After returning to Gotham, Adam wracked his brain for ways to grow his influence. But whatever approach he considered, it all came down to money—a lot of it. South America had brought him some profits, but real power meant soldiers and muscle, and he was still short.
Just then, a colleague brought him a tempting offer. Someone in a coastal city wanted to buy an important disc for $300,000—an amount Adam had never handled before. The buyer insisted Adam handle everything personally and promised a delivery bonus, but the penalty for failure was steep: miss the deal, and Adam owed three times as much.
Adam knew the risk was huge. Even as he needed the cash, he didn't jump in but stalled for time, saying he'd think it over.
Back at his desk, Adam skipped his usual night patrol and sat reviewing the offer, pencil in hand, weighing his options. S
uddenly, loud voices and footsteps echoed through the building. He looked up to see a group of men in suits storming in—tough, cold, and unmistakably mafia. Leading the pack was none other than Gotham's new crime boss, the Black Mask.
"What's he doing here?" Adam muttered with a frown. Arkham was the run-down side of Gotham; most criminals stayed away. If Black Mask was here now, something was seriously wrong.
Adam quickly grabbed a few hidden tools from his desk, tucked a gun by his side, and tried to prepare himself.
Black Mask didn't care about the shocked stares around him. He marched into the heart of the police hall, climbed onto a table, and barked at the whole room: "I want to talk to certain people. The rest of you—out!"
Nearly a hundred people—officers and staff—froze, stunned by the gangster's nerve. Black Mask kicked a metal badge off the table, sending it spinning across the floor in Adam's direction.
"Didn't you hear me? Clear out! Now!" he snapped.
At that, a second wave of mafia men burst in, these ones armed to the teeth with submachine guns. Their cold faces and ready weapons made their message clear—this was no empty threat.
Quickly, groups of staff hurried out, leaving Adam alone at his desk, face pale but hands steady.
"Ah, Adam. Now it's just us," Black Mask said, hopping down and swaggering over to Adam's table.
The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Adam didn't move. He just stared right back at Black Mask, keeping his fear hidden, refusing to show even a flicker of weakness.
The standoff dragged on. Annoyed, Black Mask finally snapped.
"Do you even realize the chaos you've caused?" he shouted, then suddenly kicked at Adam's head with a steel-toed shoe. But Adam, moving on instinct, blocked the kick with his elbow, sending pain shooting up Black Mask's leg. Off balance, Black Mask crashed onto the table, clutching his foot and cursing.
Adam stood and smiled, "Mr. Sionis, is this some kind of circus act?"
"Don't play dumb!" Black Mask growled, staggering upright. "My shipment from South America is gone! Everything you arranged was stolen right out from under me!"
Adam blinked, shocked. "Stolen? All of it? How?"
That answer made Black Mask furious. He grabbed Adam by the collar, their faces inches apart. "Not only is everything gone—twenty of my guys are dead. I paid for information and found out a bunch of mercenaries took it. Their leader even left a message—'A gift for Detective Adam of Gotham!' Still pretending it's not your fault?"
Adam's face changed as it all clicked. Bane had pulled this off—as revenge or payback for their last encounter. Now Black Mask thought Adam had something to do with it—or, worse, that he'd set the whole thing up
One thing was certain: whatever Adam's problems were before, they just got a lot more dangerous.