This marked Adam's second encounter with reporters, but the atmosphere couldn't have been more different from the first time.
Now, he stood beneath the glow of a new reputation—the young prodigy who cracked a terrorist case in thirty minutes.
Jason had even discreetly passed some cash to a few key journalists beforehand. So naturally, the crowd of reporters was all smiles and polite words. There was no tension in the air, no probing hostility. Just beaming faces and eager voices.
Adam seized the moment.
He opened with flattery, praising the media for their dedication and commending the police officers for their tireless service. Then, with practiced humility and a touch of humor, he walked them through the events of the case. His delivery was masterful—every word landing where it needed to. Superiors heard what they wanted. Citizens heard what they hoped. And the journalists? They scribbled away, delighted by the quotable gold pouring from his lips.
Half an hour in, Adam casually glanced around—and saw it. The reporters' notebooks were already filling with the headlines:
"Young Detective Defuses Terrorist Crisis!"
"Gotham Shaken by Detective's Brilliance!"
"The New Holmes? Gotham's Savior Speaks Out!"
It was almost laughable.
Gordon, the current police chief, had solved far more difficult cases over the years—cases that would've crushed lesser men. But he was a man of principle: honest to a fault, allergic to flattery, and clueless about greasing the right palms. So every time he faced the press, it was a public execution.
In contrast, Adam was charming, media-savvy, and generous. The difference was night and day.
Just as he prepared to wrap up with a few closing remarks, a deep engine roar interrupted the flow. Every head turned as a silver-gray Hennessey Viper GT screamed onto the scene. The luxury supercar skidded gracefully, tires squealing in a perfect drift before settling squarely in front of the gathering.
Adam blinked. "Huh. That's… dramatic."
A sinking feeling settled in his gut. This wasn't some rich Gotham socialite showing off.
And the moment the car doors opened, the air shifted. Cameras clicked. Reporters surged forward like sharks scenting blood. Flashbulbs exploded with renewed frenzy.
Jason, irritated that everyone had suddenly abandoned Adam, yelled, "Hey! Where are you going? We're not finished here!"
Adam raised a hand, silently telling him to stop. He already knew who had arrived. There was only one man in Gotham whose mere presence could hijack a press conference like this.
The city's most famous billionaire.. The media's favorite son—
Bruce Wayne.
And sure enough, he emerged from the car like a model stepping off a runway. Tousled hair. Impeccable stubble. A Swiss-made gold watch glittered on his wrist, and his designer suit practically oozed money. Every item on him screamed Milan, Zurich, or bespoke London. Every inch of him was cultivated, curated, and calculated to dazzle.
Reporters didn't just admire him. They worshipped him.
Adam's instincts screamed. Something was off. As someone dancing in morally gray territory, he knew better than to stand near Gotham's gleaming dark knight—even if that knight wore party-boy disguises.
"Jason," he whispered. "Pack up. We're leaving."
But they had barely taken two steps when Bruce Wayne's voice cut through the chaos.
"Leaving so soon?" he called lazily. "Aren't you the detective who solved the case in ten minutes? And here I came all this way just to meet you."
Adam's heart sank.
Trouble.
This wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. Bruce Wayne didn't randomly crash crime scenes—he hunted answers. And if he had shown up personally, that meant one thing:
He was suspicious and he was right to be.
After all, the case involved a particularly nasty neurotoxin—one that had made Bruce accelerate the development of a new antidote. He'd worked around the clock to finish it, then jumped in his car to deliver it in person. But halfway there, news broke that Adam had already cracked the case—and even apprehended the perpetrator with evidence in hand.
Naturally, Gotham's Dark Knight had questions.
Adam could see the subtle scrutiny behind the billionaire's lazy smile as Bruce strolled over, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gesturing.
"Impressive work," Bruce said. "I actually bet twenty bucks with a friend that you wouldn't be able to solve this one in time. Looks like I owe him. So... humor me. How did you crack it?"
Adam's stomach twisted.
He couldn't tell the truth—not to him. He hadn't "cracked" anything. He simply knew what was coming. In this world, knowledge was power, and Adam had the cheat code—future information disguised as genius intuition.
After all, every villain had their own trademark. Victims of Joker's gas laughed until they died. Mad Hatter's left his in a Wonderland daze. Scarecrow's was pure, paralyzing fear—hallucinations that shredded sanity.
That's how Adam had known.
He'd seen the signs, made the connection. The Scarecrow. And because the villain hadn't yet gained notoriety in this timeline, he realized the crime was fresh—easy to intercept.
But what would he say to Bruce Wayne—a man whose detective skills rivaled legends?
One false move, one contradiction, and his entire reputation would be exposed as a lie.
So Adam smiled thinly.
"Mr. Wayne, I'm not sure if your twenty dollars is tax-deductible," he replied, tone calm but evasive. "But if you're interested in the case details, I'm sure the bureau would be happy to provide the files. Or…" he swept his arm toward the eager journalists, "…you could just read tomorrow's headlines. I'm certain they'll be very informative."
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