Adam didn't know what was really going on in Loeb's head—but he had a feeling the chief had expected him to panic, maybe even beg for mercy.
That, however, was never Adam's style.
Instead, he leaned in, steering the conversation away from himself and turning up just enough suspicion to shift focus elsewhere.
After all, the most believable lies are the ones closest to the truth.
"The person who tipped off Batman about Weaver… that's where the real question is," Adam said smoothly. "If it were a regular agency or a news outlet that caught him covering up a prison break, sure—you'd expect a slow investigation. But no—it was Batman. He doesn't just 'show up.' Someone had to call him in."
Loeb listened, expression unreadable.
Adam continued, "And not many people in Gotham even have the ability to reach Batman. So whoever that is… may be the one who really sank Weaver."
It was a calculated push.
Even though the Penguin himself had once warned Loeb to look at whoever gained the most from Black Mask's death (pointing indirectly at Adam), Adam now cleverly redirected the spotlight toward someone else entirely—someone who had always stood apart from Loeb's circle of control.
Commissioner James Gordon.
Gordon was one of the only people in the department who had a direct line to Batman. He was also one of the few cops in Gotham who didn't bend when Loeb leaned on him. The rooftop Bat-Signal was a public slap in Loeb's face. And Loeb never forgot that kind of insult.
Sure enough, Adam saw Loeb's frown deepen.
Gordon and Weaver had never been close. Batman arresting Weaver on Gordon's tip? It would line up perfectly. And Adam—having just returned from South America—didn't add up as a suspect anymore.
Loeb muttered, "It's just like Gordon to run to that masked freak every time something happens. He never solves anything himself, always spotlighting the vigilante instead of real police work."
Adam nodded, pouring just enough fuel on the fire. "Weaver and I didn't get along… but I know the worst he did. If he's sitting in a cell now, then the rest of us—myself included—aren't far behind. Nobody's hands are clean."
That subtle confession—that Adam had also been involved in less-than-legal dealings—was intentional. It made him appear honest. More importantly, it made it crystal clear that there was no way he'd call Batman in to risk blowing everything up.
Loeb's face relaxed.
In a rare moment of approval, he clapped Adam on the shoulder. "It was the right move bringing you here today," he said. "Don't worry—my people don't suffer. You can go."
That was it. A quiet green light. Adam didn't react much—but the weight behind Loeb's words wasn't lost on him. He just smiled faintly, nodded, and walked out of the office like nothing happened.
Back at his bar, Adam expected a moment of peace. A moment to breathe. Maybe open a bottle in celebration.
Instead, he saw Jason sitting outside with his head down, a piece of paper clenched in his hand.
"Hey, little man," Adam greeted. "Is that your admission notice? Or is it just your homework trying to ruin your weekend?"
Jason didn't laugh. He just handed the paper over grimly.
"If you can still smile after reading this," Jason said, "then I'll admit—you're made of steel."
Adam raised an eyebrow, unfolded the sheet—and swore.
"What the fuck is this number?! Did someone add a zero by accident?!"
Jason sighed, still sulking. "It's the new liquor tax. Killjoy of the year."
According to the new city-wide prohibition bill, every bar in Gotham now faced massive taxes—plus penalties if they didn't meet a monthly turnover. Miss the target two months in a row, and their liquor license would be revoked.
And on top of all that was the massive fines.
Adam's head hurt just looking at it.
"Great," he muttered, "I built this bar as a front for our old disc business, not to actually serve drinks. And now they want to bleed me dry just to keep the lights on…"
He groaned. "So much for the 'alcohol enforcement squad' being a money-maker. Looks like I'm getting taxed by the very laws I'm helping enforce."
"Guess we've got no choice," Jason said. "The bar's gotta actually make money, not just sit here collecting dust."
It wasn't the worst plan. The bootleg disc business was still running, but it wouldn't be enough to cover these new taxes forever. If they didn't get the bar going now, they'd fall flat fast.
That night, for the first time in weeks, Adam opened the bar for real.
Not that it helped much.
A couple of homeless regulars wandered in, split a single bottle of the cheapest beer, and camped at the counter the whole night.
That was it.
Adam sat behind the bar, head propped on one hand, staring into the distance, muttering like a rejected business school dropout.
"Near-bankruptcy by happy hour... what a legacy."
Just then, the door creaked open again and Deadshot, as casual as ever, stepped in.
"Huh," he said, looking around. "Didn't know this place even opened for business anymore."
"Don't remind me," Adam grumbled. "Starting today? We're 100% legit. That also means drinks aren't free anymore."
Deadshot gave him a mocking grin. "Wow. The mighty Adam now charging his friends. How low you've fallen."
He headed to the bar, poured himself a cold beer, and leaned against the counter.
"But hey—if you need help keeping this place afloat, just say the word," Deadshot added, taking a swig. "Because a bankrupt Adam would be truly tragic."
Adam rolled his eyes but, he smiled.