Just before dawn, deep inside the Batcave, Batman was still seated in front of his massive computer array, combing through video feeds and surveillance footage.
Alfred entered quietly, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. His voice, calm and gently sarcastic, echoed across the cave, "Master Bruce, I worry that if you keep staring at that screen non-stop, you'll end up a grumpy recluse with poor posture and no social life. Might I suggest something more appropriate for a billionaire heir? Perhaps a night out, a red carpet appearance with a local celebrity—even your mother would approve if it meant boosting the Wayne family image."
"Alfred," Batman replied without looking, eyes still locked on his screens, "you used that joke last month."
"Because it remains relevant, sir."
The screens reflected in Batman's cowl showed various corners of Gotham. But one image was frozen—a snapshot of the letter he found the night before.
"I'm not investigating the bank robbery anymore," he said. "What I want to know is who left this letter on my rooftop watchpoint. Whoever it was knows exactly where I perch."
Alfred leaned closer, raising an eyebrow as he read the cut-out newspaper-letter message on screen.
"'Tomorrow night, someone will escape Arkham Asylum.' Poetic," he said dryly. "Perhaps you should install a suggestion box. Clearly, your admirers are getting more creative."
"You're missing the point," Batman said. "This person knows my movements, my habits... even my preferred lookout point—48 stories high. I found no prints on the envelope or residue or camera footage. They climbed a sheer façade without triggering a single alert and somehow left this here without anyone seeing."
Alfred's smirk faded. He crossed his arms, tone more serious now.
"You're saying whoever left this knows you well, Mr. Wayne. Knows how to avoid your surveillance and suspects how you'd respond. That narrows the list considerably. But speaking frankly, sir—there are very few individuals with that kind of access and ability. And most of them, you've already locked up."
Batman nodded and replied, "At first, I thought maybe it came from someone in law enforcement. Someone close to Gordon. Someone smart enough to avoid cameras... but they wouldn't be physically capable of reaching that spot. Whoever this is, they're extremely skilled. And dedicated."
He stood and stretched slightly.
"Time to check Arkham tonight. If there really is an escape attempt, I want to be on-site to catch the person behind the curtain."
That same night, on a quiet highway between Bruce Haven and Gotham, a long-haul truck drove slowly down a deserted road. Few vehicles used the route—too remote, too forgettable. Perfect for transport... or an ambush.
A giant tree trunk suddenly blocked the road ahead, leaving barely enough space to squeeze by.
"Ugh, not this again," the truck driver muttered, climbing out angrily to move the obstruction.
Then—bright headlights flared behind him.
Another car pulled up fast, shutting off his only escape path. As the glare of the beams blinded him, a line of men stepped out, dressed in suits and holding old-school Chicago typewriters—classic submachine guns.
The man froze. He already knew: they were gangsters, and not the nice kind.
"Hey, you can't be serious—" he shouted.
Before he could run, a burst of gunfire crackled through the cold night. The spray of bullets slammed him to the ground, moaning but still alive.
The lead thug approached, raising his gun to finish the job.
"You can blame your boss for this," he muttered. "Adam thinks he's a big shot now. A little detective daring to stand against Black Mask? Dream on."
He prepared to fire the final shot... when the wounded driver rasped, "You idiots… You just ambushed Penguin's cargo."
Everything stopped for a moment.
"...What?" the gunman asked.
"This truck... belongs to Oswald Cobblepot," the driver gasped. "Yeah. That Cobblepot. The Penguin. You just jacked his shipment!"
The goons froze. One of them ran to the truck and yanked open the back hatch—stacked crates of expensive imported liquor gleamed under the faint truck lights. Not a single disc in sight.
Silence.
Their stomachs turned.
They weren't robbing Adam. They weren't even hitting Black Mask's enemies. They'd just shot up a Penguin-run operation.
And nobody crossed the Penguin and walked away clean. The man was ruthless when it came to his business—calm on the surface, but behind every smirk was someone who could snap your bones like twigs and smile doing it.
Now, Black Mask's crew had just declared war without knowing it.
"Wait! This was supposed to be Adam's shipment," one of the men said, confused. "He set the route, the truck ID, everything. How—how the hell did this become a Penguin transport?"
Only one answer made sense anymore: Adam had set them up.
He knew they'd be waiting for his cargo. So, he'd fed someone the details. Wrong details. Details that redirected the guns straight into Penguin's business. A false tip that turned petty gang violence into a criminal turf war.
Back in Gotham, that little "accident" would explode like a match in gasoline.
Adam had started something. And across the city, beneath the rust and shadows of Arkham Asylum, something else was beginning to move too—a plot more dangerous than any of them expected.
Gotham was about to shake.