Compared to Adam's tight-lipped reaction, the shoeshine kid was visibly more shaken. Anyone who could dissect Gotham's criminal ecosystem with such ease had to be someone serious.
Jason stared up at him and hesitated:
"Sir... what's your name? Or, uh... surname?"
Before the question could even land, Adam calmly pulled out another crisp five and slid it into Jason's little hand.
"I'm that 'thirsty lunatic' you were just talking about," he said with a faint smirk. "Detective from the Arkham District Police Station. Swing by sometime. We serve tea—hot and strong."
Then, without another word, Adam stood up, adjusted his jacket with that practiced, effortless cool, and melted into the crowded Gotham sidewalk like a ghost from a crime novel.
Jason stood there dumbstruck, five dollars in hand, face turning pale as a sheet in the neon night. When the full implication of what he'd just said earlier struck him, the boy started trembling—and crying. Instinctively. Like the universe had just tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, "You messed up."
Next to him, the clueless shoeshine customer furrowed his brow, utterly confused.
"Damn… that Asian guy was weird. Just casually confessed he's a perv and then tipped five bucks for a polish? What the hell was that?"
He narrowed his eyes at Jason. "Why're you crying, kid? Don't tell me that guy was a creep tryna keep you or something? That's messed up, man. People like him are what's wrong with this world..."
Adam strolled down the streets of Gotham, cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, his eyes catching the faraway gleam of Wayne Tower. Like a skyscraper made of gold and ego, it pierced the clouds with its arrogance, its floodlights trying—and failing—to illuminate a city rotting at the seams.
Where Adam was now, even the streetlights were busted.
This was Gotham's underbelly. And in this dark, rancid pocket of the city, predators multiplied like rats in a bakery.
The Mexicans slouched in shadowy alley corners, flashing gentle smiles and offering small bags of white powder like they were passing out wedding candy. Vietnamese bookies prowled the edges of illegal backroom gambling dens—betting on everything from sports to which drunk guy would pass out first next door.
But most of all, there were women. Dozens of them. Standing under cracked neon lights and huddled around trashcan fires, half-dressed in desperation and fake fur, waiting for business to open.
A thick, smoky voice rang out.
Lumbering toward him was a black woman with the body of a linebacker and the gait of a wounded gazelle. She wore leopard-print that clung for dear life to curves that defied physics, and a cigarette dangled from her lip like she was born with it. "Why don't you come play, sugar? Sister's running a 9% discount today. Special offer just for you."
Three black lines practically appeared on Adam's forehead.
Since Loeb's decree came down, every cop, crook, and coffee vendor knew who he was. Word had spread fast, especially in lower-class circles. And apparently, so had the rumors.
But this woman? This woman was next-level.
He squinted. Couldn't tell if she was 18 or 80. Black women, as he'd learned the hard way, made age discrimination a guessing game only God could win.
And the makeup… if you could even call it that. Cheap perfume, dollar-store mascara, and enough glitter to blind a Navy SEAL. The clothes? They deserved a documentary. Her top was struggling. Heroically.
Let's say: when Nuwa of the Chinese mythology mended the sky and needed four legs of the divine turtle Ao to hold up the heavens… two of this woman's legs might've sufficed. And then some.
Sadly, this was far from rare.
Most women in that line of work in Gotham weren't exactly Olympians. When you can make a month's wage lying down, cardio tends to lose its appeal. Add late nights, fast food, and irregular hours, and the result was—well—visible.
Veteran butchers in Gotham could judge a working girl's "service years" just by the width of her thighs.
Adam's internal alarms blared. He knew the signs. He looked at the ground. Then forward. Nowhere else. He activated the internal Gothamian mantra: "See no evil, speak no evil, absolutely don't make eye contact."
The best way to escape wasn't shouting. That just made them think you were teasing. Ignoring them was the only salvation.
But the woman had clearly been on a cold streak. And Adam was apparently the first warm body with a pulse to cross her path in hours.
"Don't walk away, sugar! I heard you were hung like a donkey! These other girls are scared, but I ain't afraid of a little challenge! Let Big Mama show you how it's done!"
The homeless people and street girls nearby erupted. Cackles, whistles, catcalls. The whole block turned into a carnival of chaos.
Adam's face turned fifty shades of humiliation. He spun on his heel, raised his finger in protest, opened his mouth to scream the good ol' f-word—
—but midway through "fuh-", he caught himself.
He exhaled. "Damn it," he muttered, zipped up his coat tighter, and power-walked out of there like his sanity depended on it.
"What the hell am I even doing in this godforsaken zone?" Adam grumbled, flicking his cigarette onto the pavement. "That damn video store better've finished the inspection. At this rate, I might as well walk to freakin' Xingang City and sell discs door-to-door."
He scanned the sidewalk, spotted a dusty old phone booth like a mirage, and sighed.
Time to call and check.
But as he got closer, he saw it—someone already inside.
A big white guy. Twitching. Grimacing. Back arched like a shrimp, as if God was punishing him for existing.
"Yo, you good in there?" Adam asked, genuine concern slipping in.
A brown-skinned girl popped her head out from under the man's jacket, eyes flashing murder, and a few suspicious hairs clinging to the corner of her lip.
"What the hell, idiot? Booth's occupied!" she snapped.
The white guy looked like he was on the verge of Nirvana, and roared:
"GET LOST! I'M ON THE PHONE!" ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ NovᴇlFirᴇ.ɴet
"…Right. Of course you are." He turned away, hands up in defeat.
No wonder Superman never patrolled Gotham. Even the phone booths here had been claimed by vice. You couldn't even find a clean place to make a call without walking in on someone's illicit fantasy.
Adam shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked off.
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