For the staff of the Zeus Hotel to panic —it wasn't just concerning. It was alarming.
These weren't fresh recruits. The people working for Maxie Zeus were some of Gotham's best-paid, most rigorously trained private operatives. If a security officer came bursting into the executive suite, breathless and pale, it meant one thing:
Something catastrophic was unfolding.
"What's going on?! Speak!" Maxie Zeus thundered, rising from his plush throne-like chair. His concern overrode all courtesy, not even glancing at Bruce Wayne beside him.
The guard drew a sharp breath, then shouted:
"There's an unidentified explosive device in the rooftop revolving restaurant! The security unit suspects a terror threat. We believe someone may have smuggled a bomb inside—boss, we need to evacuate you immediately!"
The word hit like a hammer.
Maxie Zeus and Bruce Wayne exchanged a glance—one of shared disbelief, not fear. Gotham had always been volatile, but rarely did crime breach the walls of its gilded elite. No one dared. Not even the boldest gang lords had the spine to poke the upper echelons of Gotham society.
Maxie Zeus wasn't just rich—he was mythically rich. With enough cash and influence to crush nations, he wasn't the kind of man anyone wanted as an enemy. Even the Gotham underworld had its rules, and one of them was: don't piss off Maxie Zeus.
So who was bold—or insane—enough to defy that?
Maxie clenched his jaw, his towering form casting a long shadow over the marble floor.
"Evacuate?" he scoffed, voice sharp as lightning. "Evacuate? Do you think Caesar fled the battlefield when the barbarians charged?"
He stepped forward, his golden toga swirling behind him like a war banner.
"This is my temple. If I must die, I die on my throne." He jabbed a finger toward the security team. "Bring me the architectural blueprints. I'll personally coordinate the evacuation."
He was all fire and thunder.
By contrast, Bruce Wayne—scion of Gotham's oldest family—looked like a deer in headlights.
He jolted upright, nearly knocking over his water glass.
"B-Bomb?" he stammered. "God… this is bad. I need to get out of here—now."
Without another word, he bolted for the door, panic written all over his face, sleeves flapping as he stumbled toward the rooftop helipad.
Zeus sneered after him.
"That's the heir of the Wayne legacy?" he muttered. "Hmph. The city truly is cursed."
But the moment Bruce passed through the hallway, the act dropped like a mask.
His gait steadied. His breathing calmed. His eyes turned steely.
"Alfred," he spoke into his micro-comm, voice cool as obsidian, "warm up the chopper. Take it to 2,000 meters and hold. Gotham needs Batman."
"Already on it, sir," came Alfred's prim response. "But may I remind you, if all you needed was a change of clothes, the Wayne Tower annex is closer. And its suit doesn't require stripping in the moonlight like a Japanese magical girl—"
"No time," Bruce said, tugging off his tie and letting it flutter behind him. The night air rushed against his chest, revealing the scarred muscle of a man who had lived through wars the city would never know about. "I need altitude. Two minutes versus eight. I'll drop straight in."
And with that, Gotham's knight vanished into the sky.
Meanwhile… ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ NovᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt
Adam reached the rooftop dining level of the Zeus Hotel.
Chaos clung to the air like static. The restaurant floor—usually serene and pristine—was in disarray. Tables overturned, chairs scattered, people fleeing down stairwells in droves.
At the center of it all was an innocent-looking food cart.
A small toy doll sat atop it—cute, smiling… wrong. From its mouth, thick green smoke hissed into the air like a dragon's breath. A few bodies already lay unconscious nearby, lips pale, faces contorted in agony.
Adam's blood turned to ice.
"Shit," he muttered, gun drawn. "It's a decoy. He smuggled the payload in using a goddamn toy."
Even though he'd braved the upper floors, the reality of the situation struck hard. What if it detonated? What if this was just a preliminary gas leak before something bigger?
Every instinct screamed run.
But before Adam could act, he saw something that stopped him cold.
Edward Nygma—aka The Riddler—walked calmly toward the toy.
Unbothered. Controlled.
A green handkerchief was balled in his hand, soaked with water. He stuffed it into his mouth like a crude air filter and strode confidently into the gas.
"Ed!! Are you insane?!" Adam shouted. "Get out of there!"
But the Riddler didn't even flinch. Reaching the doll, he examined it for a few seconds… then removed a small component from its side.
In an instant, the green smoke stopped. The hiss fell silent. The air cleared.
Nygma turned around, triumphant, holding the component between two fingers like a trophy.
"Humidifier circuit," he said, smirking. "Rookie-level tech. This thing's about as lethal as a grocery store diffuser."
"Dead serious. It's child's play." Nygma tossed the piece up and caught it. "The materials are standard, the design is primitive. No explosive circuit, no active compound dispersal system. The gas? Mostly inert. Maybe an irritant—but not fatal. Anyone with half a brain and a RadioShack catalog could've built it."
Adam glanced at the unconscious people nearby.
"Then what the hell knocked them out?"
"Panic, most likely," Nygma shrugged. "Or a mild sedative—one-time exposure. But if this guy had any actual training, he'd have released this through the central HVAC system. Instead, he dumps it here? Open air? On a floor that revolves and ventilates constantly?" He clicked his tongue. "Please. Amateur hour."
His pulse was still hammering—but it was mixed now with awe.
This wasn't just luck. It was skill. Cold, technical brilliance.
"You really are a lunatic genius," Adam said under his breath.
"Correct. And proud of it."
In Gotham, every criminal had a niche. Hugo Strange mastered the mind. Penguin controlled business. Freeze—science. Scarecrow and Mad Hatter specialized in chaos and horror.
But when it came to intellect—to pure, unfettered logic wrapped in chaos—Edward Nygma reigned supreme.
Adam recalled the rumors, the whispers from Gotham PD, the comics he barely remembered: that Nygma once went to war with the Joker himself. In the infamous "War of Jokes and Riddles," the two had recruited half the city's villains—Two-Face, Deathstroke, Killer Croc, Grundy—to wage all-out chaos just to prove who was smarter.
Even then, the Joker couldn't beat him outright.
"So…" Adam said carefully, surveying the toy again. "It wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to send a message."
Nygma's eyes glinted behind his glasses.
"Exactly. Someone's making a statement."
And Adam knew… they had just passed Act One of whatever play the Joker had written.
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