Gotham was a city of contradictions. Oswald Cobblepot, draped in his custom-tailored bck coat, leaned back in his leather seat as his luxurious white limousine cruised down the edge of Burnley.

  The city shown with it's usual Desperation. But Oswald wasn't looking at towers or alleyways tonight. He was watching a man. A beggar.

  Same man. Same corner. Same dirty sign:

  *"Hungry. Cold. Anything Helps."*

  For the past several weeks, Oswald had noticed him. Noticed how the man stood with his cardboard message like it was a shield. Sometimes pedestrians gave him coins. Other times, they passed without a gnce. The man never thanked or cursed. He just stood, like a statue of need.

  But today, something had changed.

  Between his legs sat a faded blue cooler. Inside, clear pstic bottles of water, shining under the summer sun.

  Oswald leaned forward and tapped the gss. "Robert," he said, "pull up. Right beside him."

  The limo slowed and coasted to a stop.

  The back window rolled down with a soft *whirrr*. Oswald peered out, expression unreadable behind his monocle.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Might I have a bottle of water?"

  The beggar furrowed his brow. "What?"

  "A bottle," Oswald repeated calmly. "You have several. I'd like one. Just one."

  The man stepped slightly back, his hand protectively hovering over the cooler. "These are mine. I need them."

  Oswald tilted his head, amused. "Of course. You need them. But I asked you for one. A small kindness. Much like the kind you request from strangers every single day."

  The beggar's jaw tightened. "It's different."

  "Is it?" Oswald asked softly. "I've been watching you, sir for weeks now. I've seen people give you money, food, jackets, and yes, water. You took from them gdly, no questions asked. But now, when someone asks *you* for something..."

  "I'm not *them*," the man snapped. "I don't have enough! This is mine. I need it!"

  Oswald's eyes gleamed, his grin thin and cold.

  "Exactly. *You* need. So do others. But the difference is—they give anyway. You, on the other hand, hoard what little you have, not because you *can't* share... but because you *won't*."

  The man's face twisted in anger. "Get out of here, man! You got a damn limo, and you're calling *me* selfish?! You don't know what it's like!"

  Oswald smiled. Not cruelly. Almost with pity.

  "Oh, I know precisely what it's like," he said. "I know what it's like to cw for scraps. To beg. To steal. I also know what separates the broken from the bitter."

  He leaned forward slightly.

  "It's not what you have. It's what you *do* with what you have. And you, my friend, aren't in need. You're just a taker dressed in Sympathy's robes."

  The beggar's voice rose to a scream. "Screw you!"

  Robert, without needing instruction, rolled the window back up.

  The limo pulled away, leaving the man shouting at exhaust.

  Oswald reclined in his seat, smoothing his gloves. "The poor," he muttered, "aren't always helpless. Sometimes they're just selfish with smaller pockets."

  He chuckled once. Then went silent.