While Adam was busy securing his first business venture, in another corner of Gotham, a very different battle was taking place.
Inside an unassuming city hall chamber, a hearing was quietly underway—one that could shift the city's balance of power.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Harvey Dent began, standing tall behind the podium, his sharp suit and clean-cut demeanor exuding confidence. "Proverbs 20:1 of the Bible says: 'Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and whoever is deceived thereby is not wise.'"
His voice carried conviction as he swept his gaze over the crowd. "Alcohol has become the fuel for Gotham's corruption. Studies show that 92.67% of criminal activity here stems from alcohol abuse, and 87% of homicides are tied to severe alcoholism. Alcoholism has now overtaken even drugs and smuggling as Gotham's number one societal plague."
The hearing room was small and outdated, its wooden panels dull with age. But the audience was far from ordinary. Sitting in the rows were Gotham's elite—elders from the Evangelical Church, the chairwoman of the Women's Protection Alliance, prominent business leaders, and, lurking in the corner with his sharp little eyes, the infamous underworld boss Oswald "Penguin" Cobblepot.
To put it simply, winning over even half of these people meant you had the power to run for mayor.
"Do you remember the Great Gotham Blizzard twenty years ago?" Harvey continued, his voice lowering to a somber tone. "It was the first winter after the death of the honorable Thomas Wayne—a year when this city lost its shield. That winter was mercilessly cold..."
He paused, letting the silence weigh on the room before continuing. "There was a little boy, trapped in that storm, starving, alone. His father? Passed out drunk in a filthy bar corner—too deep in his addiction to even know his son was freezing to death outside."
Harvey's words cut deep, the imagery brutal. Several women in the audience shifted uncomfortably, some already dabbing at their eyes.
"That boy," Harvey said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, "wrapped rags around his feet, pressed newspaper against his chest for warmth, and stumbled through snow waist-deep just to survive. He dug for scraps on railway tracks, pressing his hands against the cinders to keep them from freezing. When there was nothing else, he caught rats by the docks just to stay alive."
The room was silent except for quiet sniffles. The women from the Christian and welfare groups were visibly moved, their hearts breaking for the nameless child in the story.
Only Penguin sat unfazed, rolling his eyes and smirking. To him, Dent's tragedy was nothing compared to his own bitter life. 'Hmph. Rich boy from a fallen family pretending to be a martyr? Spare me the drama.'
Harvey's voice broke the silence. "That boy," he said with fiery conviction, "is the man standing before you today."
A beat of silence. Then thunderous applause filled the room. The audience stood, clapping until the sound echoed off the walls. Even Penguin gave a few mock claps, his sharp grin never leaving his face.
"The new prohibition law will mean progress," Harvey pressed on, his tone hardening with purpose. "No longer will families be torn apart by alcoholism. Women can use their voices and votes to protect their homes from the curse of drink—just as my own family was destroyed by it. We will restrict alcohol imports, giving local distilleries room to grow. And while this is not a blanket ban like the 18th Amendment of 1920, no new licenses will be issued. Gotham has over 200 bars already—more than enough for its citizens."
He smiled disarmingly. "But any license-holders who break these rules? Their licenses will be revoked—permanently."
The business representatives exchanged approving nods, while the women's groups applauded, emboldened by his words.
"Thank you," Harvey concluded, bowing slightly. "If it weren't for the kindness of people like you, a poor boy like me would never have risen from the streets, never had a chance to fight for Gotham's soul. God bless us all—and may we finally get the justice we deserve."
The applause was deafening this time. Some women rushed forward, desperate to shake his hand, their admiration for Harvey written plainly on their faces.
This was Harvey Dent's greatest weapon, not just his eloquence, but his ability to bend his story into something powerful, something that made him look like Gotham's shining knight. Even Batman respected him for it.
After stepping down from the podium, Harvey made his way to the corridor outside. The faint smell of cigar smoke made him pause.
Leaning against the wall, smirking like a cat with a secret, was Penguin. He puffed out a smoke ring, his beady eyes glinting with amusement.
"Well, well," Penguin sneered. "Isn't this Gotham's favorite storyteller? Dent, next time someone needs a bedtime tale for their kids, I'll send them your way."
Harvey stopped in his tracks. His jaw clenched, but he forced himself to look down at the shorter man, his tone cold.
"I'm telling the truth, Cobblepot."
"Oh, really?" Penguin tilted his head mockingly. "Does that truth include eating rat stew, Mr. Prosecutor?"
Harvey's eyes darkened. For a brief moment, the mask of composure cracked, anger flickering across his face like lightning. But he swallowed it down, his voice razor-sharp.
"Don't think I don't know why you're here, Oswald. You're trying to kill the bill before it passes."
Penguin smirked wider. "Guilty as charged. Alcohol makes me a lot of money. You kill it, you cut into my pie."
Harvey stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous.
"Mark my words, Penguin. This prohibition law will pass. And when it does, I'll come for the Iceberg Club myself—under the guise of 'inspections.' If I find anything, drugs, gambling, trafficking, I'll have you dragged out in chains."
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