"Mr. Anthony, I hope you can write a check."
Adrian leaned back in the chair of his Gotham hotel suite, his voice calm but carrying a quiet authority that made people listen.
Anthony—mid-forties, sharp-featured with a hooked nose and graying hair—blinked in confusion. "A check? But the publishing house already advanced you thirty thousand. The first print run of your book only just hit shelves. Even though it's selling well, we can't—"
"Not the publishing house," Adrian interrupted smoothly. "Me. I'll cover it personally. But the check should be sent to my home under the publishing house's name."
The older man paused, then slowly nodded as understanding dawned. "Ah, I see… to avoid raising your parents' suspicions."
"Exactly."
Anthony didn't ask where the money came from. Something about Adrian's tone—his calm, self-assured presence—made it clear that this wasn't a man you pried into.
"What amount should I make it out for?"
"Fifty thousand."
Anthony frowned, then gave a reluctant smile. "Troublesome, but not impossible."
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'll mail it to Kent Farm under the publishing house's letterhead. The note will say that because your book's Gotham launch exceeded expectations, we're issuing an early royalty payment."
Adrian's lips curved faintly. "Good. That should keep them comfortable."
Anthony adjusted his tie nervously. It wasn't just respect he felt—it was something closer to unease. There was an aura around Adrian, one that carried quiet menace beneath perfect composure. It was the same energy his dark novels radiated—controlled power, hidden beneath charm.
Once Anthony left, Adrian stood and stretched, the movement fluid, almost feline. He walked to the window and drew back the curtains.
Rain drizzled over Gotham.
The sky was a bruised gray, and the towering gothic architecture sliced through the fog like stone fangs. Streetlights shimmered off wet asphalt, painting the city in streaks of amber and shadow.
Adrian had been to Gotham before—always brief, always at night—but never like this.
This was his first time seeing the city breathe in daylight.
Even through the rain, Gotham's essence lingered: the blend of decay and elegance, corruption and glamour, saints and sinners all trapped beneath the same stormclouds.
He admired it.
He despised it.
He understood it.
Behind the glass, the city reflected in his eyes like a living thing. "You're beautiful," he murmured, voice low, "in your own broken way."
Because of the rain, the outdoor promotion event had been moved inside, reducing his schedule and giving him unexpected free time. He closed the curtains, grabbed an umbrella, and left the hotel.
---
Outside, Gotham breathed chaos.
Rain came down harder now, hammering against black streets slick with oil and blood. The distant echoes of gunfire cut through the night like thunder.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. He recognized the sound of desperation.
Across the block—Gotham National Bank.
Police cars surrounded the building, sirens wailing, lights flashing crimson and blue through the mist. The shootout between the GCPD and the infamous Red Hood Gang was reaching its violent end.
Crouched behind ruined police barricades, officers exchanged fire with masked men in red helmets. Each muzzle flash lit the downpour for a heartbeat before the rain swallowed it again.
The wounded screamed, some dying in the gutters, their blood streaming away with the rainfall.
Above the chaos, thunder cracked.
And deep below the streets—beneath the city's crumbling veins—a roar echoed through the sewers.
---
Far below, Bruce Wayne sped through the darkness on a black motorcycle, its engine's growl blending with the rumble of rain above.
The young man's face was pale, sharp, carved with exhaustion and resolve.
"Master Bruce?" came Alfred's voice through the earpiece, calm but laced with worry.
"I'm here, Alfred."
"You sound as though you've had another sleepless night."
"I did," Bruce admitted, steering one-handed while scanning the display on his bike. "And I made a mistake."
"Again?"
Bruce's jaw tightened. "I should have spent more time studying the Red Hood Gang—understanding their operation. Instead, I rushed in to save the hostages at the bank. My cover's blown."
"Ah. Life, as always, refuses to follow our plans."
"True," Bruce said bitterly. "The gang's finished, but the price was high. Too many civilians caught in the crossfire. Even success feels… hollow."
"Don't lose faith in your purpose because of one failure, Master Bruce."
There was a pause, followed by the sound of static and Alfred's muttering. "Hmm. A small problem with the back gate. I did warn you that handling Level 1 computer systems is beyond my usual expertise. I'll need a moment."
"I don't have a moment, Alfred. They'll be on me any second."
Behind him, faint echoes of gunfire reverberated through the tunnels. Bruce pushed the throttle, accelerating toward a dead-end wall.
At the last instant, the stone surface split open like a door, and a freight elevator rose from the ground. He drove straight onto it.
The elevator dropped rapidly, sealing shut just as bullets shattered the stone above.
"Did you make it?" Alfred's voice came, uncertain.
Bruce exhaled. "Perfect landing."
"Well, next time you insist on entering from the south, perhaps we can install a proper entrance," Alfred quipped.
Bruce smirked faintly. "Alfred, this old stone house is all I have left of them. Forty feet from here is where my parents died. Every time I come here, it reminds me why I fight."
"Your war isn't just about fighting crime in a mask," Alfred replied softly as Bruce dismounted and powered down the Batcycle. "The Wayne legacy carries more weight than vengeance. Gotham doesn't just need a knight—it needs a leader."
Bruce walked up the stairs to the manor's living room, removing his gloves. "I know. This city is sick, Alfred. But I can't heal it sitting in a boardroom."
He picked up a worn book from the table, its leather cover marked by water stains and age. "Do you remember the Gotham Times feature, years ago? 'Gotham City Impressions'? They asked citizens to describe the city in three words."
"I remember," Alfred said, setting down a tray of tea. "Most answers weren't very flattering."
Bruce's eyes flicked down to the open page. "'Damned,' 'cursed,' 'mad,'—and a few with names like 'Joker' or 'Cobblepot.'"
He gave a humorless chuckle. "But this book—" he held it up, the cover embossed with an image of a Gothic cathedral and the word Cthulhu—"gives me a different answer."
"And that is?"
Bruce stared out the window, rain streaking the glass. "Gotham City is a twisted darkness—an abyss on the edge of collapse. No one can define it because no one's truly seen all of it."
Alfred looked at him for a long moment. "And yet, you still choose to stay."
Bruce's mouth curved into something between a smile and a grimace. "Someone has to."
---
Across town, standing beneath an umbrella at the edge of the police barricade, Adrian watched the flashing lights fade as the Red Hood Gang was subdued. The scent of gunpowder mingled with rain.
His reflection shimmered in the puddles.
Gotham was alive tonight.
He could feel it breathing beneath the storm.
And though he had come here for something as mundane as a book promotion, Adrian Kent—son of Jonathan and Martha, brother of Clark—felt an inexplicable pull toward the chaos.
The city's darkness spoke to something in him—a buried instinct, a flicker of power that whispered of purpose.
Adrian smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely moving. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding, Gotham."
As the rain poured down harder, he stepped off the curb and walked into the heart of the storm.
______
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