In a city like Gotham, the police never sleep. If the city is always awake, the Gotham Police Department is even busier. Its doors never close, and someone is always on duty—ready for anything. Especially now, with Batman more active than ever, even the night shift officers feel the pressure. You just never know when a masked criminal will be dropped off like a pizza delivery with a note that says: "Yours, enjoy."
"Any guesses on who Batman's leaving for us tonight?" one of the desk officers yawned.
"Hopefully Bruce Wayne," another grunted. "He was out on a date with some Broadway star tonight. Guy's always winning the jackpot."
"Quiet down," came a familiar voice from behind them—Detective Brock, chewing as he helped himself to the snacks in one officer's drawer. "Gordon's had the Bat Signal up all night, but your masked friend hasn't shown. Probably called in sick."
He didn't even finish his sentence when the unmistakable roar of the Batmobile split the air. The car skidded into the street, stopped for a second… and dumped a small group of unconscious criminals right in front of the station doors.
"Oh hell," one officer muttered, running toward them. "You owe me five bucks!" another called out behind him.
As they rolled over the bodies, one name stood out. Sal Maroni. Gotham crime lord. Next to him lay Weaver, the corrupt Arkham branch director. Clipped to them were documents and recordings—evidence of prison break involvement. The officers went pale as they skimmed the files.
"Are you seeing this?" Brock barked. "Sal Maroni. Escaped Arkham. And Weaver helped? This city's gone insane!"
The sun finally rose. Out on the steps, Bronze Tiger lay stretched across the stone stairs, exhausted.
"How was last night?" Adam asked, stepping out after grabbing some fresh air.
Tiger pointed silently at a nondescript freezer nearby.
Adam cracked the lid.
Inside, crammed in a pile, were unconscious, black-clad attackers. Some still wore tactical gear. All of them had clearly picked the wrong house.
"Impressive," Adam muttered.
"Do you have any idea how many people you pissed off?" Bronze Tiger grumbled. "It was non-stop. I nearly gave up."
"Comes with the territory," Adam said with a half-smile. "Someone out there's putting money on me going down. Doesn't even have to be personal—just business."
Tiger sat up, serious now. "I don't mind defending you. But I don't kill unless I have to. Promise me—if we can, we let them live."
Adam nodded instantly. "If that's what you want, then they stay breathing," he said genuinely.
Tiger looked relieved and stretched. "Thanks. Too much killing... it starts to change you."
Adam gave a thumbs-up—and then mentally added, 'Great. I'll have Deadshot sell them to that gold mine pit in West River Valley later. That's basically a life sentence anyway… and a nice paycheck, too.'
Just then, one of the phones rang. Not the two meant for Black Mask or Weaver.It was the third one—designated for Deadshot.
Adam took the call, tension low.
"Something go wrong?" he asked casually.
"Not really," Deadshot replied dryly. "Target's tougher than expected. I might not be able to bring him back in one piece."
"That's fine," Adam said, chuckling. "You got the guy, right? That's all I need."
He hung up, turned to Tiger, and waited. A few hours later, Deadshot arrived—dragging a hooded, bound, and very bruised man behind him.
The guy fought the whole way, forcing Deadshot to knock him around every few minutes.
"Where did you find him?" Adam asked, grinning.
"He wasn't expecting company," Norton replied. "Looks like no one's supposed to know where he hides. Your tip really shook him."
Adam just gave a small smile and crouched in front of the bound man.
"Welcome," he said. "Hope you enjoy your stay."
Then he leaned in close.
"Victor Zsasz," Adam said softly. "I've got plans for you."