"Master Bruce, I trust you haven't forgotten that a rather important guest will be visiting Wayne Enterprises this morning," Alfred said, placing a steaming cup of coffee in the usual spot beside the Batcomputer. "Mr. Lucius reminded me over a week ago that your attendance is... non-negotiable."
"Hmph," Bruce Wayne grunted from behind his workstation, eyes fixed on the scrolling data. "It's just some petty warlord from San Pedro Sula, a minor country in South America. He's only coming to squeeze money out of Wayne Enterprises under the pretense of diplomatic goodwill."
His tone was tinged with disdain. "The board sees it as an opportunity to invest, to set up factories, to 'expand into Latin America.' All they see is profit."
Alfred gave a polite cough, his British accent cutting in like a scalpel. "Master Bruce, to be accurate, he's not just a warlord. He's the president of San Pedro Sula now. And given the official nature of this visit, I suggest you refrain from making such colorful comments aloud—lest the Wayne name be seen as... uncouth."
Bruce didn't even look up and replied, "This man built his empire on drug money. He still controls nearly 30% of the narcotics flow in South America. And now he has the audacity to come here in a suit, begging for investment while pretending to be legitimate." He scoffed. "He's no better than the corporate parasites on the board."
"What matters more," Bruce continued, "is isolating the compound in the blood samples we recovered last night. That neurotoxin... if it spreads, it won't matter how many factories we open. Gotham will fall."
Alfred, sighed and tried once more. "The board is expecting—"
"They'll wait," Bruce snapped. "And let me make this very clear, Alfred: unless that warlord wipes out every last poppy field in his country, he's not getting a cent. Not from Wayne Enterprises, not through the UN, not through backdoor lobbying. I'll block him at every turn."
Alfred sighed, resigned. Knowing when to retreat, he quietly opened the breakfast tray he'd brought. It held a delicate spread of black caviar and toast—delicacies revered in the former Soviet Union, once traded like gold across Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. It was a feast fit for a czar, but Bruce barely glanced at it.
"You really didn't need to bring me breakfast," Bruce muttered. "Every ounce of my focus is on this. I spent all night analyzing those samples. The toxin is neural—sophisticated, and devastating. If someone manages to aerosolize it... it won't just be Arkham. The whole city could go insane."
Alfred's brow creased in alarm. "Neurotoxin? That's strange... the mayor just said the same thing on the morning news—something about a new toxin. Even used the exact word."
Bruce's eyes snapped to him. "What?"
He pushed away from the computer and moved with practiced precision to the console. A few keystrokes later, Gotham's morning broadcast flickered to life across the Batcomputer's massive screens.
There, surrounded by reporters, stood Mayor Hank Milton Hill, adjusting his tie and speaking with grave authority:
"Citizens of Gotham, do not be alarmed. In response to last night's events, I've summoned the city's top detectives. As of now, Detective Adam of the Arkham District has identified the cause as a new type of neurotoxin. With a special emergency warrant, he claims he can bring the suspect to justice in just ten minutes—restoring order to our great city."
Had Adam been there, he would have choked. The mayor had credited him with both the neurotoxin discovery and the impossible ten-minute claim. It was the perfect political maneuver—if it failed, Adam would take the fall. But if it worked, the mayor would bask in the glow of "having faith in the right man."
But Bruce wasn't thinking about politics. He was stunned.
He had just spent the entire night—armed with the most advanced forensic tools on Earth—determining that the affliction was caused by a rare neurotoxin. And now this... Adam, a young detective from Arkham, had apparently reached the same conclusion in minutes?
And claimed he could solve the case in ten?
Who was this man?
Biochemical expertise. Investigative intuition. Blatant confidence.
Bruce Wayne stared at the screen, baffled and intrigued.
Meanwhile, across the city, Adam followed Gordon into the Lower City district—a grim, crumbling sector of Gotham marked by shuttered shops and overflowing trash bins. It was the kind of neighborhood where the air felt sticky with desperation.
"This place doesn't exactly scream legal professional," Adam said dryly, eyeing a window that had been boarded up with campaign posters from a decade ago. "Looks more like a place you'd go to hire... a very different kind of service provider."
Gordon chuckled, unfazed. "This is where Harvey Dent works. Best prosecutor in Gotham. He set up shop here to give free legal aid to those who can't afford it."
"Free?" Adam blinked, still looking around, "So... he's an honest man in Gotham? Shouldn't that be illegal?"
"Harvey's a rare breed," Gordon said with a tinge of respect. "He could make triple the money as a defense lawyer, but he chose this path. Says justice should belong to everyone."
"Wait...", Adam finally caught it, "His name's Harvey?"
"Yes," Gordon replied.
Adam wasn't really listening. His mind was already racing.
Harvey Dent? That Harvey Dent?
He knew the name, of course. In the Gotham of the future, Dent would become one of the city's most notorious figures. Once hailed as the "White Knight" of justice, he'd later fall into infamy as Two-Face—a symbol of Gotham's decay. The man had started with nothing but integrity and idealism, only to be broken by acid, betrayal, and his own inner demons. Now here Adam was, face to face with the man before the fall.
"Are you sure this guy's just a prosecutor?" Adam asked, more to himself than Gordon. "Feels like I'm about to shake hands with a historical landmine."
"Hm?" Gordon glanced over.
"Nothing," Adam said quickly. "Just admiring the scenery."
Inside, the old building was dimly lit but orderly. Files were stacked neatly, the scent of old paper and strong coffee in the air. Harvey Dent looked up from behind a mountain of casework and stood to greet them.
Adam's gaze lingered just a second too long on the man's face—intact, idealistic, unscarred by flame or fate.
'Not yet,' he thought grimly. 'But the coin's already in his pocket.'
—
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