The men didn't wait for Adam to answer.
By the time he backed away, the hallway was already sealed. A bald brute blocked the stairwell. Another leaned against the fire exit with crossed arms and a pipe tucked into his belt. Their movements were smooth—professional. No threats screamed. Just cold, practiced efficiency.
These weren't street thugs.
They were collectors.
And they worked for Black Mask.
One of them produced a coarse rope and a heavy burlap sack from under his coat, like it was routine. Not a word needed to be said. The implication was clear:
Either pay... or disappear.
Adam's back hit the wall.
A thousand things raced through his mind. None of them good.
He was cornered, unarmed, and alone. And the worst part? He couldn't even call the cops—because he was one. Who the hell does the badge protect when the sharks work inside the precinct?
Gotham was laughing in his face again.
"You know the rules, Detective," said the lead collector, voice devoid of emotion. "A badge doesn't buy you immunity. Not from this."
Adam swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fact that someone was already checking the windows behind him. A tight perimeter. No exits.
He opened his mouth, scrambling. "L-Look. Let's talk. You can't get money out of a corpse, right? Just give me a few days. I can figure something out—"
The thug chuckled darkly, shaking his head.
"You think this is my first week, rookie? Even if you skim the till and shake down every corner store on your beat, you're not pulling forty grand. Not in time. You're a cop. You're broke. That's the game."
Forty thousand dollars.
Adam's hands clenched.
And just like that, something in his mind clicked.
Details.
The thug said cop. Not detective.
Adam straightened slightly. "You're wrong," he said, fishing into his coat pocket and pulling out the badge he'd just received. "I'm not just a beat cop anymore."
The badge gleamed gold under the dim hallway bulb, sharp and polished. Detective.
The goons hesitated. For the first time.
The air shifted.
Because killing a uniformed officer in Gotham? That was routine.
But a detective? That came with repercussions.
Even under Loeb's corrupt regime, that kind of heat drew attention. Reporters. Internal Affairs. Maybe even a couple of self-righteous vigilantes in capes. And no one—not even Black Mask—wanted that noise.
Adam saw the flicker of doubt, and pressed.
"This badge? I bought it—with blood and bribes and the money I borrowed from you people. Your money built me up. I'm your investment, whether you like it or not."
He unbuttoned his coat and let it hang open.
Inside, the sleek leather of a shoulder holster gleamed—cradling his GCPD-issued Glock.
Not some cheap pistol jammed into a belt. This was a symbol.
Authority. Power. Permission to kill.
And permission to carry.
Most beat cops had to lock their guns at the precinct after shift. But detectives? They wore death under the arm like perfume.
It wasn't just about firepower.
It was about status.
"You kill me now," Adam continued coolly, "and you're wasting your own capital. You'd be cutting off the income I can funnel back to you. I can skim off drug raids. I can make evidence disappear. I can—"
"Alright, alright." The leader raised his hands.
His face shifted into a slow, toothy grin.
"I see what you're doing. You're playing the long game, huh?"
He turned to his men.
"Boys, looks like we've got a real one here. Moved up fast."
Adam didn't flinch. He kept his hand near his coat, just brushing the grip of the gun. Enough to imply he'd draw if needed. Enough to remind them that, right now, his finger was the only reason things hadn't gone sideways.
The thug leaned in.
"You just bought yourself one week. That's it."
Then, like flipping a switch, the warmth vanished.
"But don't forget who you're dealing with, detective. You owe Black Mask. That number was forty thousand. Now it's forty-five. That's the interest for tonight's hospitality."
Adam opened his mouth.
The thug's smile died.
"You gonna argue, hero? 'Cause if you are, I'll call Mr. Sionis right now and let him know you used his real name. See how long that badge of yours protects you then."
Adam clenched his jaw and said nothing.
The thug turned to his crew. "Let's go. Keep eyes on the stations. If our little gold-boy tries skipping town, break his legs before he gets off the platform."
They vanished like smoke into the stairwell.
Adam stood there, seething. Hands shaking. Jaw tight.
He wanted to shoot them in the back.
He wanted to put all four of them in the ground.
But he didn't.
Because in Gotham?
Impulse gets you killed.
He slammed the door to his apartment behind him.
The lock barely clicked.
Adam leaned against the peeling wall and let out a long, slow exhale.
His body was trembling. Rage. Fear. Shame.
All of it burned in his gut like acid.
"Goddamn Gotham," he whispered.
Other people fall into new worlds and get powers, systems, magic—meaning.
Adam?
He got debt collectors and death threats from the most dangerous gangster on the East Coast.
His eyes moved toward the cracked bathroom mirror. The man staring back at him looked tired. Angry. But not broken.
Not yet.
"This place wants to chew me up," Adam murmured. "But I'm not a goddamn chew toy."
Not anymore.
And definitely not for Roman Sionis.
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