In a narrow, deserted alley hidden between Gotham's rotting brick walls, the morning sun never reached. The gangsters blocking the entrance cast long, predatory shadows on the cracked pavement. Frankly, Adam's situation couldn't have been worse.
He was cornered. Surrounded.
No path of retreat. No crowd to vanish into. Just him and a pack of street hounds thirsting for cruelty.
But despite the odds, Adam remained calm. His mind stayed sharp.
"Aryan Society...? Never heard of 'em."
He wasn't being cocky—just careful. As a time traveler, he knew Gotham was crawling with monsters. Before deciding how to handle the situation, he needed to figure out who he was dealing with.
If this had been one of the big-name outfits—Penguin's mob or the Clown Gang—he'd have tossed his wallet and backed out slow. Those guys were unpredictable, merciless. A wrong move, and you wouldn't live to make another. Adam wasn't stupid enough to challenge them at this stage.
But these punks didn't feel like the big leagues.
Unfortunately, his muttered observation hit harder than a fist. The gangsters tensed, faces tightening into sneers. The fact that their intended victim didn't recognize them—worse, didn't fear them—was an insult they couldn't stomach.
"You damn pig!" barked one of them, stomping forward. "Go rot in the Narrows where you belong! You don't get to walk free in our Aryan territory."
He kicked the small table beside Adam with a violent grunt. The plate of steaming chicken rice—Adam's first real meal in hours—crashed to the ground, shattering the silence.
The thug leaned in, his face mere inches from Adam's, spittle flying with every syllable.
"Name's Uncle Phil, remember it. I was just gonna rob you, but now?" His grin stretched wide. "You're gonna strip. Clothes, shoes, everything. Leave something behind to remember us by. If you resist... well, we'll make it educational."
Laughter exploded around him. The rest of the gang fanned out, eager for the show. They'd done this before. You could see it in their eyes.
Racial violence had always been Gotham's dirty heartbeat. Just like in the real world—from Civil War scars to modern hate-fueled riots—the sickness never left. In Gotham, it was just louder, meaner, and harder to prosecute.
Adam didn't flinch. He simply looked "Uncle Phil" up and down, and then… he laughed.
"Uncle Phil?" he echoed mockingly. "Never heard of you."
And in the same breath, Adam surged forward and slammed his forehead into the gangster's face.
A clean, brutal headbutt—forehead to nose bridge.
Phil stumbled back, blood spraying from his shattered nose. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the alley floor, groaning and choking on his own blood and tears.
Headbutts weren't just random street moves. Done right—skull to cartilage—they were devastating. But mistime it and you could knock yourself silly. Adam didn't miss.
The alley went silent.
The rest of the gang froze, stunned by the sudden violence. Their eyes snapped to Adam, who had shed his calm demeanor like a coat. What remained was raw fury.
"You blind little bastards!" Adam snarled, his voice thunderous in the narrow space. "I've had enough! Do you even realize who you're messing with?"
His chest rose and fell, breath ragged with emotion.
"I wake up in a broken world, land in Gotham of all places, and I don't have a single damn superpower to my name. You think I'm scared of you? I'm five grand in debt to Black Mask! I haven't slept, haven't eaten, and you—you limp-brained jackals—wanna pick a fight over skin color?"
He pointed furiously.
"Well guess what—today's your unlucky day."
He spread his arms. "Come on. I'll take ten of you right now!"
The gang exchanged glances, then started pulling weapons from under jackets and belts—bike chains, switchblades, crowbars. Classic tools of Gotham's underbelly. Makeshift and ugly.
Phil, still bleeding and groaning, laughed through blood-caked teeth. "Heh… You're dead, chink. Think you're tough? Let's see what you do without a weapon."
But then he froze mid-laugh.
Because Adam calmly reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol—matte black, deadly, and very real.
His expression was cold.
"Who said I didn't have a weapon?" Adam said, voice flat. "You wanna play with fire? I brought fire."
In Gotham, handguns weren't cheap, especially not at the street level. Falcone's grip on arms trafficking kept most low-tier gangs using blunt force and improvised tools. Firearms were a sign of status.
And suddenly, Adam didn't look like prey anymore.
He looked like something they should have run from.
But Phil, wounded pride dripping thicker than blood, snarled, "You think we're scared of a gun? He's bluffing! Ain't got more than a couple rounds in that thing—and shooting in daylight? The cops'll tear him apart!"
He pointed a shaky hand. "Officer in this district's my sister's boyfriend. He'll have your yellow ass in cuffs before you can blink."
Adam's eyes flashed—and then he fired.
BANG! Thɪs chapter is updated by NovᴇlFir(e).nᴇt
The shot rang out like a thunderclap in the alley. Phil screamed.
His thigh exploded in a fountain of blood.
He collapsed, shrieking, clutching the wound as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.
No one tried to be a hero. No one screamed revenge. They just ran.
Adam stood alone, the pistol still warm in his grip, the alley echoing with fading footsteps and Phil's agonized howls.
He looked down at the blood seeping into the concrete, then up at the blue sky barely visible between the buildings.