The silence in the press hall was razor-thin after Adam's startled realization.
Bruce Wayne. The billionaire prince of Gotham. The Wayne family heir. And, if Adam's suspicions were correct, the man behind the mask.
Bruce didn't offer any humility in response to the introductions. Instead, he casually crossed his legs, leaned back in his seat, and flashed a grin that dripped arrogance.
"I'm also the largest donor to the Gotham Police Department," he said, with lazy emphasis. "So I think I've earned the right to make sure my money's not being flushed down the toilet."
With a casual flick of his wrist, he draped his arm around the waist of a stunning female reporter sitting beside him, who giggled at the attention. The other women surrounding him leaned in, drawn to his confidence like moths to flame.
Adam's eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong.
Not just with Bruce's behavior—but with everything. The sheer number of reporters today. The coordination. The fact that even the underground parking lot had been locked down. It didn't add up. Gotham's media was fiercely competitive—vultures, mostly. It was rare to see them work together unless someone was pulling the strings behind the scenes.
Adam's gut told him that someone had orchestrated this spectacle. And the man lounging before him, cloaked in arrogance and charm, was far too comfortable in the chaos.
He spoke carefully. "So… what exactly do you want from us, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce didn't answer immediately. He sipped from a coffee cup brought to him—black, no cream, no sugar. He bantered briefly with the reporters around him, laughed at a joke one whispered in his ear, and only then, as if remembering Adam existed, responded.
"Last night, at the Zeus Hotel art salon," Bruce drawled, "I heard something interesting. Apparently there's a… vampire bat flapping around Gotham. Causing mayhem in the dark. Doesn't your police department plan on doing something about it?"
His words were flippant, dismissive. The very image of entitlement.
To the average person, Bruce sounded like a brainless playboy. Arrogant, thoughtless, disconnected from reality. It wasn't hard to see why Gotham's working class mocked him behind closed doors, painting him as a shallow trust fund brat with more charm than substance.
But Adam wasn't the average person.
He had read enough stories, seen enough clues to understand this was an act. The buffoonery, the detachment—it was the mask. The real Bruce Wayne didn't drink at parties. He drank ginger juice. He didn't sleep around; his butler Alfred fretted about the family legacy for a reason. Every rumor, every headline, was part of the smokescreen.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
And right now, he was probing the police department for weaknesses.
Adam treaded carefully. "We're aware of the reports," he said, cautiously choosing each word. "Our bureau has developed a strategy, but it's… sensitive. Not suitable for public discussion yet."
He watched Bruce's face closely. Waiting.
Bruce scoffed. Loudly. "Typical bureaucrats," he sneered. "Too busy drafting excuses while the city burns. Is that how you uphold the law—by keeping secrets while citizens sleep in fear?"
He shoved his chair back and stood abruptly. His smile had vanished, replaced by cold disdain. "Enjoy the coffee. I'll be re-evaluating future donations."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
A nearby officer nearly tripped over himself rushing toward Adam, his face white with panic. Losing Bruce Wayne's financial support would devastate the department's budget. The officer shoved a file into Adam's hands—a hastily drafted "Batman apprehension plan."
So that was it. The entire press ambush had been a setup. A pressure cooker designed to force the GCPD to expose their strategy against Gotham's new masked guardian.
Adam's mind raced. Bruce was testing the waters. Not as a spoiled heir, but as Batman. He wanted to know if the police were allies—or enemies. If they'd play by the law—or try to hunt him down.
Adam stared at the file. He had a choice.
He could play along—read out the plan, show deference to Loeb, preserve his temporary favor with the brass.
Or he could gamble. Speak the truth. Abandon the politics, and reach the man behind the mask.
Adam looked up.
"I didn't say anything earlier because I didn't want to tip our hand," he said evenly. "But now, after seeing the way this man's helped us… I don't think we need to hunt him down."
The air in the room shifted.
Adam's voice rose, clear and confident.
"Yes, what he's doing is illegal. But it's also necessary. Because while we were drowning in red tape, he was dragging murderers off the street. And maybe… maybe that doesn't make him a criminal. Maybe it makes him a hero."
The press room exploded. Reporters leapt from their seats, cameras flashing wildly, pens scribbling with manic intensity. The other officers gaped in stunned silence. Someone dropped a coffee cup.
Adam didn't stop.
"We don't deserve him," he continued, voice hard with conviction. "But Gotham needs him. He bears injustice. He absorbs our fear. He protects the city while we sleep. And he does it without asking for praise or power."
He glanced at the reporters. "So maybe it's time we stop calling him a freak… and start calling him what he is."
Adam took a breath, then spoke the words that would echo through the headlines for weeks to come.
"He's not just a vigilante. He's a knight. A Dark Knight."
Chaos erupted.
Reporters surged forward, shouting questions. Cameras went off like fireworks. But Adam had said what he came to say. A few officers finally moved to drag him off the stage, worried he'd cause irreparable damage with Loeb.
As they hauled him toward the exit, Adam cast one last look over his shoulder.
Bruce Wayne hadn't moved.
The billionaire stood silently amid the whirlwind, arms crossed, a look of unreadable intensity carved into his face. His eyes didn't leave Adam—not even for a second.
There was no smirk. No arrogance. Just quiet calculation.
Mission accomplished, Adam thought. If that doesn't get his attention… nothing will.