The knock on the metal door echoed softly in the narrow corridor. The place was deliberately hidden—no signboards, no cameras, no obvious security measures. Anyone who knew this location was either invited… or already dead.
After a brief pause, a man's calm but sharp voice came from inside.
"Who told you about this place?"
Ogilvy straightened slightly, his posture composed. His eyes narrowed just a fraction as he replied evenly,
"My boss is Oswald Cobblepot."
There was a moment of silence behind the door.
"Oh?" the voice said, faintly amused. "Penguin sent you? Then why didn't he come himself?"
"He's busy," Ogilvy answered without hesitation. "He doesn't have time to come in person."
A soft chuckle followed. "That's not an answer I can trust. I don't know you. And I don't open my door to strangers… unless you can prove who you are."
Ogilvy had expected this. Without changing his expression, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small object—a Rubik's Cube. It looked ordinary in every sense: colorful plastic squares, faint signs of wear, nothing special.
"My boss told me to give this to the person inside," Ogilvy said calmly. "Can you see it from behind the door?"
As he spoke, doubt crept into his mind.
There was no peephole. No visible camera. No monitoring equipment anywhere in sight. The door itself looked solid and old-fashioned, like something salvaged from a warehouse. Ogilvy couldn't understand how anyone inside could see what he was holding.
More importantly, he couldn't understand why this was the proof.
The Rubik's Cube had no mark, no engraving, no unique feature. It looked like something a child could buy for a few dollars at a toy store. Using something so ordinary as a verification token felt… ridiculous.
Still, Penguin had been very clear.
Then the voice spoke again.
"You brought the Rubik's Cube. Very good. You may come in now, Penguin's man."
Ogilvy's eyes widened slightly.
Before he could respond, the door slid open inward on its own, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.
He stepped inside cautiously.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the door closed behind him with a dull metallic sound.
The room was shockingly small—barely ten square meters. One glance was enough to take in everything inside. There was no bed, no chair, not even a stool. The only piece of furniture was a narrow table positioned against the far wall.
On that table sat seven or eight monitors, all humming softly, connected to a cluster of server-like devices beneath them. Cables snaked everywhere like veins.
What was missing was the man who had spoken.
Ogilvy scanned the room, hand hovering near his jacket, but found no one.
Then—
Buzz. Buzz.
The center monitor suddenly lit up.
A man wearing thin-framed glasses appeared on the screen. His face was pale, his expression intelligent and mildly curious, as if he were studying Ogilvy rather than greeting him.
Ogilvy let out a slow breath.
"You're Calculator," he said.
The man smiled faintly.
"I've heard you built the largest information network among supervillains," Ogilvy continued. "A system that provides intelligence, data, and even material services."
The man on the screen tilted his head slightly.
"You've done your homework."
Ogilvy nodded. Among the criminal underworld, this name carried a weight that rivaled legends.
Just as heroes had their Justice League, villains had their own loose, shadowy alliances. They weren't bound by loyalty or ideals—only convenience. Names like Lex Luthor, the Joker, Ra's al Ghul, Vandal Savage, and Black Adam all carried terrifying influence, yet none of them truly ruled the others.
But if there was one node that connected nearly every major supervillain on Earth, there was no debate.
That node was Calculator—Noah Kuttler.
A hacker without equal. A man who didn't need muscles, magic, or armies. He controlled information, and in this world, information was power.
Most villains preferred to operate within their own cities. Crossing territory often meant war. Who would willingly help a rival from another city?
Calculator would.
Through his network, villains could trade intelligence, purchase rare items, or coordinate across continents without ever meeting face to face. His prices were transparent. His refunds were guaranteed. His reputation was spotless—for a criminal.
Calculator leaned back slightly on the screen.
"You could say that's accurate. So tell me—why did Penguin send you here? Surely not just to admire my servers."
Ogilvy listened carefully. The voice was identical to the one he had heard through the door earlier.
Remote operation, he realized.
Not even physically present. Possibly not even in Gotham.
That explained the Rubik's Cube. If anything went wrong, Calculator could sever the connection instantly. These servers probably had a built-in self-destruct protocol, erasing all traces and preventing reverse tracking.
A man who survived this long didn't rely on luck.
Ogilvy got straight to the point.
"My boss needs an item," he said. "Something that brings misfortune. A cursed object. Preferably tied to death itself—and ideally, something that looks like a valuable gemstone."
Calculator raised an eyebrow.
"A death curse?" he murmured. "Penguin wants something like that?"
For a moment, confusion crossed his face. Then realization followed.
"Oh… I see."
He didn't explain further.
Instead, he smiled.
"Give me a moment."
The screens around him flickered as data scrolled rapidly. After a few seconds, Calculator snapped his fingers.
"I've got it. Not long ago, Felix Faust uncovered a deep blue stone in the ruins of an ancient temple. He called it the Stone of Misfortune."
Ogilvy listened intently.
"According to Faust," Calculator continued, "the stone contains an extremely potent curse—one that slowly but inevitably brings catastrophe to its owner. Accidents. Betrayals. Death."
Calculator laughed softly.
"He claimed the stone was useless to him. But honestly? I think he was afraid of it. So he decided to sell it instead."
A dark sorcerer afraid of his own discovery.
That alone told Ogilvy how dangerous the stone truly was.
"So how do we buy it?" Ogilvy asked. "I doubt a man like Faust cares about cash."
"You're right," Calculator said. "But this isn't unusual. Over the years, I've collected… things. Artifacts. Relics. Objects that even sorcerers want."
He tapped the side of his head.
"I'll handle the exchange. You just pay me."
A single word surfaced in Ogilvy's mind.
Middleman.
"How much?" he asked.
Calculator smiled wider.
"For Penguin? I'll be generous. Thirty percent discount."
He paused deliberately.
"Fifteen million US dollars."
Ogilvy didn't blink.
For an ordinary person, that number was unthinkable. For Penguin, it was nothing more than loose change.
A normal diamond—completely mundane—could sell for a hundred million if it was large enough. A gemstone imbued with genuine dark magic?
Priceless.
You couldn't buy something like that on the open market even if you wanted to.
"I agree," Ogilvy said immediately.
Calculator nodded, satisfied.
"Then the deal is set."
The monitor dimmed slightly, signaling the end of the conversation.
As Ogilvy turned toward the door, one thought echoed clearly in his mind—
The Stone of Misfortune was real.
And once it entered Gotham… someone was going to die.
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