The apartment door slammed shut behind Adam with a dull metallic clang.
He stood there for a moment—forehead against the wood, breath ragged, rage coiled in his chest like a coiled viper.
The bastard had appeared like a shadow from Gotham's gutters, and now his debt collectors were breathing down Adam's neck.
In every version of Gotham he'd read about, watched, or played in, Roman Sionis never had a happy ending. Shot by Red Hood. Burned by Joker. Dismantled by Batman. Even the universe seemed to hate the guy.
But that was the future.
Right now? Adam was broke, unarmed, unsupported—and Black Mask's men were circling.
Like a dog without fangs.
And was hit by a wave of rot.
Takeout containers—half-eaten, grease-stained—littered the floor like rotting corpses. Moldy chopsticks jutted from Styrofoam graves. Empty liquor bottles lay on their sides like spent bullet casings. Clothes—if you could call them that—were strewn across the couch and floor like crime scene tape. Everything smelled like cat piss, old sweat, and defeat.
This was the life he'd inherited.
"Jesus..." Adam muttered, stepping over a flattened pizza box.
He dropped onto the stained couch—well, collapsed was more accurate—and buried his face in his hands.
"$45,000 in a week," he whispered. "For what?"
He already knew the answer.
He hadn't even spent the money.
Some other guy—some loser cop with a gambling addiction or a taste for blow—had borrowed it. And then he'd died or disappeared or done something reckless, and now he, Adam, was holding the bag.
"Goddamn you," Adam hissed, slapping his own cheek hard enough to sting. "You pathetic piece of trash. You crawled into debt and left me to drown in it."
He hit himself again. Then a third time. Harder.
After the fourth slap, his cheek was raw and throbbing.
He sat there a moment longer, chest heaving. Then, reluctantly, he dragged himself up and began to tear through the apartment. Ripping open drawers. Yanking up cushions. Tossing everything not bolted down.
There had to be something.
A watch. A hidden stash. Drugs. Guns. Old tech. Anything he could flip for a quick payday.
"Are you f***ing kidding me," Adam muttered, holding up a cracked jewel case labeled 'Busty Blondes 5: The Reckoning'. "This is what you spent the loan on? Not even Blu-ray?"
He dropped the case into a pile of socks that may or may not have once been white.
"God, I need a shower," he muttered. Then paused. "Actually, I need a new life."
Across the city, far removed from Adam's filthy shoebox apartment, the Batcave was quiet.
Only the soft hum of machinery and the click of Alfred's shoes on concrete echoed beneath the towering vaults and columns of Wayne Manor's most secret wing.
Bruce Wayne stepped down from the platform, his armor torn and bloodied. The cowl hung at his side like a war-worn relic.
Alfred, immaculate as ever in his pressed black suit, offered a tray with a glass of filtered water and a protein bar.
"Hyōgo-raised Kobe beef was also prepared," Alfred said, matter-of-fact. "Grass-fed. Ethically sourced. I do recommend it over cold vengeance and bruised ribs."
Bruce waved him off. "Later."
He dropped into the leather-backed chair by the Batcomputer and started stripping off the armor. Each plate revealed fresh bruises, stitched wounds, or raw skin.
"More bullet holes than usual tonight," Alfred noted. "Should I begin pre-orders for kevlar futures?"
Instead, he said quietly, "The kid from the press conference. You found him?"
"Indeed," Alfred said, handing over a crisp manila file. "Adam Zhou. Twenty-three. Chinese-American. Rookie cop. Recently transferred to Arkham District. His moment of courage didn't go unnoticed."
Bruce's eyes narrowed as he flipped through the file.
Photos. Reports. A body cam still of Adam standing at a press conference, nervously raising his voice above the crowd, speaking out in defense of Gotham's only hope.
And in Gotham, those were usually the same thing. Google seaʀᴄh Novᴇ(l)Fɪre .ɴᴇt
"Anything else?" Bruce asked, not looking up.
"Yes. He's already drawn the attention of Black Mask. And…" Alfred hesitated. "He's broke. Dangerously so."
Bruce's brow twitched.
Another good man, alone in a bad city.
Back in the apartment, Adam sat against the window, knees pulled to his chest, watching the grime-streaked street lamps flicker in the distance.
He didn't have a plan.
He didn't even have a dollar to his name.
But somehow, somehow, he had to find a way to scrape together forty-five grand in seven days. Or die trying.
And something told him... he wasn't going to die.