Everyone knows Gotham breeds monsters. But few understand just how deep that rot runs.
This city doesn't just create criminals. It nurtures them. Elevates them. And among its twisted pantheon of psychopaths and predators, some stand taller than the rest.
The Joker? Maybe the most chaotic. But his madness came with a past—tragedy, loss, maybe even pain. Penguin? A criminal, sure, but a devoted son to a fault. When his enemies kidnapped his mother, he dropped to his knees without hesitation, groveling, weeping, licking dirt off their boots to spare her. Mr. Freeze? Cold to the world, but his heart still beat for one woman—Nora. Every crime, every heist… it was all for her.
But Roman Sionis… The Black Mask?
No. He was different. He wasn't broken. He was rotten.
Born rich—filthy rich. Raised in luxury, second only to the Waynes. Privileged. Educated. Loved. He had everything a man could ever want.
And he set it all on fire.
The story goes—he murdered his own parents. Burned them alive just to get his inheritance. Then he took a hammer to his own face, carved a skull out of black wood, and wore it like a crown. He didn't fall into crime. He chose it. Built a gang. Declared war on Wayne Enterprises. Drenched Gotham's underworld in blood just because he could.
No pain drove him here. No reason. No remorse. Just appetite.
And now, that appetite had been fed again.
Black Mask stood there—chest heaving, suit soaked in blood—not because he'd shown mercy, but because he was tired. The businessman at his feet was no longer a man. Just a sack of bruised, pulped meat, barely twitching.
Yet even now, the poor bastard tried to speak. Lips quivering. Blood gurgling in his throat. A whisper, maybe. A curse. A final plea.
Adam didn't care to know.
Black Mask didn't either.
With a snarl, he pulled a pistol from inside his blood-spattered jacket and—
The gunshot echoed like a punctuation mark on a tragedy.
And just like that, the twitching stopped.
Adam watched, still frozen in place. There was no justice in Gotham, but sometimes… There was relief. Maybe death was the only kindness that man would know in his final moments.
"Fucking waste of fabric," Black Mask snarled, staring at the ruined sleeve of his custom-tailored suit. "I should've killed that damn tailor the second he finished this. Should've made a backup set."
He didn't even glance at the body. Just waved toward his men.
"Well? Don't just stand there. Shake him down. He better have something worth my time."
The thugs crouched and rifled through the blood-soaked remains. One of them, clearly trying not to vomit, held up a few crumpled bills.
"Twelve bucks, boss. That's all."
Black Mask let out a disgusted snort, lighting a cigar—somehow slipping it through the carved slots of his mask—and exhaled hard.
"Twelve bucks? Check his fucking mouth. He better have a gold tooth or two left in there. Jesus. Do I have to teach you clowns everything?"
The corpse's mouth was a mess of shattered enamel and busted gums. The thug shrugged helplessly.
Veins bulged across Black Mask's gloved hand. He crushed the cigar between his fingers and spat the embers to the floor.
"Fine," he growled, "then grab his wife. Juice her up, pass her to the Mexicans. Let her earn until this bastard's debt is paid in full."
Adam's stomach twisted.
"And the kid," Black Mask added casually. "Wasn't she in seventh grade? Perfect. I hear the Eastern market's hungry for that age bracket. Sell her too."
Adam's grip on his coat tightened. Every fiber of his being screamed to walk away, to forget what he'd just heard, to un-hear it. But his face remained still—pale, clammy—but still.
Black Mask wiped his hands and turned, flanked by his goons. He passed right by Adam, muttering to his inner circle.
"Watch the girl, though. She's one of those types—always talking about jumping. Knock her teeth out. No bites. Liquid diet. Cheaper. Oh, and sew her damn eyes shut. That way, she won't run even if she wants to."
That was when he finally noticed Adam.
His footsteps stopped. His eyes locked.
And slowly, deliberately, he drew his gun again—raised it, and aimed it right at Adam's face.
Barrel less than a foot from his forehead. Adam could smell the smoke still curling off the muzzle. Could feel it in his bones.
"Why the hell is there a stranger here?" Black Mask asked, voice like nails on silk. "Who the fuck let him in? You think I run a daycare?"
Adam stood perfectly still, every muscle wound tight. He was one heartbeat away from bolting—or being blown in half.
Luckily, one of the smarter thugs stepped forward and muttered something quickly into Black Mask's ear.
The masked killer tilted his head, lowered the pistol just an inch.
"Oh. You're the Chinese detective. Arkham District, right?"
Adam nodded once, curt. His throat felt dry.
"You here for tea? Or…" Sionis gestured lazily. "You bring me my money?" Follow current novels on ɴovᴇl(ꜰ)ir(e).nᴇt
Adam reached into his coat—slowly—and pulled out the newspaper-wrapped bundle. The thug took it, peeled it open, and began counting.
"Now that's more like it. Why can't everyone be this obedient?" He waved dismissively toward Adam. "Alright, you've done your part. Now get the fuck out of my face."
He turned, already moving past, his mood sour and boiling. His suit was ruined. Blood stained the cuffs. That alone was enough to set him off again. He didn't even offer a thank you.
Just like that… Adam was dismissed.
But that wasn't why he was here.
He hadn't come just to pay his dues. This meeting—this whole encounter—it had been calculated. He'd risked everything for this opening. If he let Black Mask walk away now, then everything he'd planned to counter Weaver's grip on the Arkham District would fall apart.
It would mean Adam had just paid for the privilege of watching a man be murdered.
His teeth clenched. He swallowed his disgust. Then—
Black Mask froze. Slowly turned.
That gaze again. Those crimson eyes burning through slits in black wood.
Adam's heart slammed in his chest. He couldn't let it show.
He lifted his chin and said, steady as he could:
"Maybe… I can do you a favor."
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