At that moment, Chief Loeb—visibly shaken—paid no attention to what Adam was thinking. His trembling hand reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, which he used to dab at the sweat trickling down his pale forehead.
"Get someone to start the car in the underground garage!" Loeb barked, voice cracking with urgency. "I'll be down in five minutes. Make sure the reporters don't spot me. Tonight, 'The Roman'—Falcone—is hosting a charity gala downtown. I won't be late because of this circus!"
Adam's eyes narrowed. He recognized the name "Falcone" all too well. Known as "The Roman," Carmine Falcone was the undisputed kingpin of Gotham's criminal underworld. A man who valued family yet ruled with the cold efficiency of a seasoned Mafioso. He embodied elegance and brutality in equal measure—dapper suits, tulips in his lapel, and blood on his hands. Before the Joker's reign of chaos, it was Falcone who had Gotham under his heel. He'd even had a complicated relationship—half rival, half friend—with Thomas Wayne, Batman's father.
But despite Loeb's clear command, none of the officers moved. An uncomfortable silence settled across the room. Finally, a nervous voice piped up, "Sir... there are reporters blocking the underground garage too. They're waiting for you."
Loeb's face twisted into an expression of barely contained rage. His skin flushed an unhealthy red as he ripped off his tie and slammed a hand on the heavy wooden desk.
"You incompetent fools! You've completely disgraced me!" he roared. "That lunatic in the bat suit dumps a dozen of Falcone's men on our doorstep in broad daylight, and now the press is eating us alive! I can't even sneak out the back like a coward!"
He paced furiously, then spun around and shouted, "And now I have to show my face at Falcone's event with reporters snapping photos of me like a clown? You think the Roman won't notice? That I won't lose face?"
Then, in a dramatic gesture rarely seen from the notoriously stingy commissioner, Loeb added, "Whoever can go out there and deal with those reporters—I'll personally see that you're rewarded handsomely."
That last bit was telling. Loeb was a man known for clenching his wallet tighter than his fists. If he was offering incentives, it meant he was truly desperate.
But the room remained still.
None of the officers made a move. They all averted their eyes, shrinking into their uniforms like frightened children. Only Adam stood there, confused, his eyes darting from one man to another. He didn't understand why everyone looked like the sky was falling.
Hell, there was nothing more terrifying than watching everyone panic while you had no idea why.
Loeb noticed Adam's apparent calm—or rather, his cluelessness. His eyes lit up.
"You!" he snapped, pointing. "Yes, you. Congratulations, you've just been promoted to detective. Go out there and deal with those reporters."
Adam opened his mouth to protest, but Loeb had already turned away, waving dismissively like a man brushing lint off his lapel.
Adam was speechless. He still didn't know how he got here. He didn't remember becoming a cop. Hell, he didn't even know how time travel worked. But somehow, despite his confusion, he had just been handed a promotion.
Not bad for a guy who was on the toilet fifteen minutes ago.
Just as he was led out into the hallway, a group of stern-faced elderly women in dark suits intercepted him. With surgical efficiency, they shoved bundles of densely packed notes into his hands. The papers were stacked so high he had to use both arms to carry them.
"What the—?!" Adam blurted as one loose page fluttered near his mouth, nearly choking him.
One of the older women fixed him with a cold, unforgiving stare. "These are the official talking points from City Hall. You must answer any media inquiries strictly according to the material provided. If you deviate—even slightly—there will be consequences."
Adam's eyes widened. He flipped through a few pages and read:
"Absolutely do not acknowledge the existence of any bat-shaped vigilantes aiding law enforcement. Divert the topic immediately."
"Minimize arrest numbers. Provide vague or unrelated answers whenever possible."
He skimmed more pages, filled with bureaucratic jargon, cover-ups, and politically safe responses. They were notes from the mayor's office, the police department, and other city agencies—all designed to present a unified front while avoiding the truth.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
That's why no one wanted this job. One slip, one word out of line, and it wouldn't just be a lost promotion—it'd be a career-ending disaster. The kind of mistake that could get someone demoted, fired, or worse... silenced.
Adam turned to run.
But the stone-faced ladies were prepared. Two of them clamped down on his arms like well-trained bouncers, dragging him forward with the efficiency of people who had done this many times before.
And just like that, Adam was pushed through a set of double doors into the blinding glare of press cameras.
Dozens of flashes exploded around him like miniature lightning bolts. The drab lobby suddenly became brighter than Broadway. Adam winced, momentarily disoriented. It took him a moment to adjust—and then he saw them.
Reporters.
Tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder, waving microphones in his face like swords. Clunky cameras hung from neck straps, and long boom mics hovered like vultures above carrion. There must've been thirty of them—maybe more—all crammed in like it was rush hour on a Monday morning subway.
The barrage came instantly.
"Officer, what's your stance on the Bat vigilante?"
"Any leads on the East End killings?"
"How long until the arrested criminals walk free again?"
A flood of questions poured over him, each more intense than the last. The room buzzed with chaos, like a pot about to boil over.
Adam's instincts kicked in. He'd lived in the real world. He'd seen press conferences go sideways. The key was always the same—control the narrative. If he let them keep firing off questions, he'd be eaten alive. He had to flip the script.
He stepped forward, eyes blazing, and shouted:
"Silence! This is a police precinct—not a fish market! Everyone calm down!"
The reporters froze, startled by the unexpected authority in his voice. A strange hush fell over the room.
Adam seized the moment.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, welcome to Gotham PD," he said smoothly. "But I ask for your cooperation. Right now, over a hundred hardworking officers are squeezed into this building, working tirelessly to maintain order in one of the toughest cities in America. Excessive noise only makes that job harder."
He glanced around, measuring their expressions.
"You're all professionals—journalists, reporters, investigators. Not paparazzi from some third-rate gossip rag, right? So let's keep this civil."
A few reporters looked sheepish. Others adjusted their ties or glanced down at their notepads. The tide was turning.
Adam had flipped the dynamic. He had thrown their own professionalism back at them, shamed them into silence without being hostile. It was a deft move—and it bought him time.
Now, he just had to survive the rest of the press conference.