"Huh? What are you talking about?"
Adam squinted behind the tinted shades he hadn't taken off since sunset. The flickering red neon from the store window bled across the counter as the shopkeeper cradled one of the discs like it was ancient treasure.
"Do you… do you even know what you're holding?" the man whispered, eyes darting toward the door like someone might burst in with a warrant.
Adam didn't answer. Not yet.
Mistaking his silence for veiled offense, the shopkeeper hurried to explain, words tumbling over themselves.
"These discs are South American imports—originals. Untouched, uncompressed. What's more..." He flipped the case toward Adam, tapping the faded red sticker. "This here? That's an official GCPD contraband seal. These are the kind of films that were seized during major raids and locked in evidence vaults. There's no market for these because they're not supposed to exist outside lockup. But that's what makes them priceless."
Adam let the information settle—his face unreadable. A hundred questions rolled through his head.
How the hell did I end up with something like this?
He remembered the discs—eight in total—pulled from a shoebox buried beneath clothes that smelled like rot and regret. Leftovers from the body he now inhabited. One of many loose ends he was trying to gather.
And somehow, this garbage… turned out to be gold?
Still, Adam knew better than to look surprised. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed, and gave a scoff like he was tired of wasting his time.
"That's it?" he said coldly. "You call this news?"
The shopkeeper flinched. He wasn't dealing with a kid from Uptown trying to hustle old anime. This guy had presence. Still as a blade, with the faintest tick in his jaw like he'd broken someone for less.
He cleared his throat nervously.
"No disrespect intended, sir," he said. "It's just… look, master tapes like these? They're uncoded. Not WayneTech locked. Which means they can be copied. Distributed. Rented. Streamed. Hell, they're printable. In my line of work, that's like finding uncut diamonds in a pawn shop."
Adam raised an eyebrow, only half-listening as his mind worked through the angles.
So these discs weren't just rare—they were exploitable.
Gotham's tech infrastructure, especially anything tied to media, was built with corporate security in mind. WayneTech VCDs came with embedded locks—non-copyable, immune to standard ripping, and coded to self-destruct after tampering. Piracy in Gotham wasn't just a crime—it was a technological impossibility.
Unless… you had foreign supply. Like these. Analog relics immune to the modern safeguards.
Adam's fingers tapped the counter slowly.
So my predecessor lifted this from the evidence vaults before keeling over. Guess he wasn't just a drunk… he was a scavenger.
The shopkeeper misread the pause and pushed further. "I've never seen this many master discs in one place. But… if you're trying to sell them all at once—I can't pay that kind of money up front."
Adam tilted his head. "I didn't come here to dump them all."
He reached down and tapped the edge of one disc like a dealer tapping a stack of chips.
"I came to ask: If I start copying them—how much per unit?"
The shopkeeper stared, blinking behind his glasses, calculating. "Burned discs? Twenty dollars a copy… for a set, say five per series."
Adam gave a dry snort and turned away.
His departure was intentional. Pre-meditated.
In his mind, this was a stage. And he was playing the part of the indifferent supplier—the one who didn't need the deal. Who could walk away and let demand do the chasing.
The shopkeeper didn't disappoint.
"Wait! Look—my store's small, but I've got relatives in the business. Bigger stores. Adult distributors. Folks who'd kill for this kind of material." He swallowed nervously. "Let me set up a line for you. You burn, I move. No middlemen. No questions asked. You won't lose money—I swear on it."
Adam kept his expression blank, but inside, the gears clicked into place.
Good. A chain of distribution without legwork. That's one less headache.
He turned, opened the door, and left without another word—ignoring the man's calls behind him.
'Always let them want more.', Adam thought as he walked into the cold Gotham night, 'Now I need burners. Discreet ones.And a secure spot to run production.This… is going to work.
The Next Day – Arkham Police Substation
At 9:04 AM sharp, Adam—dressed in his uniform blues but wearing the eyes of a man running a side hustle—called an internal briefing.
His tone? Clinical.
"We're initiating a full sweep of chemical vendors and small-scale manufacturing facilities operating without city permits," he said. "Target zones mapped. Squad rotations assigned."
The room murmured, unimpressed. New detectives always made noise when they arrived. Most burned out within weeks. Arkham chewed up crusaders like it chewed up sidewalks.
But Adam wasn't making noise for them.
He led every raid personally.
And by the end of the day, the Arkham District's black market was reeling. Unlicensed printers, soap and cosmetic labs, glue factories—shut down. Equipment confiscated. Doors padlocked. No warning. No bribes taken.
Even the few legal workshops were hit—flagged for "unsanitary conditions" or "irregular filings." The press didn't know what to make of it. Neither did Adam's superiors.
But in the back rooms of the evidence storage…
Burners. Stacks of outdated, confiscated DVD burners were being quietly boxed and tagged.
Some saw a bold reformer.
Others saw an overzealous fool.
But a select few—those watching quietly—understood the ripples he was making. Not because he was making war with Arkham's real powers.
But because he wasn't asking for permission.
And that scared them more than any badge ever could.