Just when Professor Crane believed he had the upper hand, Adam moved, as if he had been anticipating the attack all along. He lunged forward and seized both of Crane's arms in a steel grip, pinning them in place.
"You think I walked up to you just because I had nothing better to do?" Adam's lips curled into a feral grin. His arms flexed, forcing Crane's own toward himself, aligning the dark injector right at the professor's neck.
And then, in a whisper so low it buzzed like static in Crane's ear, Adam delivered the killing line: Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by ɴovel(ꜰ)ɪre.nᴇt
"I was actually worried how to wrap up this pathetic little act of yours. But look at you... jumping out all on your own. Perfect. Just perfect."
Professor Crane's pupils dilated. A cold chill ran down his spine as realization hit him. Everything—the bold 10-minute claim, the search warrant, the chaotic confrontation—had all been a trap. Adam had baited him into revealing himself.
Had he not panicked at Adam's arrogant bluff... Had he not thrown away the scarecrow suit in haste... Had that damn homeless man not found it...
"You—" Crane trembled, nostrils flaring with rage. This wasn't a mere detective. This was a devil in disguise, a master manipulator wearing a badge.
But before he could say more, Adam's fingers danced across Crane's wrist, flicking open the gas injection port with such familiarity, as if he'd designed it himself.
A thick, greyish-yellow mist burst from the nozzle, spraying directly into Crane's face.
He immediately held his breath.
With a devilish grin, Adam reached under Crane's arm—exactly three inches beneath, and gave it a quick, gentle scratch.
"Wh—What?!" Crane shrieked, body convulsing. "H-How do you know that's my—!?"
His voice cracked mid-sentence as the unbearable ticklish sensation surged through him. That was his most sensitive spot—how did Adam know?
Laughter exploded out of him uncontrollably.
And in that one second of weakness—he inhaled.
Crane's breath hitched. His pupils dilated once more, but not from fear. The toxin he'd created now coursed through his body. As an inventor, he knew exactly what came next.
The sterile white ceiling of the lab collapsed into a veil of writhing darkness. Vents and pipes contorted into spindly legs. Spiders. Thousands of them, crawling across a sky of black silk. Even the sound—the maddening scrape of predator claws echoing through the void—wasn't imagined.
But worst of all... Adam was still there.
Except now, his face had melted into a skeletal grin, bone white and endless. A crown of flame danced behind his head, eyes burning like twin furnaces of hell. His voice tore through the dark like thunder:
"Look into my eyes and surrender your soul!"
Adam knew the gas's effect: the victim hallucinates their deepest fear, manifests it in the person before them. That was the entire psychological trap. It was why, whenever Scarecrow was captured by Batman, Batman would make sure he inhaled his own gas—turning his fears back on himself.
And now, Adam was crafting the exact same legacy.
If he couldn't kill this future supervillain here and now, he would brand terror into his bones—forever.
"You...you..." Crane stuttered, teeth chattering, body trembling. In his eyes, Adam had become a monstrous, six-eyed crow, its wings beating back the air, trailing behind it a storm of screaming souls.
"Remember this face. Remember my voice," Adam intoned like a curse. "From now on, I am your nightmare. Every time you scheme... every time you think you're safe... I'll be there—dragging you back to hell."
Crane's legs buckled. Foam dribbled from his lips. And then... he collapsed, eyes rolling back.
Adam let go and flicked his hand in disgust, letting Crane's limp body crumple like a rag doll.
The officers nearby had witnessed the attempted assault. They quickly swarmed in to secure the scene and confiscate Klein's gear.
"Wait... that's it?" Chief Gordon looked at his watch, dumbfounded. "Twenty-four minutes? That kind of case usually takes weeks..."
"I told you, Jim," Adam said, yawning as he clapped Gordon on the shoulder. "You Gotham guys really need more sleep. I barely woke up from my nap."
He strolled off nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, already halfway out the door.
"Wait a minute—he's leaving? Now?" Gordon frowned, stepping forward.
"He can't go! There's still the interrogation, paperwork, confessions, filing—!"
But his partner, Bullock, grabbed his arm, voice low.
Bullock leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Don't you get it? He left on purpose. He's giving us credit. If he stays, it's all his. But if he walks out now, people will say we helped crack it. It's a favor. One you don't throw back in someone's face."
Gordon paused. His jaw tightened. Slowly, he turned and watched Adam disappear into the light of the morning.
Outside the building, Adam didn't leave immediately. Instead, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a wad of crisp bills, handing them to Jason, who was already one step ahead.
The kid had prepped a dozen envelopes, ready to distribute.
He nodded, took the cash, and slipped away. A few minutes later, Jason spotted the cameraman waiting across the street and sauntered over, flashing an innocent smile.
"Hey, mister journalist. Long night, huh? You probably haven't eaten yet. Detective Adam says thanks for your hard work, and here's breakfast on him. Oh, and by the way, the case is already solved. The murderer's been caught. Detective Adam will give a statement shortly."
The stunned reporter opened the envelope, and nearly dropped it when he heard the news.
Case solved? Already?
With barely a moment's hesitation, he bolted for Gotham University's front gate.
Right on cue, Adam emerged from the building, and within seconds, a swarm of reporters closed in on him from every direction.
Shutters clicked. Microphones shoved forward.
Adam exhaled, his face perfectly composed.
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