The doors to Commissioner Loeb's office opened with the heavy hush of authority. The same polished oak desk, gold-framed photos, and expensive cigar smoke hung in the air like a smug perfume. It was a room built to remind every cop who stepped inside that power in Gotham wears a tie.
Loeb looked up from a thick folder, his eyes twinkling with false warmth. His suit was immaculate, his fingers stained with the faint scent of leather and tobacco. He smiled like a man welcoming an old friend to dinner.
"Detective Baker," he greeted, motioning toward a chair. "Relax. No need to be formal. I heard you were swinging by the General Department today, so I thought—why not catch up?"
Adam sat down slowly, keeping his body loose, his mind razor-sharp. That Loeb had tracked his visit wasn't surprising. That he openly admitted it? That was a message. A flex.
"I meant to have a chat before you went off to Arkham," Loeb added casually, his fingers dancing along the folder's spine. "But you know how it is—so much to do, so few hours in a day."
Adam's eyes flicked—just for a second—toward the document in Loeb's hand. His name was printed in bold on the tab.
Not a personnel file.
"Shit... So that explains the weird looks. I've been walking around with a rap sheet tattooed to my back?"
He smiled coolly. "You work so hard for Gotham's safety, sir. We're all trying to follow your example."
Loeb gave a short chuckle. The kind that didn't reach his eyes.
"You know," he said, leaning back, "back when Secretary Clinton started pushing for equal hiring practices across the board—gender, race, socioeconomic background—I took that as a challenge. Gotham's full of… troubled kids. And I thought, why not give them a second chance?"
He opened the drawer, pulling out a vintage cigar cutter. "So I spoke with Dr. Hugo Strange. You know the man, don't you? The one heading psychiatric reforms at Arkham?"
"Dr. Hugo Strange. Gotham's smiling devil. A man who can peel back your soul like it's made of loose wallpaper."
In the comics and games, Hugo was a master manipulator, one of the few people to ever deduce Batman's identity. Here, Loeb was quoting him like he was a saint.
"Strange had an idea," Loeb went on. "Said putting former delinquents into positions of responsibility—cadets, clerks, patrol officers—would awaken their moral compass. Spark a little redemption."
He smiled thinly. "So I hired them. People like… you."
Adam nodded, feigning humility, while inside his pulse ticked up.
"So this version of me had a record. Figures. Would explain the stink that follows me around the bullpen."
It made sense. Loeb didn't pick Adam out of merit—he picked him out of strategy. A flawed officer with a past was easier to control. Easier to threaten. Someone Loeb could dangle from a string and cut loose if needed.
Adam's expression shifted just enough to suggest remorse. "I… made mistakes, sir. Things I'm not proud of. But I'm grateful for the second chance."
Loeb waved him off like he was shooing a fly. "Spare me the teary act, Detective."
His voice lowered, tone flattening.
"We're all part of the same team now, aren't we?"
Then, with deliberate pause, he said:
"And teammates don't get to eat alone. That's not how we do things in Gotham."
Adam's stomach turned. He didn't need subtitles. That phrase—"eat alone"—was code. Loeb knew about the disc operation. Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, the Commissioner already had eyes on him.
He schooled his face, forcing his mind to stop spiraling.
"No cameras in Arkham's evidence room. Maybe someone snitched? A janitor? A pissed-off desk sergeant?"
He needed a way out. Fast.
Without hesitation, he reached into his coat and pulled out the pamphlet—the same sleazy Confessions of the Fallen that had gotten shoved into his hands back at the station.
"I actually brought you something, sir," Adam said smoothly, standing and placing the booklet on the desk with both hands. "Been writing in my spare time. Just a little passion project. I'd be honored if you… took a look."
Loeb raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the change in tone. "Oh? You a writer now, Detective?"
He reached out, fingers brushing the thin pages. The moment he opened the book—cash spilled out.
Bundles. Neatly folded, green bills fluttering to the floor like confetti.
Even a seasoned political beast like him didn't expect that move.
"Didn't expect me to play the game so fast, huh, old man?" Adam thought, keeping his posture deferential, almost reverent. "Well, congratulations. You got your tribute."
Loeb stared at the money for a moment, then looked up at Adam. His smile returned—but this time, it was real.
He leaned forward, plucking a bill from the ground and flipping it between his fingers.
"This… changes things, Detective Baker."
Adam lowered his eyes, nodded once. "Just wanted to show I understand the rules now."
Loeb exhaled through his nose. "Good. Because people who don't… they tend to fall behind. Or fall off rooftops. It's hard to tell in this city."
Adam forced a laugh. Not too loud. Just enough.
"Jesus, this is worse than the gangs. At least they don't smile when they threaten you."
Loeb leaned back again, eyes gleaming.
"One more thing," he said. "Don't get greedy. You're not the only one eating."
Adam's nod was slow this time. Every word was a needle.
"Noted. Gotham isn't a city. It's a jungle in a suit."
As he walked out of Loeb's office, Adam didn't breathe until the doors shut behind him. His back was soaked in sweat, his heart hammering like a jackhammer.
"So that's how it's gonna be," he thought. "Smile, nod, play the game… until I can flip the board."
He had walked into that office thinking he was clever. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴo(v)elFɪre.ɴet
He walked out knowing he'd just sold a piece of his soul to survive.