When Adam arrived at the morning briefing site, he immediately sensed something was off.
Normally, after a deal was done, the other buyers would clear out without delay. Yet here they were, still gathered in loose clusters—muttering, watching, waiting. That kind of loitering wasn't casual; it was coordinated. It was a signal.
Adam walked in as if he didn't notice. "Well, what a surprise. Everyone's still here," he said coolly, scanning the group. "Good timing. I've got something to share."
The buyers turned. Tension rippled through the crowd.
A stocky Mexican man scowled and spat on the ground. "Bah. You cleaned us out and now you're here to rub it in?"
He started to walk off, but someone caught him by the sleeve. The others stayed rooted, their eyes tracking Adam like gun barrels.
Another man—lean, with a thin-lipped sneer—chimed in, "You corner the market and now you think you can stroll in here and give orders? You catch on fast, gringo."
Adam ignored them, stepping forward and claiming the center of the space as if it belonged to him.
"I remember," he began, voice steady, "when I first arrived, some of you stood right here and offered me ten grand to walk away."
He let the silence stretch a moment before continuing, voice tinged with dry amusement.
"Back then, I told you the price was too low. But honestly—if any of you had offered a hundred, maybe two? I might not even be standing here now."
The sting of his words hit hard. Some winced. Others glared, but none interrupted. Adam's rise had been improbable, but absolute.
Just as the tension reached its peak, Adam changed tone, his voice softening.
"But... since you left me a way in, I'm not going to leave you empty-handed. Let's be real: there's more money in the world than any of us can spend in a lifetime. And always another market out there waiting to be cracked."
The buyers looked at each other, uncertain. The speech felt like a riddle, until one of them, sharper than the rest, caught on.
"Wait... You mean you're willing to share the goods?"
Adam lit a cigarette, his face briefly shadowed by the flare of his lighter. The rising smoke made his expression unreadable.
"To put it simply," he said, "I'm willing to release 40% of the stock. You get your hands on something. I don't walk away bleeding. But," he added, locking eyes with the crowd, "you're paying a premium. Fair's fair."
The room went still.
Everyone knew what those goods were worth—especially now. Adam had a monopoly, and no amount of money could conjure more product from thin air. And yet, he was offering a slice.
The Mexican who'd spat on the ground now looked almost deferential. "You're serious? You'll let us buy in?"
Adam flicked ash off his cigarette and smiled faintly. "Like I said, I'd rather eat a little less and build a few bridges. There's always a bigger score ahead, and maybe next time—if we're not enemies—we're partners."
The mood shifted instantly. Where suspicion had simmered, excitement now sparked. They'd been on the brink of desperate measures. Now, hope returned. Sure, they'd be overcharged—but in this market, anything was better than walking away with nothing.
Seeing that his job was done, Adam casually handed the reins to No. 1, who was already grinning like a shark in warm waters. Adam didn't care for the dirty work of deal-cutting—he had no love for this industry. But his calculated generosity left a strong impression. Even No. 1 looked at him with newfound respect.
Soon, buyers were approaching Adam directly, eager to shake his hand, offer business cards, drop hints about "future collaborations." And Adam, ever smooth, entertained them just long enough to appear friendly—before drifting back into the shadows.
Negotiating the sales terms was easy work for No. 1. He was in his element. In the end, the partial release of goods raked in $420,000—profit with zero additional cost.
And the best part was the buyers, far from resentful, were grateful. Overflowing with thanks. Some even invited Adam to visit their territories as an honored guest—offers he politely declined.
Despite selling off 40%, the stockpile Adam retained still exceeded their original target, thanks to the unexpected surplus from the villagers. The mountain folk had been far too enthusiastic, surrendering not only current reserves but caches they'd hoarded for years. As far as the Black Mask's expectations went, Adam had already cleared the bar. Anything beyond 80% of the target would have been suspicious anyway. But No. 1 wasn't brave enough to play it that close to the line.
When it came time to split the money, Adam didn't hesitate.
He handed No. 1 exactly half—$200,000—and even threw in an extra $20,000 in "tips," which left the man visibly stunned. It wasn't just generosity; it was power. Control. Adam had just elevated him to a new tax bracket with the flick of a wrist.
Not because he had to, but because he could.
To Adam, money wasn't scarce. Gotham was riddled with secrets, each one a potential goldmine. What he lacked before was opportunity. But now, with connections to big names like Deathshot, Riddler, and more, those locked doors were starting to open.
And so, Adam continued.
He gave $100,000 to Deathshot—a move that left the veteran mercenary speechless. The man tried to refuse, stammering that he hadn't done enough to earn it. But Adam shut that down immediately.
"If you don't take it," he said flatly, "none of the others can either."
That worked.
Still, he played his cards close. Jason got only $50,000, and that was being held in trust until he turned 18. As for Poison Ivy, she got nothing. Adam wasn't ready to let her know too much about his plans.
Just then, a runner arrived. The Bronze Tiger—who had been unconscious until now—was awake.
And he was asking to speak to Adam. By name.