a faint smile playing on his lips. "to ya too, detective," he murmured to no one in particular, his eyes lingering on her retreating figure with a mix of amusement and interest.