While Weaver looked like a nervous wreck, Dr. Hugo remained composed. This drama didn't concern him — not directly, anyway. As a psychologist, he had no interest in petty bureaucratic squabbles. What did catch his attention, however, was Adam himself.
At first, Hugo had written Adam off as a showboat. Solving a case in ten minutes? That sounded like a bad joke. But as time passed and he observed Adam more carefully, something didn't add up.
Most people, when lying, can't help revealing it. A twitch of the nose, a hand near the mouth — all symptoms of internal stress caused by catecholamines released when the brain is being dishonest. Yet Adam showed none of that. No nervous tics, no dodging eyes. Instead, he exuded a quiet confidence, even while setting an elaborate trap for Weaver right in front of everyone. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ NovᴇlFɪre.nᴇt
'Could this kid really do it?', Hugo mused, 'Unless he's some kind of elite agent with total psychological control… or an exceptional manipulator. Either way… I'd love to study him up close.'
What Adam didn't realize was that his casual one-upmanship had piqued the curiosity of one of Gotham's most dangerous minds.
Meanwhile, Adam was still playing the perfect civil servant, flashing his innocent eyes as he spoke, "Director, please be my guarantor. I just want to catch the criminal as quickly as possible."
He looked every bit the animated poster boy for public service — noble, determined, and sparkling with duty.
Weaver, however, looked like he'd swallowed a nail. He knew this was an act. But he couldn't call it out — not in front of the mayor, not after publicly endorsing Adam moments earlier. All he could do was stammer in a pitiful tone, "W-We should be cautious… collect more evidence first, y'know, just to be safe…"
Mayor Hank Milton Hill watched with a furrowed brow. Why was Arkham's chief so unwilling to take responsibility?
Then, a new voice cut in:
"If Director Weaver won't guarantee you, I will."
Everyone turned. It was James Gordon, Sheriff of the Gotham Bureau and deputy captain of the Special Operations Team. His face was firm, his voice resolute.
"As his superior, I'll vouch forAdam. Just bring that criminal in, fast."
Adam blinked, caught off guard. He hadn't expected Gordon — of all people — to step in. And from the sidelines, his partner Bullock looked equally stunned. The man had been content to sit back and watch the chaos unfold. Now his own teammate was diving headfirst into the mess.
"Hey! Grandpa Hero Complex, didn't I tell you to stay out of it?" Bullock hissed, grabbing Gordon by the elbow. "This case is a disaster. That dumb kid just promised to solve it in ten minutes — ten! He's clearly full of it. And now you're vouching for him? Are you trying to make me lose my appetite?"
But Gordon held his ground, looking Bullock square in the eye.
"This isn't about us," he said. "The city is in danger. If Adam really has the ability to stop it, then we let him. End of story."
Gordon was frustrated. In his eyes, Adam was an enigma — a prodigy detective who had helped clean up after Loeb's operation, who had stopped Fras cold in the underground garage, and yet who always avoided the spotlight, hiding like a shadow behind fences and stairwells. Not exactly the behavior of a selfless hero.
'Still… I believe in him,' Gordon thought, 'Even if he's evasive, there's something solid under the surface.'
Bullock rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you actually think he can crack this thing in ten minutes. It takes that long just to get a cat down from a tree. Is he Superman now?"
Gordon's gaze drifted back to Adam — to the calm posture, the unblinking confidence, the subtle chess game he'd played with Weaver.
"If anyone can do it," Gordon muttered, "it's him."
Bullock snorted. "In that case, wanna double down on our bet? Another fifty bucks says the kid crashes and burns."
But Gordon didn't bite. "I'm not betting," he said. "Believing in goodness isn't a gamble. Betting against it is just poor judgment."
As the two argued quietly in the corner, Mayor Hill and Weaver exchanged relieved glances. With someone finally foolish enough to vouch for Adam, things could proceed smoothly. They immediately moved to submit the paperwork for an emergency search warrant.
Far from the bustle of Arkham and city offices, the old Wayne Manor stood in silent vigil atop a lonely hill.
Alfred moved calmly through its stone halls, a tray of breakfast in hand. As usual, Bruce wasn't in bed. He was never in bed. The young master spent his nights buried in the Batcave — working tirelessly like some sleepless vampire in the dark.
Last night had changed everything. Eight separate individuals had gone violently insane across Gotham. Self-harm. Hallucinations. Total psychological collapse. All were now in Arkham, far beyond reasoning. The city's top brass were scrambling to contain the story. But no one could keep Batman in the dark.
Blood samples had already made their way to the Batcave, and Bruce had spent the night hunched over the Batcomputer, running endless chemical analyses, searching for answers, trying to isolate the agent responsible — and maybe, just maybe, find a cure before the madness spread.
The Knight of Gotham worked in silence and the clock was ticking.
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