If Adam were the one calling the shots from the start, the street would've been cleared in minutes. A couple of fire trucks, one high-pressure hose, and boom—instant crowd dispersal. These weren't hardened gangsters—they were hired hands, hourly muscle playing soldier for whoever paid best. Their loyalty didn't go past the paycheck.
The real problem was that Central Command had dumped officers on the scene without follow-up or leadership. And now everyone—cops, gang thugs, and passersby—stood around stuck in a standoff, unsure whether to fight, flee, or wait for someone else to blink first.
But Adam didn't plan to stand around playing babysitter. If he was here, he might as well make it count and walk away with the credit.
Standing on a nearby rooftop, Adam gave a small nod to Deadshot posted beside him.
"Stalemates are boring," Adam muttered, scanning the streets below. "When are these idiots going to stop posing and start swinging? Can't even be bothered to start the drama themselves."
Deadshot smirked. "Say no more."
Without hesitation, he plucked an empty glass bottle from behind him, lazily tossed it backward over his shoulder, and let gravity take it from there.
The bottle sailed through the air in a perfect arc and cracked squarely against the head of a gang lieutenant in the center of the mob.
The man dropped like a sack of bricks.
Gasps and shouts erupted—then came the screams.
"The boss is down!"
"Get those bastards!"
The already-tense line between the rival groups snapped. Knives flashed. Clubs swung. Bodies slammed into one another as all-out brawling broke loose on the street. It was a free-for-all.
Down on street level, the commanding officer—pulled fresh from the academy and clearly in over his head—looked like a deer caught in high beams. He hadn't expected violence to erupt, and now, instead of restoring order, he was being swallowed by it.
Trying not to panic, he grabbed his radio and barked, "Everyone—move in! Suppress the riot! Now!"
But it was a rookie mistake.
A battle already in motion isn't something you run into headfirst—especially when you're outnumbered and outmatched.
As the under-equipped frontline officers obeyed without blinking, they marched directly into a war zone. Uniforms made them obvious targets. Within seconds, they were taking hits from both sides—clubbed, shoved, and kicked by gang members who couldn't even distinguish between friend and foe anymore.
The Arkham team, led by Adam, didn't move a muscle.
"They're not our men," Adam had said earlier. "Let their genius commander enjoy his moment."
Back on the rooftop, Adam watched it all unfold with a calm detachment. People screamed. A baton broke. A streetlamp got smashed. Someone's hat flew across the sidewalk.
Perfect.
"Media's almost on-site," Deadshot reported, spotting vans arriving on the outskirts.
"Good," Adam replied. "Keep an eye on them. Let me know when they're recording."
Below, confusion deepened. Without order, the two gangs had devolved into a swirling whirlwind of fists and curses. No one knew who they were fighting anymore—just swinging blindly to survive.
Adam smoked quietly, exhaling a thin trail into the sky.
"Remember the leaders I pointed out earlier?" he asked. "We tag them first when we move."
Deadshot nodded. "Names and faces logged. Whenever you say go."
Meanwhile, the poor officers from Central were still getting torn apart. Shields were dented, helmets cracked. They hadn't signed up for real chaos—at least not like this. A few, bloodied and exhausted, were already cursing the name of the commander who got them into this mess.
Gotham's police force had been corrupted and coddled for decades. Some were more on the gang's side than the department's. Most just wanted their paychecks and quiet shifts.
"Sir," came Deadshot's voice in a low murmur, "Media's live. They've got reporters and cameras rolling."
Adam flicked away his cigarette.
"Showtime."
He radioed down to his unit.
"All Arkham officers—masks on, gear up. Launch tear gas—wide spread. Suppression pattern only. Nobody goes in yet."
Within seconds, sleek Arkham officers moved into action—firing smoke grenades in neat arcs across the plaza. The grenades burst with sharp hisses, releasing choking clouds of smoke. Within moments, the street turned white with fog.
Gasping and coughing, both gangs staggered backward, blinded and stunned.
A sudden jet of water burst forward from a hidden fire hose at the edge of the square—prepped hours earlier by Adam's crew. Jet streams hammered through the smoke, knocking several rioters off their feet.
By the time fresh air returned, half the fighters were on the ground and the rest were scrambling for exits.
That's when Adam gave the final order.
"Move in. Pull the leaders. Leave the small fry for Central to cart off."
His men stormed in with speed and precision—quiet, efficient, brutal in coordination. Within minutes, the key agitators were hauled out, handcuffed, and restrained.
Some tried to run.
None got far.
Reporters, still blinking through watering eyes, gasped as Adam stepped through the haze. Calm, upright, collected. Not a scratch on him.
Cameras flashed.
He wasn't yelling or panicking. Just calmly giving orders, as if he'd expected this exact situation to happen from the very beginning.
"Scene secured. Ten leaders in custody. Minimal injuries to civilians and officers. No fatalities," Adam told the press calmly. "No further escalation expected tonight."
Meanwhile, the actual officers from Central were still bandaging bruises and complaining about their ruined uniforms but as camera crews zeroed in and reporters started rolling, there was only one face they filmed.
Adam.
Standing tall, smoke clearing behind him, looking like the man who just ended the chaos Gotham couldn't contain.
And that… was exactly the point.