"Hey, man—what are your plans now?" Adam asked, voice even, a little too calm. "Black Mask isn't around to offer resources, South America's tightening bans, and crews like Bane's are ready to take anybody out who tries to keep doing the old work. That industry's drying up fast. If you are going to keep chasing it, you're just going to bleed out."
Adam's words weren't just friendly warning. He'd done his homework: after Bane's team hit No. 1's operation and stole their whole shipment, No. 1's crew was wounded and scattered, with no backup and nowhere to go. The future was looking bleak.
No. 1 let out a heavy sigh, burden in his voice. "Yeah, it's bad. I know what you mean. I've got hundreds of guys. They all have families to feed, and they stuck by me for years. I can't just stand here and watch everything fall apart."
Adam nodded, reading the room. With care, he shifted his tone—offering a lifeline, not a lecture.
"It's not like you have to shrivel up just because Black Mask is gone," Adam said, throwing a brotherly arm around No. 1—at least, in spirit. "You helped me out back in South America. I don't forget that. I'll find you some small jobs to keep your people afloat. If anything big comes up, I'll call you."
No. 1 blinked, surprised and wary. "Adam, are you really thinking about picking up where Black Mask left off? Moving back in on… you know, Gotham's little white powder scene?"
Adam shook his head, all righteous conviction. "No way. That game is cursed. Ruins lives, pulls every nutcase in Gotham to your doorstep. I've seen too many 'big shots' get turned into target practice the moment they start flaunting money from the drug trade. I'm here to build something quiet, slow, and steady. I'd rather work in the shadows, not play king of the city and get shot."
No. 1 seemed skeptical. "So then… what do you want from us? My best asset is moving the old stuff."
Adam smiled slyly. "You know South America like the back of your hand. But the drug game's fading. Synthetic labs and greedy new players are squeezing out the growers. But wine, No. 1… that's where the money is now."
No. 1 frowned in confusion. "You mean… liquor? You want to move alcohol instead of powder?"
Adam nodded. "Rum, specifically. The Caribbean's got sugarcane fields older than Gotham itself. Sweet juice, cheap labor—they've been making rum for centuries. Down there, it's as common as water. In Gotham, though? Every bottle is worth a fortune with prohibition laws. You help me bring in the shipments, I handle the selling. The price will be fair—and the risk is nothing next to the old business."
No. 1 was quiet, clearly considering the new direction. "It's not the danger I mind," he finally replied. "It's the price. We move liquor, we gotta take a cut off the top. Tariffs, bribes… nothing moves for free. The margin's a lot thinner, and if it looks like I'm gouging you, I can't promise my own guys won't think I've gone soft."
Adam's lips curled in a knowing grin. "You don't get it. Here in Gotham, liquor is practically a precious metal. Dent's new laws have tripled the price. One shipment gets you enough profit to cover everyone. And the risk is so much lower, we can slip right through the cracks. Trust me, I've done my math."
As they hammered out details, No. 1 found himself nodding along. After a thorough discussion and some haggling over price points, Adam locked in the plan: in three days, a shipment would arrive at the Arkham canal, by the old abandoned docks. Look for ships marked with three red lights—those were his.
Adam agreed, ended the call, and exhaled. The game was finally moving.
By the time Adam returned to his bar, night had already settled in. The place was booming—music playing, customers laughing, and in the center of it all, Captain Boomerang was in his element. The Aussie had transformed himself into the bar's unofficial showman. Instead of just pouring drinks, he was throwing full glasses across the room, catching them off ricochets and placing them perfectly on patrons' tables.
Only in Gotham would customers love this kind of madness, cheering him on as beer mugs flew dangerously close to heads. Boomerang was grinning ear to ear, delighted with the tips spilling into his jar.
Adam watched for a moment, shaking his head—but not for the reason Boomerang thought.
He stepped close and said in a firm voice, loud enough for the staff to hear: "For every tip you make, I'll double it. But if a glass hits a customer, I'll have Deadshot break your ribs. Got it?"
Instantly, Boomerang's wild grin froze just a little, and his performance settled down—not all the way, but enough to keep the crowd laughing and the bar from turning into a brawl.
Adam knew guys like him—give them too much rope, and they'd hang themselves. But keep them just hungry for praise and afraid of pain, and they'd perform magic.