Gotham City was ancient—older than most dared to remember. Its history stretched back to the pioneering era of the America, when animal fur was the currency of survival. Tens of thousands of fortune-seekers flooded into the region every year, chasing dreams of gold or grazing rights. The Wayne family, as the story goes, built their empire by trading otter pelts—wealth born from the backs of trappers and the blood of the wild.
In the century that followed, Gotham became the first city where the America carved artificial canals. A canal stock was raised—Philadelphia was beaten by five years. Today, little evidence of that raw, brutal past remains. The skyline has been claimed by steel and glass, but the canal endures, quietly flowing along the coast, whispering stories only the city remembers.
A grand luxury cruise ship glided across the water, making its way from Metropolis to Gotham. Though both cities were titans of industry, people still loved this slow, opulent journey—like the Hindenburg in its prime, speed wasn't the point. Comfort was.
In the ship's most extravagant suite, sunlight leaked through the curtains, cutting through the dimness like pale gold. A man and woman, their bodies tangled in silk sheets, stirred awake reluctantly.
"This pale, gray light… we're close to Gotham," muttered Loeb, rolling out of bed with the ease of a man who ruled law. His bare feet padded across the carpet as he pulled the curtains wide. The city revealed itself in all its gritty glory—steel skyscrapers stabbing into a smoke-stained sky, the industrial haze drifting like old ghosts. Far below, small fishing boats and freighters moved alongside the luxury liner, as if mocking its grandeur.
Loeb grabbed the leftover rum from the night before, raised it in a toast toward Gotham's skyline, and took a long, burning swig.
The woman stirred, groaning at the intrusion of light. She turned over, pulling the sheets around her naked body, still half-lost in sleep.
"When I was a kid," Loeb began, staring past the skyline to the murky canal waters, "this place was a goddamn mess. And honestly? It still is."
He spoke, not of Gotham's towers, but of the people—the laundry women scrubbing clothes by the canal, the old men fishing with blank stares, the slum rats of Arkham District.
"People lived in filthy tents, pissing in the streets. You'd hear drunks screaming at night, women crying out from alleys… nothing's changed since then." He tilted the bottle again, the taste of Cuban rum rich and sweet on his tongue, carrying memories of warmer seas. "But I made it out. I climbed to the top. Those poor bastards? They're too comfortable in the dirt to even try."
"Maybe they just don't care," the girl mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. The sheet clung to her curves, revealing flashes of smooth, pale skin that would tempt any man. "Why're you talking like this all of a sudden?"
Loeb ignored her question, settling into a chair with the grace of a king holding court. He swirled the rum in his glass, the golden liquid catching the light.
"Metropolis has its forums, its politics," he said, almost absently. "But Gotham's problems are… real. Flass tried to go after Gordon, and look where that got him—flattened. Special forces, my ass. He can't even keep his men in line. Pretty soon, that whole unit will swing to Gordon's side."
The woman watched him in silence, studying his face. The legendary police chief, feared by criminals and prosecutors alike, looked… older. Tired, even.
Loeb chuckled bitterly. "And then there's Adam. I never should've dumped that kid in Arkham. He's sharp—too sharp. Weaver's no Flass, but he's been stumbling all over himself without Adam there to keep him in check. I've been cleaning up their messes for weeks."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "To top it off, the prosecutors are circling like vultures. Every morning I half-expect someone to knock on my door with a warrant. The day Gotham descends into chaos, they'll all come for me—those same bastards who used to line up to shake my hand. They'll pretend they were dragon-slayers all along, stepping on my corpse as the crowd cheers."
The woman frowned. "Who in Gotham would dare touch you? You're untouchable."
Loeb's smile was cold. "Everyone bides their time. They're waiting for chaos. The moment someone—Dent, Batman, whoever—shatters the order I built, they'll pounce."
There was a polite knock on the door.
"Mr. Director," a voice called. "Weaver from Arkham Division has just arrived by speedboat. He requests an urgent audience."
Loeb set down his glass, his expression unreadable. "Tell him to wait ten minutes. I'll change and come to him."
He stood, grabbing his trousers, but the girl smirked, tossing aside the sheet and stretching her flawless body like a cat. Her skin gleamed under the soft morning light.
"Ten minutes?" she teased, her voice a seductive whisper. "I'm not so sure you're that fast."
Loeb paused, his eyes narrowing in amusement. That playful smile, those teasing fingers—she knew exactly what she was doing.
"Come on, baby," she whispered, curling a finger at him. "Prove it."
Loeb's grin was sharp and wicked as he said, "Your boss sure knows how to treat me," he said with a laugh, dropping his trousers again.
"Fine wine, the best suite, a woman like you… all while booking me on the fastest yacht in Metropolis."
He glanced toward the door. "If Weaver's already here, that means your boss has stirred up another mess. But like I told you last night—if he's loyal to me, I'll clean it up. Weaver's nothing. I'm the king here."
And with that, he stepped forward, his hands on her waist. Within moments, the room filled with her breathless gasps, and claps.
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