The flashbulbs still lingered in Adam's eyes as he stepped back from the podium for a breath. The storm of questions had briefly settled, and the crowd of reporters, cowed by his commanding presence and sharp cobacks, now looked far more cautious. Adam had seized control of the chaos—and he wasn't about to let go.
He straightened his uniform, squared his shoulders, and glanced around the hall. This press conference wasn't just a delaying tactic for Commissioner Loeb. No—this was a battlefield. And right now, Adam held the high ground.
Controlling the narrative ant controlling the pace. Who spoke, what questions got answered, which topics were deflected—he was both referee and player here. With the confidence of soone who'd read a thousand online argunts and knew how to twist language like a blade, Adam had co prepared.
To appear fair, he'd passed out numbered placards to each reporter—claiming it was to prevent dia favoritism. In reality, it let him manipulate the order, sidestepping hostile questions and picking the easy ones first.
The reporters, oblivious to the sleight of hand, actually praised the system as innovative. Adam smiled inwardly. "Works every ti."
He glanced at the clock. Loeb should be leaving the building soon. Ti to open the floor.
"Alright, folks. Let's begin the official portion of the press conference," Adam declared with confidence, tapping his finger against the podium.
Instantly, a sea of number cards shot up like schoolchildren trying to impress their teacher.
Adam scanned the crowd and selected a plain-looking man near the front, thinking he looked harmless enough. "Number 12, you're up."
The man stood, cleared his throat, and imdiately fired a shot straight at Adam's weak spot.
"When will the criminals apprehended by the Bat vigilante be released?"
Adam's smile froze.
Damn. That was Loeb's softest underbelly. The whole city knew the commissioner had a habit of quietly releasing gangsters who lined his pockets. This reporter clearly understood the ga and was ready to expose it.
But Adam didn't flinch. He tapped into years of arguing with strangers online, of dodging troll traps and flipping narratives with nothing but clever wordplay.
With practiced ease, he leaned forward.
"Thank you for the question. But let correct a few things," he said smoothly. "First off, the individual who delivered those suspects—our now-infamous 'Bat Guy in Tights'—acted completely outside the law. What he did was vigilantism, plain and simple. Abducting people and dumping them at our front door is not how justice works. We reserve the right to investigate and potentially prosecute him for obstruction."
A few reporters chuckled, disard by the unexpected stance.
Adam pressed the advantage. "Second, and more importantly: until due process is followed, those n are not legally 'criminals.' No charges, no convictions. And without a willing prosecutor or victim testimony, we are bound by Gotham law to release detainees after 48 hours. We're not running a hotel here—these people don't get free lunches on the taxpayers' di."
The room burst into laughter. The tension eased.
"Now, if you're worried about these suspects being released," Adam added with a sly grin, "perhaps you should ask the District Attorney's office why no one's stepping up to press charges. We, as officers, follow the law—not fairy tales."
The reporters had no coback. Adam had neatly redirected the bla, flipped public perception, and dodged the trap entirely.
He wasn't just surviving—he was dominating.
But the room wasn't done testing him.
Another reporter, this one sharper, took aim at Adam's credibility. "No offense, officer, but Gotham has a long history of corruption in the police departnt. Low safety ratings, ties to organized cri, frequent abuse of power... And judging by your shoulder insignia, you're one of the lowest-ranking officers here. Are we to believe that your answers carry any real weight?"
Ah. There it was. The knife in the back.
This guy wasn't just attacking Adam's words—he was undermining his authority, knowing full well that Loeb would hang Adam out to dry if it suited him.
But Adam wasn't caught flat-footed. He'd been reviewing press passes while buying ti during earlier questioning, and he rembered this guy. A tabloid writer with a history of publishing false claims. Suspended once for taking bribes from the sa gangsters he was now criticizing.
Adam calmly raised his hand and gestured to one of the nearby officers. "Bring the report on today's press credentials."
The officer returned quickly with a folder. Adam flipped through it, pulled out a file, and began reading aloud.
"Let's see. 'Jonathan Keane. Suspended from the Gotham Ledger for misreporting an arson case. Investigated for taking paynts from the Sionis cartel. Your paper is currently under a city ethics probe. Hmm.'"
Gasps echoed across the room.
Adam looked up. "Given that, I'd say your journalistic integrity is about as sturdy as a house of cards in a hurricane. And unless you have docunted evidence for your accusations, I suggest you sit back down before I file a slander complaint."
Keane's face went pale. He slinked back into the crowd like a scolded child.
A few officers behind Adam clapped. Quietly, but it was enough. He'd won this round too.
He could feel it—the tide had turned. The reporters were faltering. They hadn't expected a beat cop to dismantle them so thoroughly. They were unprepared, their questions disjointed, their coordination scattered.
And Adam? He was just getting started.
He raised his hand for one last statent to end the conference, ready to deliver a tidy closing line. Maybe a quote about justice or public service—whatever sounded nice.
But then, a lazy drawl interrupted him from the back of the room.
"Well, damn. Didn't know you got free coffee with your tax-funded cover-ups. Good to know Gotham PD's spending priorities are intact."
The voice was smooth. Mocking. Rich with sarcasm.
Adam turned sharply. A man sat in the back corner, legs crossed, wearing a thousand-dollar tailored suit. His hair was slicked back, and a diamond-studded Rolex peeked from beneath his sleeve. Surrounding him were glamorous female reporters—and even a few of Gotham PD's own staff, who were openly blushing and unbuttoning their collars in his presence.
Adam's instincts scread at him. This was trouble. In every martial arts movie he'd ever watched, the real boss never appeared at the beginning. They dropped in right before the credits.
Adam narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. You're not wearing a press badge, nor holding a number placard. That makes you ineligible to speak in this conference."
He gestured to the watching officers. "Gentlen, please remove this individual."
No one moved.
In fact, everyone froze. And then, a black policewoman let out a sharp gasp.
"Oh my God! You don't know who he is? That's Bruce Wayne!"
Adam's jaw dropped.
The crowd whispered in awe. Even the air felt heavier.
Bruce Wayne. Gotham's golden boy. Billionaire playboy. Philanthropist. Head of Wayne Enterprises.
And—if the comic in Adam's back pocket was anything to go by—Batman himself.
Adam's pulse quickened. His smooth delivery, his iron control—it all faltered under the weight of that na.
"Y-You're Bruce Wayne?" he stamred.
Bruce just smirked. "Well, you seem to be running the departnt better than Loeb. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to impress soone."
He leaned forward.
"Or maybe... you already know more about than you should."
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