The circle of hostile men tightened around him. Adam gritted his teeth, pulled out his police badge, and held it up. "Let me through," he said, his voice low and steady. "I'm here to see your boss about the strike. He's expecting me."
He was bluffing, of course. He had no idea who the boss was or if he was even willing to talk. But in Gotham, no police chief had ever been killed by a slum mob. He was betting they wouldn't want to be the first.
The sight of the badge turned their suspicion into open anger. The dock workers didn't move, but they flexed their tattooed arms and glared at him, a silent promise of violence. For a moment, Adam was sure they were about to tear him apart.
Just as the tension reached its breaking point, a voice called down from a room above the restaurant.
"Well, well. I've been waiting for you. What are you all standing around for? Let him up! We have things to discuss."
With that, Adam felt a wave of relief. The crowd parted, and he pushed his way to the staircase. As he was about to go up, a few gangsters blocked his path. "Stop," one of them grunted. "Hand over your weapon."
Adam glanced down. He was still holding the pistol he'd taken from the thug in the alley. The gun's original owner was in the crowd, staring daggers at him.
Sensing the animosity from all sides, Adam knew he had to play this smart. He held up the pistol for everyone to see. Then, in a blur of motion, his fingers flew over the weapon. With a series of sharp, metallic clicks, he stripped the gun down to its basic components—the slide, the barrel, the frame, the spring—and let the pieces clatter onto the floor.
The crowd stared in stunned silence. It was a move straight out of an action movie, executed with a speed that was almost impossible to follow. It was a trick he'd learned from Deadshot during his grueling training. The master assassin had insisted that to truly master a firearm, you had to know it inside and out, to feel its soul. Adam had disassembled and reassembled guns countless times until the movements were pure muscle memory.
He had their attention. He'd shown them he wasn't just some cop.
He started up the stairs, but the lead gangster shouted again.
"Stop! We haven't searched you yet!"
Adam paused and looked back at them with contempt. "Are you serious?" he scoffed. "There are fifty of you here, and you're scared of one unarmed cop? Is your boss such a coward that he needs his opponents stripped naked before he'll meet them?"
The gangster's face flushed with anger and shame. He had no answer. Adam didn't wait for one. He pushed past the remaining guards with the same arrogance they'd shown him and walked upstairs, leaving them gritting their teeth behind him.
The room at the top of the stairs was packed with more toughs, all of them big, mean, and covered in tattoos. In the center of the room sat a man Adam had never seen before. He was wearing an expensive suit, which was strange enough, but stranger still was the red cloth wrapped around the top half of his head, covering his eyes and forehead like a makeshift hood.
'Red Hood?' Adam thought, squinting. He knew the history. The Red Hood was a Gotham legend. First, a lucky bank robber who couldn't be hit by police bullets. Second, the Joker before he fell into a vat of chemicals. And third, the resurrected second Robin, Jason Todd.
But this man didn't look like any of them. The cloth only covered half his face, leaving his nose and mouth exposed. It looked awkward, almost comical.
The man seemed just as surprised to see Adam. He recognized him instantly, his eyes widening for a moment.
"Boss, be careful with this one," one of the thugs sneered, trying to intimidate Adam. "All these cops are good for is taking bribes."
"Yeah," another added. "Don't let this bastard fool you. They're the ones who let Gotham get this rotten."
Adam saw right through it. It was a classic good cop, bad cop routine, meant to put him on the defensive before the real conversation even started.
But the boss in the center just smiled, a strange and unsettling grin. He pointed a finger at Adam.
"Hahaha! I can't believe it! He really came to us!" he announced to the room. "Boys, it looks like our luck has finally turned." The boss laughed with genuine delight. "To think, a treasure would walk right through our door. With him as our bargaining chip, we won't have to live in this dump anymore. We can go to Queens and start over!"
Adam was completely lost. The way they were looking at him, like a pack of wolves that had just cornered a prize sheep, sent a chill down his spine.
"Are we going to negotiate or not?" Adam said, trying to regain control. "Or do you think I, a lead detective, am not important enough? Are you going to keep holding people hostage?" He lowered his voice. "If you really want to solve this, you better show some sincerity. Because if the National Guard gets involved, this conversation will be very different."
The threat finally wiped the smile off the boss's face. He leaned forward, his tone now dripping with mockery.
"Oh, it seems Detective Adam doesn't realize just how popular he is yet," the boss said. "You see, we've met before. It's a shame a big shot like you has such a bad memory. You don't even remember little old me."
Adam's mind raced, trying to place the man's face, his voice. But nothing came. For the first time all night, he felt truly blind.