Adam's first patrol through Arkham didn't feel like a routine shift—it felt like being dropped into another dimension. The streets were unfamiliar, the people even more so. They looked at him like a stranger, like something dangerous. Some with fear, others with wary tolerance.
All his life, Adam had lived in the margins. Blending in. Being invisible was a survival skill—one he'd perfected. But now? Now he wore a badge, a gun, and a uniform that demanded attention. The way people looked at him made his skin itch.
"So this is what power feels like to the powerless," Adam thought, uncomfortable with the weight of it.
"Wearing this uniform isn't just about looking tough," said the old cop beside him, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. "It's about surviving. We do the city's dirtiest job—might as well get a little something back for it, yeah?"
He strolled over to a cramped street stall selling fried skewers and trinkets. The vendor didn't protest. Instead, he smiled meekly, reached beneath his apron, and slipped a few crumpled bills into the officer's hand.
The exchange was swift. Silent. Rehearsed.
"They need us," the old man continued as he pocketed the cash like it was spare change. "Most of these folks ain't even legal residents. Can't vote, can't complain, can't go to court. They depend on us to keep immigration off their backs. So when we take a little from them… well, that's just the price of protection."
Adam said nothing. He watched the man with tired eyes. Around them, a few other officers were already helping themselves to whatever they wanted—grabbing snacks, pocketing items, sneering at anyone who looked twice. One cop even tossed Adam a packet of dried squid like it was a welcome gift.
The vendor flinched but said nothing. Only muttered curses in Cantonese as the officers swaggered off.
"You dogs," he spat, voice low. "One day, triad boys gonna stick knives in your guts."
Adam lingered. Then quietly reached into his own pocket and pulled out some folded bills. He pressed them into the stall owner's calloused hand.
The man blinked, surprised. "Sir, no need—this is for you, free of charge—"
Adam raised a hand and cut him off. "They're them. I'm me. Take the money. I don't want to be cursed for being born without a soul."
And with that, he turned and walked away, not looking back.
Later That Night...
Chinatown faded behind them, replaced by a different kind of slum—a block shared by Mexican and Black communities where the streets narrowed, the lights dimmed, and the air stank of rot and piss. The smell of spoiled food mixed with chemical waste. Garbage was piled high, stray dogs picking through it. Used needles sparkled in gutters like deadly confetti.
Adam's breath hitched as they passed a dark alley where a group of emaciated figures huddled beneath a flickering light, hunched over tinfoil, smoke rising from whatever poison they were inhaling.
"Welcome to the real Arkham," muttered one of the patrol officers with a grin. "You thought Chinatown was bad? At least they keep things clean."
"Looks like a scene out of a zombie movie," Adam said under his breath.
"Still," said the old officer cheerfully, "this block's got its perks. After we're done here, we'll take you to the real Arkham experience. Something you won't forget."
Adam didn't need to guess what that meant. He could already see heavily made-up girls loitering on corners, their heels too high and skirts too short. The officers didn't even try to hide their excitement.
They led Adam through a maze of alleys until they reached an abandoned parking structure pulsing with bass and the din of drunken laughter. The closer they got, the thicker the smoke and noise.
At the entrance, a scrawny teen with a cigarette dangling from his lips waved a bundle of tickets. "Five dollars entry—group of four gets discount—"
He didn't finish.
The old cop smacked the kid upside the head. "You blind? That's our new detective. Go tell your boss he's here and he's not paying shit."
The kid scampered off, and they stepped inside.
The Underground
The "venue" was more pit than club. Dim lights barely illuminated the concrete walls, and the floor was sticky with God-knows-what. The air was heavy with sweat, weed, and cheap perfume. People crowded around makeshift tables, gambling, shouting, grinding to distorted reggaeton that blasted from a pair of ancient speakers.
Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. "This the grand Arkham welcome? Smells like the inside of a gym sock."
"Relax," the old cop said, muscling his way to the front. "You're about to witness Arkham's one true treasure."
They took a spot near the stage—just a metal pole on a raised platform. Adam rolled his eyes. Pole dancing? Really?
He'd seen enough of the world not to be impressed by flashing lights and gyrating hips. If this was their idea of a good time, they were amateurs.
But then, the room dimmed. The crowd fell quiet. A single spotlight lit the stage—and she appeared.
She moved like silk.
Tall. Graceful. Cloaked in a veil so thin it shimmered like moonlight. Every movement was a whisper of tension and release, strength and softness. She didn't just dance. She commanded the space, weaving her body around the pole with a kind of fierce elegance that made the air crackle.
Adam stared.
There were no stripteases. No vulgarity. Just pure, mesmerizing movement.
She was a storm—graceful, unrelenting, and impossible to look away from. Her body twisted with precision, like she wasn't defying gravity but commanding it.
The gauze on her limbs rippled like smoke in the wind. Her silhouette flowed like ink poured across canvas.
The room—grimy, ugly, broken—fell away.
For a moment, there was just her.
Adam whispered to himself, "She danced fully clothed… and still shut down an entire room."
Next to him, the cops watched with slack jaws and glassy eyes.
"Told ya," one said proudly. "That's Selina. Girl's a legend in Arkham. Seven clubs fight to book her every night. Doesn't take off a damn thing—but people show up just to watch her move."
"She's that good?" Adam asked.
"Damn right. And get this—no matter how much money gets thrown her way, she walks out alone every night. No hook-ups, no private shows. Girl's untouchable."
Another officer added, "It's like she disappears into the shadows. Gives you that perfect high, then poof. Gone. Just like a dream."
But Adam wasn't listening anymore.
Because when they said Selina…
His heart skipped a beat.
That name. That grace. That presence.
Only one woman in Gotham could command a stage like that without lifting a finger. Only one woman turned dance into a weapon. Only one woman moved like a shadow given form.
Selina Kyle.
Catwoman.
Adam's expression darkened with realization.
"I knew Gotham was dangerous. I just didn't know the danger wore heels and danced under starlight."
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