"Know yourself and know your enemy—only then can you fight a hundred battles without defeat," Adam said to Jason as they left the front of the police station. The street outside bustled with traffic, a dull reminder that Gotham didn't care who lived or died. But what Adam was about to say next—well, it wasn't something he wanted echoing off the department walls. This conversation needed cocoa and calmness, not curious ears.
"Weaver's got seniority, sure. He's got roots in this district, years of grease and grit under his belt. I'm not going to beat him by playing the same game better. No. I'll beat him by playing a different game altogether." Adam let the words settle, then smiled faintly. "You said it yourself—he skimps on his people. Me? I overpay. That's my angle."
Jason tilted his head, processing my words. Adam could see the gears turning behind those eyes. Smart kid. Too smart for the gutter life.
During the U.S. elections, Trump did the same to Hillary. Chaos, conflict, contradiction—it works, especially when your opponent's playing by the rules. So, he went Reagan-style: burn money like you're printing it. After all, even the Soviet war machine fell when forced into a war.
"But…" Jason hesitated. "Isn't that… a bit much? I mean, you spent ten grand. That's insane."
He wasn't wrong. Adam could feel the hole that cash had burned in his soul.
They ducked into a small café—one of those old places with worn tile floors and a stubborn smell of cinnamon and dust. Adam ordered two steaming cups of cocoa and a plate of sweets that looked way fancier than they tasted. Jason's eyes lit up as soon as he saw the spread.
"I don't have much cash," Adam admitted, shrugging. "But if you find someone who believes in your vision, you can always find money to throw at the fire."
Jason stared, confused, until Adam told him the story behind the plan.
Yesterday was a whirlwind. After strong-arming some local hotels into his DVD racket and finally stacking a few thousand bucks, he was about to take a break. Maybe hit Heart City for some junk food and peace, or crash at Starport for the weekend.
But fate—or more precisely, Jason Todd—showed up gasping for breath with a message: Weaver was coming for my head.
For a second, Adam froze and thought, 'Seriously, I couldn't even enjoy being slightly less broke before someone wanted me dead?'
Looking back, it made sense. He'd spent days hustling and bribing his way up Gotham's food chain, but he'd ignored Arkham's internal politics. That pissed off Weaver. The guy wasn't just angry—he'd become a threat to his grip. So, he started whispering in the right ears, trying to cut off Adam's supply lines and stomp him out before he got traction.
For a brief moment, Adam even considered taking the honest route—showing up at Weaver's office, dropping a fat envelope on his desk, and groveling a little. Maybe that could've smoothed it over.
But then he saw the cash he'd hustled. Every dollar had a story—a lie, a risk, a sleepless night. And now he was just supposed to give it away?
"Loeb's already squeezing me dry," Adam muttered. "And now this idiot wants to jump in line and take his cut too? What, because he's got a title and a bad haircut?"
The more he thought about it, the more furious he got. This wasn't just politics. This was disrespectful. Weaver had already stabbed him in the back twice. Even if he bought him off now, how long until he came for him again.
So Adam decided screw it and fight.
If Weaver wanted a war, he'd bring him one.
So, Adam stuffed the cash back in his coat, turned away from the Arkham branch, and headed for the one man who could tilt the table in his favor—Black Mask.
Sionis Tower loomed ahead, Gotham's twisted version of corporate respectability. On paper, it was a commercial building. In reality, it was a monument to Roman Sionis' empire of blood, drugs, and blackmail.
But the man himself wasn't there.
A quick bribe to the concierge told him everything he needed. Some idiot developer had defaulted on a loan, and Black Mask had gone to "negotiate." That meant he was probably elbows-deep in blood and bones at some half-finished construction site.
Adam got the address and went straight there.
The place was a disaster—an abandoned husk of concrete dreams. The cranes were rusted, scaffolding twisted like broken bones, and the ground was a mosaic of brick dust and trash. No workers. No noise. Just wind and the faint, sickly smell of blood.
Every creak echoed like a threat. The deeper he walked, the thicker the air got—blood, fear, and maybe something else. From up ahead, he heard it. Muffled. Distant. Screams.
That meant he was close.
"Looks like I found the right place," Adam whispered, drawing in a slow breath. His hand hovered near the pistol under his coat, just in case. The source of this content ɪs N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt
This was it—the moment of no return.
What was waiting for him inside?
A devil in a suit or the first step in a war he couldn't afford to lose?
Whatever it was, he wasn't walking away.
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