At this mont, Adam was walking leisurely through Gotham's streets, the warm sunlight falling on his shoulders like a gentle balm. The air was cool, but bright, and for once, he felt—if only faintly—at ease.
The reason he had chosen such a secretive thod to warn Gordon about Flass's plans was simple: Adam knew these people too well.
Before ever teaming up with Batman, Jas Gordon had always been a man of principle—a stubborn old soldier with an unwavering hatred for corruption and injustice. That was why he had managed to stay clean in a city as rotten as Gotham. But if Adam had walked up to him directly and casually claid that Loeb and Flass were conspiring against him? Gordon would have dragged him straight into Loeb's office for a confrontation—forcing everyone into a corner with no room to retreat.
That was a scenario Adam wanted to avoid.
More importantly, he had just gotten off the train recently, and Loeb's surveillance on him was likely still active. If he acted too boldly or made contact with Gordon prematurely, he could easily draw suspicion. One misstep and all the groundwork he had laid would collapse.
That's why he had chosen to rely on the storyline he rembered—why he'd used such a covert location for his first 'intimate' contact with Gordon. He needed this to be a seed planted, not a spotlight flared.
And besides, a little mystery could go a long way. Not revealing his identity right away ensured the mont stuck with Gordon. When the truth eventually ca out, it would an more than if Adam had simply introduced himself.
Thinking about all this, Adam sighed and shook his head. He pulled a cigarette from his coat, lit it with a flick of his thumb, and took a long, tired drag.
It had already been a hectic morning—constant scheming, quick maneuvers, delicate threads being pulled. He hadn't stopped for a breath, and now the exhaustion was finally catching up with him.
It was nearing late morning, and the neighborhoods of Gotham were already bustling with life. The stalls were open, vendors shouting over one another as they peddled street food, bootleg items, and di-store miracles. Gotham's poor, hardened by life and driven by necessity, were already elbow-deep in survival.
Honestly, Adam liked this side of Gotham.
Old xican n peddling fake dicine with real conviction. Black fortune tellers sticking out exaggerated hips while hollering rhys about destiny. His own people—immigrant workers, smiling wide as they sold knockoff clothes. And the greasy redneck guy nad Linlin who ran a barbecue stall like he was grilling in hell.
The cacophony of accents, laughter, swearing, and steel pans filled the streets with sothing Gotham's elite could never manufacture: soul.
Adam felt grounded here. Like he was walking through a living, breathing world—not just flipping through the pages of a comic book.
"Damn, by the ti I get back to Arkham District it'll probably be noon," he muttered, looking up at the sun and shielding his eyes. "Guess I'll have to find sothing decent to eat around here."
He was already dreading it.
Arican food had nearly broken him.
In the beginning, he followed the crowd—McDonald's, Burger King, all the fast-food staples. But after three days of fries and fried chicken, his throat was inflad, ulcers had popped at the corners of his mouth, and just the sll of grease made him want to gag.
And then there were the infamous Arican 'dark delicacies.'
Oreos, once a snack for petty bourgeois tea breaks, had been battered and deep-fried into sugar-soaked monstrosities. Adam half-expected to see deep-fried Snickers next.
Egg drop soup? Thickened with so much cornstarch it felt like glue. Steak tartare? Raw at with a raw egg on top—no seasoning, no heat—just carnage and salmonella. Adam had nearly vomited.
Thankfully, Arkham's Chinatown had spared him from starvation. But heading back now ant braving the packed trams and missing lunch altogether.
So, decision made, Adam wandered the side alleys in search of food—and after a few twists and turns, found a little Thai food stall tucked between two rusted dumpsters in a narrow, shaded lane.
"One chicken rice, extra chicken steak," Adam said, taking a seat across from the tiny counter and nodding to the vendor.
The vendor—a squat, wiry man with slicked-back hair and a faded apron—nodded without speaking, slicing at with quiet precision.
Chicken rice, also known as chicken oil rice or Hainanese chicken rice, originated in Hainan but had since taken Southeast Asia by storm. Over the decades, it had beco a national dish in places like Malaysia, Singapore, and Thailand.
The process was both simple and artful: fat, fresh chicken poached with herbs until just tender, its broth then used to flavor the rice. Sotis the rice was fried with chicken fat before being stead, creating grains so rich they glistened but never felt greasy. Topped with coriander, cucumber petals, and a drizzle of special sauce—it was a al of comfort and craftsmanship.
So Thai restaurants in Bangkok's Pratunam District even boasted signs saying "Original Hainan Flavor," honoring its roots—unlike certain cultures who preferred pirating good things and claiming them as their own.
The vendor quickly finished his prep, placing sliced chicken breast and thigh atop fragrant rice, ladling sauce over the top, and garnishing with herbs and cucumbers shaped like delicate blossoms. A hot bowl of bone broth ca on the side.
As the food was laid before him, Adam's hunger surged like a tidal wave. Every exhausted nerve in his body scread for relief. He picked up a spoon and began to eat voraciously.
"Honestly... being able to eat when I'm hungry, sleep when I'm tired, and live a peaceful life—what more could I ask for?" he muttered between bites, holding a chicken bone in one hand. "Once I pay off what I owe Black Mask, maybe I can live comfortably for a change…"
But before he could even finish the thought—
"Hey! What's this yellow-skinned pig doing here? You lost, chink? This is Aryan Society turf."
Adam froze.
He turned his head slightly and saw six or seven rough-looking n crowding into the alley. They wore bandanas, swastika tattoos, Confederate patches, and steel-toed boots. Their eyes scanned him like wolves sniffing prey.
The food stall owner took one glance at them, then casually slipped away—head low, pretending not to notice.
The n ignored him.
Their eyes stayed locked on Adam.
Their footsteps echoed louder with each step as they began surrounding him.
Just like that, the atmosphere shifted.
Daylight robbery in Gotham?
Of course.
This was Gotham City.
Ho of monsters and n alike.
And Adam?
Well, his luck had officially run out.
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