Loeb stood by the window, bathed in the pale morning light streaming over Gotham's concrete skyline. Behind him, his secretary stepped carefully into the room, only to freeze at the sight of the scattered bills lying across the floor. Loeb, meanwhile, didn't even glance back.
"Director... you just let him go?" the secretary asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He looked genuinely puzzled. This was not how these things usually ended.
Loeb's hands rested behind his back, gaze fixed on the river of humanity already flooding the streets. "A boy raised in an orphanage is little different from the street scum outside. No education. No polish. Of course he'll break the rules—he doesn't know any better. But if he's obedient, what harm is there in letting him gnaw on the scraps?"
The secretary said nothing. He bent down, scooping up the bills with practiced efficiency, his thoughts buzzing. Adam had dropped more than a thousand in tribute. Not bad for a visit. Generous even.
Loeb finally turned. In his hands was the same smutty pamphlet Adam had used to wrap his bribe. A smirk curled his lips. "Arkham's not as lucrative as the city, sure. But they've got their little vices. Gambling dens. Drug corners. Adam shows up and can't even pull enough grease for himself. What a rookie."
He moved to the corner of the room, flipped a hidden latch with muscle memory, and a section of the wall hissed open to reveal a glittering vault—jewels, cash, ledgers, all stuffed like dragon hoard treasure. Loeb surveyed it with pride.
"No one in Gotham thinks to rob the police department," he said smugly. "That's what makes it the safest place in the city." The source of this content ɪs NovᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt
The secretary, unfazed, pocketed the retrieved bills. This wasn't his first rodeo.
Loeb placed the pamphlet carefully inside the vault, alongside a collection of other bribe tokens, each item marked and cataloged with obsessive precision. Every officer who had ever paid him off had their record here. This was how Loeb ruled. If he fell, they all fell. He didn't lead with trust—he led with leverage.
"Let the word go out," Loeb said, closing the vault. "Adam's one of ours now."
The secretary grinned. "Congratulations, Director. Only Gordon's left standing. Stubborn old mule. Doesn't know when to bend."
Loeb's eyes narrowed at the name. "James Gordon… I had hopes for him. Shame."
Meanwhile, down in the GCPD Evidence Storage Wing, Adam finally arrived at the one place he'd only ever heard of in rumors. The subterranean vault of Gotham's criminal leftovers. It smelled like dust and missed opportunities.
"Damn... I really bled for this," Adam muttered, patting his now-empty wallet. His sacrifice this morning had cost him most of his pirated earnings. "Time to recoup."
He made his way toward the third evidence room—where seized DVDs and other low-tier contraband were kept. Most officers didn't bother with it. No big scores. No prestige. Which was exactly why Loeb had let him raid it without oversight.
As Adam reached for the door, a voice startled him from behind.
"Long time no see, Adam. Here to return the DVDs you took last week?"
Adam spun, pulse spiking. He braced for a confrontation, uncertain what his predecessor's reputation had left behind.
A tall, wiry young man stood there, immaculate in a tailored suit. Hair combed to surgical precision. Gold-rimmed glasses. Warm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You didn't forget I start at nine, did you?" the man said with a chuckle. "Also, if you didn't bring back what you borrowed, don't think you're leaving with anything new."
Adam's skin crawled. In Gotham, friendly strangers were either conmen or worse. His instincts screamed flight. This guy didn't read as police, gang, or grifter. He read as... something else.
The man didn't seem to notice Adam's unease. He opened the door and strolled in, speaking as he walked.
"I get it, Adam. You're a single guy. Testosterone spikes monthly. Pituitary goes into overdrive, and suddenly your frontal cortex is under siege. A little friction and adult content—therapeutic, really."
He squinted and finally caught sight of the man's ID badge:
Holy hell. This wasn't just some eccentric file clerk.
He'd just walked into a room with Gotham's future Riddler.