Your Throne Is Due for a New Ruler, Penguin!

The cold metal passage sealed shut behind them, cutting them off from a digital empire on the brink of collapse.

Link and Harley were back in the freezer, surrounded by the smell of frozen meat.

"Ten minutes." Link glanced at the nonexistent watch on his wrist. "Now the game enters its second phase."

"Oh? There's a second phase?" Harley rubbed her hands together, eager to see Penguin's face when he went bankrupt. "Are we going to shove his head in a toilet?"

From a corner, Link picked up two neatly folded waiter uniforms.

"No. We're going to offer him a drink."

A minute later, two impeccably dressed waiters emerged from behind the kitchen curtain, silver trays in hand.

Harley did her best to look professional, standing up straight, but the grin she couldn't suppress gave away the madness bubbling inside her.

The Iceberg Lounge's main banquet hall was a portrait of Gotham high society's vice and desire.

Well-dressed politicians clinked glasses with vicious-looking mob bosses, while elegant ladies smiled sweetly at executioners whose hands were stained with blood.

At the center of it all, a short, stout man with a long, pointed nose sat in a massive armchair that might as well have been a throne.

Oswald Cobblepot. Penguin.

He was boasting to the guests around him, spittle flying as he spoke of his authority. He basked in their awed gazes, utterly unaware that his financial empire was collapsing by the second.

Link carried a tray with a single bottle on it.

A 1945 Romanée-Conti, worth enough to buy a decent apartment in Gotham.

He moved through the crowd and headed straight for Penguin's throne.

Everyone assumed the waiter had come to present Mr. Cobblepot with his favorite vintage.

But when Link was three steps away from Penguin, he appeared to trip over something.

He stumbled.

The silver tray tilted.

The dark red liquid traced an elegant, deadly arc through the air.

Crash!

The bottle shattered on the white marble floor at Penguin's feet.

Crimson wine splashed like spurting blood across Penguin's polished custom shoes and his favorite white spats.

It was as though someone had pressed pause on the music and chatter in the banquet hall.

Every sound stopped.

Hundreds of eyes snapped toward the "waiter" who had caused the disaster.

Penguin's laughter froze on his face. He slowly lowered his head to look at his wine-stained shoes, then at the priceless liquid and broken glass strewn across the floor.

His complexion went from red to white, then from white to purple, like a painter's palette.

"You..."

The hoarse syllable squeezed out of Penguin's throat, laden with murderous intent.

Link straightened up, his face showing just the right touch of fear and remorse.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. My mistake."

"Mistake?" Penguin shot to his feet, his comical face twisted with rage. His shrill voice rang through the hall. "Do you know how much that bottle cost? Selling you wouldn't cover it! Guards! Chop off his hands!"

Just then, Penguin looked past Link and saw the "waitress" behind him struggling to hold back her laughter.

His pupils contracted.

"Harley Quinn!"

The name sent a wave of commotion through the guests.

Penguin looked back at Link's face. At last, he recognized the man who had been appearing so often in his nightmares lately.

"And you! The bastard who robbed my warehouse!"

All the clues came together in that instant.

This was no accident.

It was a provocation! The cruelest possible humiliation, inflicted on him in front of Gotham's elite!

"Seize them!" Penguin shrieked hysterically. "Dead or alive! I'll grind every bone in their bodies to dust!"

The surrounding bodyguards drew their guns. Guests screamed in terror and scattered.

The banquet hall descended into chaos.

As the guns swung toward him, Link stepped forward instead of retreating. He leaned close to Penguin's ear.

In a voice only the two of them could hear, he whispered:

"Forget your wine and your shoes, Oswald."

"Your money is about to disappear."

The words struck Penguin's most vulnerable nerve like a curse from Hell.

His mind went blank. In that instant, a fear colder than ice replaced his towering rage.

Money? My money? The vault?

He had no time to think it through. Link had already stepped back and pressed a tiny remote in his palm.

Boom!

A tremendous blast came from the ceiling.

The cables securing the enormous crystal chandelier at the center of the hall—a symbol of luxury and power—were blown apart.

The crystal behemoth, weighing several tons, plummeted with a deadly howl.

It slammed into the floor with a deafening crash, sending crystal shards flying in every direction like a downpour.

The lights went out. Sparks flew.

Panic erupted.

"Party time!"

Harley let out a cheer, pulled an enormous baseball bat from who knew where, and charged at a bodyguard.

The fight began amid the chaos.

But Penguin barely noticed any of it.

He saw no enemies, no battle. All he could think of was Link's devilish whisper.

Shoving people out of his way, he scrambled toward his office backstage.

He had to check. He had to see the vault that mattered more to him than his own life!