After a long and chaotic night—boozing with Deadshot, skirmishing with Catwoman, and narrowly avoiding a feline-induced dismbernt—Adam finally collapsed into a dreamless sleep. He was out cold, practically dead to the world.
But Gotham doesn't sleep. Not really.
Just before dawn, his phone alarm blared to life, cutting through the silence like a scalpel. Dazed and groggy, Adam barely managed to grope for the receiver.
"Hello?" he muttered.
A cold, unfamiliar voice answered, polished and clipped. "Is this Mr. Adam, detective of the Arkham District Police Departnt?"
Adam rubbed his eyes, his tone sharp with irritation. "Yeah, that's . But don't call 'detective' when I'm off the clock—and for God's sake, don't wake up before sunrise unless the city's literally on fire."
He was about to hang up when the voice calmly continued, as if expecting his reaction.
"This is the mayor's office. A major incident occurred in Gotham at 2:23 AM. Your sub-director, Mr. Weaver, recomnded you personally. You're to report imdiately to Arkham Asylum."
Adam's sleep-deprived brain imdiately jolted to full alert.
The mayor's office? Weaver? Arkham?
Three red flags at once.
Without another word, Adam leapt out of bed, ignoring the pain from the glass wounds still healing on his foot. He splashed water on his face, yanked on his clothes, stuffed a half-toasted piece of bread in his mouth, and hailed the nearest cab straight to Arkham Asylum.
As the taxi sped through Gotham's bleak streets, Adam sat hunched, his mind racing.
A serious case? That's par for the course in Gotham. But Weaver recomnding him—now that was suspicious. Ever since they'd begun their subtle but growing rivalry, Weaver had made it clear he wanted Zhou Hao out of the picture.
"This has to be part of his plan," Adam muttered. "Jason warned —Weaver's second strike would be political. First, he waited until Chief Loeb left town. Then, he sends to a high-profile cri scene at Arkham, endorsed by the mayor no less. If this is a trap, it's public and irreversible."
He tightened his fists. "Weaver... you're playing chess while I'm playing poker. Let's see who folds first."
—
Arkham Asylum lood ahead like sothing pulled straight from a Gothic fever dream—high black walls, stone gargoyles glaring from parapets, and towers that pierced the morning fog. Despite its state-of-the-art psychiatric facilities—funded in part by the Wayne Foundation—Arkham still reeked of sothing old and rotten.
A place cursed from its foundation.
Adam knew the history well. The asylum's architect had gone insane during construction and murdered half the crew. The founder, Dr. Amadeus Arkham, suffered his own tragedy when a patient escaped, slaughtered his entire family, and sent him spiraling into madness. In the end, Dr. Arkham died not as a doctor—but as a patient.
So say his spirit still wanders the gardens at night.
Adam swallowed uneasily as he passed through the gates.
Soday, this place will house Gotham's worst: the Joker, Harley Quinn, Two-Face... Maybe even Batman himself. He smirked bitterly at the thought. A man haunted by demons, trapped in his own mind. He belongs here as much as any of them.
—
anwhile, on the asylum's second floor, Police Commissioner Jas Gordon stood silently by the window, watching Adam limp across the courtyard. His partner, the grizzled veteran Harvey Bullock, was less impressed.
"Seriously?" Bullock scoffed. "That old weasel Weaver sent us a crippled rookie? What is this, The Hunchback of Arkham? Did he run out of real cops?"
Bullock was everything Gordon wasn't—loud, sloppy, and utterly unfiltered. But beneath the stained trench coat and whiskey breath, he was a solid cop with instincts honed by decades on Gotham's streets.
Gordon didn't react to the jab. He adjusted his glasses, gaze steady.
"Don't judge too quickly. Maybe he's injured from a case. Arkham District's no picnic—it builds character."
Bullock took a swig from the flask in his coat. "Yeah, and bullets build holes. Gordon, co on. The mayor wanted our best. Loeb's gone, so Weaver sends this guy? He's clearly setting the kid up to fail."
He leaned against the window fra, shaking his head. "This reeks of politics. Weaver's probably hoping the rookie tanks the investigation, gets roasted in the press, and then he washes his hands clean. Classic move."
Gordon's expression tightened, but he nodded. "You may be half right. Weaver doesn't do anything without an angle."
He looked down at Adam again, now walking into the asylum's main building.
"But don't underestimate him. Adam's no ordinary rookie. I've watched him closely... and I get the feeling there's more beneath the surface. A lot more."
Bullock raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
"I'd bet on it," Gordon said, resolute.
Bullock snorted. "Then I'll bet against it. If he gets out of this with his head on straight, I'll buy you a bottle of rum."
He paused, then took another swig. "And if not? Well... at least the Joker'll have a new roommate."
—
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