The dim yellow light from a flickering bulb cast shadows across the worn walls of the safehouse. The wind outside moaned, rattling the old frame of the building.
Adam sat at the center of the room, motionless, calm—but ready. Laid neatly on the table in front of him were three different cellphones and a pistol. His grip was loose, but his eyes sharp.
Bronze Tiger stood nearby, fully armed, wrapping strips of cloth around his fists like bandages before battle.
"Stay here tonight. Don't move, don't leave, don't hesitate," he told Adam. "If anyone tries to come through that door before morning—don't ask questions. Shoot."
Adam gave a simple nod, lifted the pistol, checked the chamber with practiced care, and rested it beside him—right hand always close.
Satisfied, Bronze Tiger slipped out into the darkness, his silhouette vanishing as the door creaked shut behind him. The gust of wind that followed rocked the dangling light, casting shifting shadows across Adam's still face.
From the outside, he looked cornered. The police had turned against him. His shipment had been stolen. Black Mask had marked him. His enemies were backing him into a corner.
But not everything was as it seemed.
Adam glanced down at the three phones. Each one represented a trap he'd personally laid. If none of them rang by midnight, it would mean everything was going according to plan. If any of them buzzed before that... it might mean he'd failed—and that it was time to put the pistol to use.
He had no army. No deep organization. But Adam had something else—a brain full of Gotham's twisted logic, and most importantly, a deep knowledge of how it all worked behind the scenes. Thanks to the comics he'd read before waking up in this world, Adam knew secrets. And in Gotham, secrets are power.
The deal with the rogue cop was too good to be true. Veteran pirates don't reach out to low-level guys unless there's a hidden motive. When the truck carrying his goods was robbed, Adam started asking questions—and all signs pointed back to Weaver.
Jason had once told him Weaver had "three moves" ready. First, investigate Adam's turf. Second, bury him with impossible cases. Adam had weathered both. But the third move? No one knew.
Now, suspicions were piling up. Black Mask attacked right after this "perfect opportunity" fell into Adam's lap, and the only people who knew the shipment details were inside the police department.
Adam couldn't prove anything yet. But he didn't need to. He could stir the pot and let chaos do the heavy lifting.
He remembered something from the comics—Penguin had a secret land route for transporting contraband, known only to his inner circle. Most people assumed he moved everything through the docks. Adam leaked that secret route—on purpose.
If everything went according to plan, Black Mask's goons would hit what they thought was Adam's smuggling truck—when in fact, it's Penguin's.
If chaos had a zip code, Adam had just sent the first package.
As the clock struck midnight, the dusty wall clock let out a single, echoing chime. Adam watched it closely… silence.
No calls. That meant, Phase one was successful.
He leaned back, tossed one of the phones into the trash, and smiled faintly.
"Let's see what happens… over at Arkham," he muttered, eyeing the clouds in the night sky. The Bat-signal was a faint glow against them, barely visible—but just enough.
Meanwhile, miles away, near the outskirts of Gotham, the waters churned against the rocky sea wall around Arkham Asylum. The institution stood like a dying beast—its walls worn, its lights flickering. Surrounded by the sea on three sides, it was near-impossible to escape—or break in.
That's why the worst of Gotham's criminals were sent here… and why tonight's meeting was so brazen.
At a dark, hidden spot near the shoreline, a group of men moved carefully. Emerging from the shadows was Sal Maroni—one of Gotham's most infamous mob bosses, long thought locked deep inside Arkham.
But now, he stood free, brushing sea mist off his coat, a cigar between his teeth.
"Ahh," he smiled. "Feels good to be out."
Weaver, the corrupt director of Arkham's branch, greeted him with a fake grin and eager hands. "All thanks to your generosity, Mr. Maroni. Just doing my part."
He gestured at the silent sea behind them. "I even cleared the patrols and bribed the police. There's not a single officer within miles of this pier. Now… about that alcohol trafficking route you promised me?"
Maroni smirked. His escape was thanks to Hugo Strange, Arkham's lead physician—who owed him heavily for financing illegal experiments. All Weaver did was open the door. Still, Maroni played nice.
"You'll get your piece, Director. Booze prices in Gotham are spiking—way more profitable than betting parlors. Get ready to rake it in."
Weaver grinned like a kid in a candy store. Maroni lit his cigar.
But just as their getaway boat pulled into view, a low voice echoed overhead, "You're not going anywhere."
Both men froze.
A giant figure dropped from the darkness above—cape outstretched, boots slamming into the ground. His shadow swallowed the dock.
The Bat symbol glowed off his chest.
"You and your little escape party are heading back to Arkham. Or, better yet… Blackgate Prison."
Batman had been watching. He must've known about everything—the deal, the bribes, even the exit route. And now, standing in their escape path—he looked ready to shut it all down.
Whatever Adam was playing at, he'd stirred the hornet's nest and Batman had answered.