Everyone turned when Adam stepped out from the shadows. Behind them, Victor Zsasz was still in the room, laughing to himself like a maniac.
"Let's talk," Adam said simply.
He led Deadshot and Bronze Tiger to a quiet spot nearby. Lighting a cigarette, he handed one to Norton. He didn't bother offering it to Bronze Tiger—he knew the man avoided all such habits due to his strict martial arts discipline.
Deadshot exhaled a stream of smoke and spoke first. "That guy is completely insane. You really think using him to kill Black Mask is going to work?"
"I don't even think he can pull it off," Deadshot added. "Black Mask's security is on another level. These days, it's more like he's running a private army. Getting close to him at all is next to impossible."
Bronze Tiger didn't say anything, but his eyes told the same story. Since he'd taken on the role of protecting Adam, he'd been struggling to keep him safe in an increasingly dangerous city.
But Adam stayed calm. "The killing isn't the problem," he said. "It's what happens after."
He paused, then continued. "Remember what started World War I? It wasn't just an assassination—it was the ripple effect. A Serbian activist killed one man, Archduke Ferdinand, but the backlash pulled in half the world. If we kill Black Mask, we can't risk being blamed for it. We have to stay in the shadows."
He looked to Deadshot, then to Tiger. "You've both carved out a little peace here. Floyd, you get to stay close to your daughter. Tiger, your dojo is finally taking shape. Me? I'm just trying to be a slightly dishonest cop. None of that survives if word gets out we took down Black Mask."
But there was more.
If Black Mask died and everyone knew it was them, there'd be chaos. Rival gangs would want revenge. The underworld would go into full-scale war. Every goon loyal to Black Mask would come hunting for them. It'd be never-ending conflict. Adam didn't want that—and neither did his team.
"Zsasz is perfect for this because he'd never tell anyone he was working under us—ever," Adam added. "He carves a tally into his skin for every person he kills. Reputation matters to him. No way he gives that 'glory' to someone else—not even under torture."
The others nodded. It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. Zsasz would never hint at having a boss. He wanted the spotlight. He was obsessed with it.
"But what about the actual plan?" Bronze Tiger asked. "You've thought about what it takes to get close to Black Mask? That feels like the harder part."
Elsewhere in Gotham, the man they were targeting—Black Mask—was under pressure like never before.
He wasn't shouting. He wasn't pacing. This time, he was on the phone, head lowered, tone calm. That's how you knew things were bad—he was acting polite.
"Don Falcone, sir," Black Mask said respectfully. "I'm calling because our two families have always been close. I had dinner with your nephew Mario last week. Great guy. As you know, our alliance has been strong for years…"
Across the line, the legendary king of Gotham's old-school mafia—Carmine Falcone—grumbled in his gravelly tone. His words were quiet, but carried weight.
"I know what this is about, Sionis," he said unbothered. "And yes, your father was a decent man. That's the only reason we're speaking. But you crossed a line. You hijacked a truck full of Penguin's liquor. That's his livelihood. And because of that, Harvey Dent's office launched a full raid into his smuggling route. Penguin's furious—and you know how he feels about being disrespected. Or anyone getting in the way of his money."
The Black Mask's hands clenched. He wanted to explode—but he couldn't afford to. So he forced out a grin only Falcone could hear through the silence.
"Don Falcone… I know I've made mistakes. But since yesterday, twenty-three of my men and six of my top dealers have disappeared. My losses are already over a million dollars. I'm not trying to start a war."
He softened his tone as he played to Falcone's ego.
"You built Gotham's underworld with order. You brought structure to the chaos. If Penguin and I go to war, that order disappears. I'm asking—can you help arrange a negotiation? Just a sit-down. Otherwise, this thing could escalate."
Falcone didn't reply right away.
He didn't care for Black Mask. According to him, the guy was too loud and violent. But he did care about the balance of power in Gotham. A war between Black Mask and Penguin—two of the city's most dangerous gangs—would throw the entire underworld into chaos.
After a pause, the old man finally said, "What are you offering?"
That was Black Mask's cue. He spoke fast.
"I'm willing to give up two of my white powder routes to Penguin's crew," he said. "As a goodwill gesture. I'm also trying to develop a real estate project out west—lots of money in it. I'll give Penguin the right to manage construction and front the investment. I just want off his target list."
After a long silence, Falcone finally agreed to make the call.
When the line disconnected, Black Mask collapsed into his chair, drained.
He stared at the ceiling of his office and muttered to himself, "How did it come to this…"
He remembered growing up beside men like Penguin and Bruce Wayne. Back then, he believed he would be the one to rise in Gotham. He was smart, tough, respected. But now? The short, weird kid with the umbrella had risen. And Black Mask… was begging him for mercy.
And it all spiraled because someone gave him the wrong info.
That fake tip about Adam's smuggling truck… turned out to be Penguin's. He fell for it completely.
Now Penguin had public support, legal cover, and a reason to retaliate.
"I swear… I'll kill them all for this," Black Mask hissed.
But deep down, he knew—someone just played their first major move in a game he was starting to lose.