The sudden chaos in the ward left everyone stunned. The patients on the beds—twisting, clawing at themselves, faces contorted in agony—looked more like people possessed than mentally ill. Even the most seasoned officers were momentarily frozen in place.
"Please, do not approach," Dr. Hugo said calmly, as though the room weren't descending into madness. "These patients are uniquely sensitive. The presence of unfamiliar people tends to aggravate their condition—makes them more volatile, more unpredictable."
He spoke with unnerving ease, hands folded behind his back as if he were lecturing in a university hall. "We've already examined their gastrointestinal tracts and found nothing abnormal. Blood analysis is underway, but it will be some time before we have concrete results."
He gestured, and staff moved quickly to distribute thick case files to the police officers in the room.
As they flipped through the documents, brows furrowed in confusion. The victims were from widely varying backgrounds, with no clear demographic pattern. The locations were equally scattered. The only thing linking them was the identical, disturbing symptomology. Without that, no one would guess these cases were connected.
"Damn it," Bullock muttered, flipping a page. "Only sixty-four hours since the first report, and we've already got eight victims. Whoever's behind this isn't slowing down. And we're completely in the dark."
Mayor Hank Milton Hill nodded gravely. "Which is precisely why I called all of you here. Gotham's citizens are panicking. We need this case closed quickly—and cleanly. I need volunteers."
There was complete silence. No one stepped forward.
Unlike other crimes, serial cases couldn't be smoothed over with scapegoats or backroom deals. The moment another incident followed the same pattern, the illusion would fall apart. No one wanted to be tied to a case that might spiral into something uncontrollable.
Gordon exhaled and began rising to his feet. As usual, he was prepared to take responsibility—if only to ensure it wouldn't fall into the wrong hands. But just as he stood, Bullock pulled him gently back down, whispering urgently:
"Gordon, don't do this. You know how bad this could get. If this lunatic decides to strike on the subway or in a crowded place, we're talking hundreds of casualties. You take this case, and you're the fall guy. Don't be a hero this time."
While Gordon hesitated, Weaver from the Arkham Division suddenly stepped forward, his expression solemn.
"This case is urgent," he said. "We can't let innocent people remain at risk. The Arkham branch will take responsibility."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Within the force, Weaver's name was hardly synonymous with competence. Most knew he was more politician than detective, and his career had long stagnated in Gotham's most neglected district. That he'd volunteer to lead a high-risk, high-profile case was baffling.
Mayor Hill, unaware of the deeper politics, beamed with relief. "Director Weaver, that's the kind of initiative this city needs. You handle this well, and I'll personally put in a word with Commissioner Loeb."
But Weaver raised a hand and gave a humble smile. "Mr. Mayor, I must clarify. I'm not taking the case personally. I'm merely nominating the most promising talent in our branch—Detective Adam. He's young, but incredibly capable. The youngest Chinese detective in Gotham's history. I trust him completely."
The flattery was transparent. Even Gordon winced. It was classic maneuvering: heap on the praise, raise expectations to impossible levels, then let the fall be that much harder.
Everyone knew what this was. Weaver was making Adam the sacrificial lamb. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ NovᴇlFir(e).nᴇt
Yet Mayor Hill, too distracted by the political pressure, clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Excellent! Adam, we're counting on you. This case must be solved in one week. Gotham needs answers."
Around the room, expressions shifted from surprise to sympathy. Bullock especially looked pained. Cases —no leads, no motive, no clear suspect—could take months, even years. The infamous Black Dahlia case hadn't been solved in over 70 years. One week was absurd.
In the back, Adam stood silently, his face unreadable. It was as if none of this concerned him at all. Then, as Mayor Hill turned to him, he slowly raised three fingers.
"You mean... three weeks?" the mayor asked, frowning. "This isn't negotiable. The people of Gotham need reassurance—two weeks, that's the absolute limit!"
But Adam didn't flinch. He calmly lowered his hand and responded, voice even and unshaken:
"No, Mr. Mayor. You misunderstood. When I held up three fingers... I wasn't asking for three weeks."
He paused, eyes sweeping the room.
"I was saying I only need three to ten minutes."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Every officer in the room stared at him, stunned. Even the noise from the ward outside seemed to fade. Adam's words hung in the air like an impossible echo.
Three to ten minutes?
Gotham's best and most experienced detectives hadn't dared to touch this case, and this young upstart had just declared he'd wrap it up before the coffee went cold.
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