To prepare for this meeting, Adam had gone through the trouble of designing custom masks—one shaped like a shark, another like a vulture, and the last like a fox. He handed them to Deadshot and Bronze Tiger before entering the room. In Gotham, secrecy was survival. And this meeting couldn't risk being traced.
The man at the center of it all—Victor Zsasz.
A natural-born killer. In Gotham's sea of criminals, Zsasz stood out for his obsession with death. Killing wasn't just what he did—it was who he was. A deadly improviser, he could turn anything into a weapon. And when he wasn't hunting prey, he was training. Sixteen hours a day, every day.
As soon as Bronze Tiger ripped off the cloth gag from his mouth, Zsasz's first words weren't threats—they were complaints.
"Untie me!" he shouted. "And get these awful clothes off me. I hate wearing this garbage!"
Bronze Tiger glanced at Adam for clarification. When Adam gave a quiet nod, he released the ropes.
The second Zsasz was free, he didn't make a move toward escape—or even toward violence. He started tearing off his own clothes. Shirt. Jacket. All shredded.
"I've seen exhibitionists," Bronze Tiger muttered, "but this guy... He's on another level."
Adam simply stared, calm, barely blinking. He already knew why Zsasz did what he did.
Zsasz's bare chest was covered in cuts—tallied scars, dozens, possibly hundreds of them. Each one was a personal record of a life he had taken.
Zsasz exhaled deeply, as if finally feeling free. Then he shot them a glare. "You idiots know who I am? You think you can just grab me off the street and not pay for it? I should gut all of you!"
Adam didn't respond to the threat. Instead, he stepped closer and pointed at one of the oldest scars.
"You got this one a year ago. First one, right? Drunk guy. You were walking home, saw him lying in a trash heap. Didn't know why, but something pulled you in. You used a broken bottle to cut his throat. You were trembling for days… then it hit you. That rush, like a drug, right? Since then, you mark every kill on your body. Keeps you connected."
Zsasz froze.
His eyes widened. The crazy smile faded for once.
"How… how do you know that?" he stammered. "No one knows that. I never told—how the hell do you know!?"
Bronze Tiger and Deadshot exchanged looks. This was more than they'd signed up for. The tally marks were one thing—but this level of psychoanalysis?
Adam ignored Zsasz's shock. Calm as ever, he said, "You're talented, Victor. But you're wasting it."
Zsasz scoffed. "Wasting it? You think hundreds of kills mean nothing? Look at this—every cut is proof I'm the best!"
Adam shook his head. "You don't go after anyone who can fight back. No cops. No soldiers. Just drunks, street trash, victims. You're playing on easy mode. And what's that get you? No one whispers your name. No one's scared."
He let that hang for a moment, then leaned in.
"But imagine what people would say… if you killed someone truly powerful in Gotham. Someone with history. A legacy. You think tally marks impress people? Kill someone big—and you become the mark."
Zsasz slowly looked down at his scars… then up again, his eyes burning with a sudden fire.
"Yeah… you're right," he muttered. "Nobody knows me… I've done all this and nobody even flinched. But if I took out a big shot… someone like Bruce Wayne or that smug billionaire from Midtown—"
Adam turned away, smile hidden. Exactly the reaction he wanted.
Behind him, Bronze Tiger was shaking his head.
"This guy's out of his mind," he said quietly to Deadshot. "Where'd you even find him?"
Deadshot exhaled. "You're not wrong. He's completely mad. Adam told me up front—'Go find me a crazy one.' I thought he was joking... turns out, he wasn't."
Tiger crossed his arms. "Was this really necessary?"
"Not ideal," Deadshot admitted, lighting a cigarette, "but look at the bigger picture. We're badly outgunned. Black Mask has muscle everywhere. Adam needs chaos. Someone willing to drive a knife into the king instead of dying in the trenches."
He didn't say it aloud, but he remembered clearly. He had offered—more than once—to do the job himself. Kill Black Mask. Take the heat. But Adam always refused.
Instead, he kept Floyd at arm's length. Safe. Valuable.
And that meant something, even if he didn't say it.
Bronze Tiger glanced back at Zsasz, who was still muttering about "picking scars for the rich and famous" and plotting real kills with giddy delight.
"Even with him… getting close to Black Mask won't be easy," Tiger warned. "He's guarded night and day."
But Adam spoke up suddenly, overhearing them.
"That's the thing," he said calmly. "Black Mask has the underworld locked tight. But Gotham's white-collar world? He has no pull there. And I know exactly where to strike from."