Alex stepped into Falcone's office, and the smell of expensive leather mixed with aged whiskey hit his nose. Everything here screamed money, but without the cheap glitz: dark wood, polished chairs, paintings probably worth more than his burned-down house. No gold, just quality. Behind a massive desk sat Carmine Falcone, an old man in a suit tailored from Gotham's shadows. His eyes were hawk-like but with a mad gleam, as if he'd long stopped caring about risks. The old man's fingers drummed nervously on the armrest, the rhythm erratic, like a flock of frightened birds under his skin. Behind him stood two goons and a skinny guy with a tablet, fidgeting with a pen.
Falcone: high control of the situation, but behavior indicates decreased fear of risks. Microtremors in hands: early sign of neurological disorder or extreme stress. Goon on the right: not just security, a hidden assistant. Movements restrained, eyes scanning me, not the room—key player. Skinny guy with tablet: subordinate, afraid of mistakes, pale.
"Who the hell are you?" Falcone's voice cut like a blade but cracked into a slight rasp at the end. He cleared his throat, as if brushing dust off his vocal cords. "And how do you know the phrase?"
Revealing superpower: high death threat. Falcone hates those who know more than they should. Nervous cough: sign of instability.
"Rumors, Mr. Falcone," Alex replied, shrugging, pretending not to notice the old man's tic. "Gotham's chatty if you know where to listen. I'm here to solve your problems in the drug market."
He slowly pulled out a packet of modified cannabis—green as Pamela's emeralds, with a clean, floral scent—and placed it on the desk. Falcone picked it up, twirled it in his fingers, his gaze darkening, almost obsessive. He brought the packet to his nose, inhaled deeply, too deeply, held his breath, then exhaled sharply, as if trying to expel something invisible.
Falcone recognized Poison Ivy's handiwork: unique shade of green, the smell. He's silent to keep his trump card. Hyperventilation: possible sign of panic attack or mania.
"Weed? That's it?" His tone dripped with sarcasm, as if Alex had brought trash, but the corners of his mouth twitched—either a smirk or a spasm.
"Not just weed," Alex said. "The best on the market. Pure, non-addictive, with a high that rich kids will fight over."
"Non-addictive?" Falcone scoffed, but the sound came out sharp, almost hysterical. "Why would I want a product that doesn't keep clients hooked?"
"Because it's status," Alex replied. "Like good coffee—people come back for the taste. This weed is the best there is."
Falcone laughed hoarsely, but the laugh quickly turned into a hacking cough. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he tossed the packet back on the desk with a contemptuous gesture that looked uncertain. "You're like a hooker swearing she's a virgin," he sneered with a vulgar grin, but his eyes darted, unfocused. "Gotta check it."
Falcone will call a taster from his people. Expected reaction: positive upon quality confirmation. Unsteady gaze: sign of distraction or delusions of grandeur.
He grabbed the phone abruptly, nearly dropping it, and ten minutes later, a hippie with dreadlocks, reeking of patchouli, entered. He took a drag, paused. "Clean product, boss. Floral aroma, smooth but powerful effect. No chemicals, balanced profile. Best in years."
Falcone nodded, but his gaze was fixed somewhere above the hippie's head, into the void. "Take him away," he muttered to Vincenzo without looking. The hippie was led out. "How much you got?" he asked, now tapping not with fingers but with a clenched fist on the desk, rhythmic and obsessive.
Repetitive movements: sign of anxiety or obsessive state.
Over the past month, New Eden had transformed into a production machine. Pamela expanded the greenhouse using abandoned warehouses, her power accelerating plant growth, yielding harvests in days. Jimmy 1 through 4—aliases for anonymity—and an automated system of old fans and heaters produced 63 tons of the purest product. Pamela and Alex were the sole suppliers, no middlemen.
Volume: 63 tons. Market value: 190 million dollars at $1,500–$2,000 per pound.
"Sixty-three tons," Alex said evenly.
Falcone froze, his eyebrows shooting up. He turned sharply to the skinny guy: "Calculate it! Quick!" The guy fumbled, fingers trembling over the tablet, mumbling about prices and volumes, afraid to overstate and anger the boss. He wanted to please but knew Falcone liked to save. He spat out: 150 million. Price undercut: 20% below market. The skinny guy fears contradicting Falcone. Real value: 180–190 million.
"Seriously?" Alex said, crossing his arms, staring straight at Falcone. "A pound goes for $1,500 to $2,000. This is premium for rich kids. With this batch, you'll crush Maroni." Mentioning Maroni: fuels Falcone's ambitions. Risks concern him less.
Falcone was silent, his fist no longer tapping. He stared at Alex as if seeing through him, his lips moving soundlessly. Alex's mind raised an alarm:
Falcone is contemplating elimination: high death threat. Confidence and market knowledge raise suspicions. Silent articulation: possible internal dialogue or hallucination.
"This isn't a one-time deal," Alex said, concealing the lie, trying to steer the conversation back to business. "I can supply more. I'll give a 10% discount."
Falcone's eyes gleamed, not with greed but with sudden, almost childlike excitement. "I want payment in cryptocurrency," Alex added. "170 million in Bitcoin or Ether, so we don't show up on the cops' radar. Can your network split the payment through dummy wallets? You have offshore accounts, right?"
Cryptocurrency: high anonymity. Bank transfer would expose the deal. Falcone uses shell companies in the Caymans.
"15% discount," Falcone grinned, but the grin was crooked, unhealthy. "And we'll cover it. Split it through a dozen wallets, run it through offshore accounts. Cops won't sniff it out." He waved his hand as if swatting an invisible fly. "Details."
Alex nodded.
Deal: high probability of success, but Falcone wants more than just control. Dismissive gesture: possible reaction to internal irritant.
Falcone leaned back in his chair, a mad glint in his eyes, like a man who'd crossed the line of caution and was balancing on the edge. He spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, but each word was laced with venom and a strange, growing hysteria: "You know, kid… there's something I don't like about this. You come to me… to me!" He slammed his fist on the desk, making the skinny guy flinch. "You hand over weed and take the money like you… like you own the situation." His voice cracked into a shrill note, but he restrained himself, sucking in air with a hiss. "But you don't. You think Poison Ivy… that greenhouse hysteric… will save you?" He snorted, but the snort sounded pained. "You think money matters to me?" He leaned so close that Alex smelled old wine and something medicinal, acrid. Falcone's eyes were wide, pupils unnaturally large in the dim office. "Answer one question. Who…" he paused, his lower lip trembling, "…owns you?"
Falcone demands control: death for any answer but submission. Money is secondary; he revels in power as his last grip on reality. Dilated pupils: possible sign of intoxication or psychosis. Medicinal smell: sedatives or psychotropics.
Alex's heart pounded, rage boiling, but he kept his face stone-cold. He wanted to punch Falcone, spit in his mad, clouded eyes, but he knew: one move, and the goon on the right, the real assistant, would crush him. Alex smiled, swallowing his hatred, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back under his coat. "Of course, you own me."
Falcone's grin widened, becoming caricatural, almost clownish. "Good," he hissed, extending his hand. The grip was weak, clammy, but with an obsessive, sickly persistence. They shook hands. The skinny guy handed over papers: warehouse addresses, deadlines. Alex left, walked away, pulled out a cigarette. His hands shook, but he took a drag, staring at Gotham's gray sky, trying to exhale the icy feeling of touching madness. "You've riversigned your own death warrant, old bastard," he whispered, blowing smoke. This city would soon learn who owned whom.
***
The door closed behind him, and Falcone's office sank into silence, broken only by the creak of his chair and his own heavy, uneven breathing. The goon on the right—Vincenzo, the real assistant despite his thug appearance—stepped forward, his voice low but cautious. "Boss, that weed… how did you know it was Poison Ivy's work? And wasn't it too risky to pressure him like that at the end?"
Falcone huffed, tapping not on the desk but on his own temple, as if checking the bone's strength. "Vincenzo… you think I was born yesterday?" He spoke slowly, with pauses, as if words came with effort. "That weed… it's her handiwork. That shade of green… that smell, the purity… No one in Gotham makes it like that except that… that damned fairy with her rotten flowers." He smirked, but the smirk twisted into a grimace of disgust. "A pathetic tree locked in her glass tomb. She fears the world… fears me…" He straightened suddenly, his eyes blazing with manic fire again. "If I didn't know… that Ivy's behind him… I'd have told you to snap his neck right here and now! But since it's her product…" he waved his hand, cutting himself off, "…caution's unnecessary. She won't dare come for him. Too weak… too cowardly to play for real. In her greenhouse, she's queen… but here?" He gestured around his office. "Here, I rule."
Vincenzo frowned, casting a quick glance at the skinny guy, who shrank even more. "I understand, boss. But… his confidence, his knowledge…"
"Knowledge?" Falcone interrupted, his voice shrill again. "Knowledge is dust! Power! Power decides! And I have more of it…" he thumped his chest, "…than that degenerate! More than that scarred pup!" He leaned back in his chair, his breathing uneven again, staring at the ceiling, whispering incoherently about Maroni and rats. Vincenzo silently stepped back, understanding the conversation was over. The boss's madness was no longer a game but a prison with no escape.
***
Two weeks later, Alex sat in New Eden at a rickety table in the corner of the greenhouse, piled with papers. The smell of damp earth and grass mixed with the hum of old fans circulating hot air to dry the last batches. Pamela's vines snaked along the walls, but now they didn't try to strangle him—progress. Crates of finished product were stacked by the exit, where Jimmy 1 through 4 were finishing loading. Alex filled out paperwork to cover their asses if the cops started digging: lease agreements for abandoned warehouses converted into greenhouses, business registration for equipment purchases, contracts with mercenaries. Anything to look somewhat legal in this damned city.
He had overseen the first four deliveries to Falcone—50 tons already with him, the last batch, 13 tons, en route. Alex waited for Jimmy 3's call to confirm everything went smoothly. His phone lay beside him, silent as a grave. He scrawled a signature on another form when Pamela entered the greenhouse. Her steps were silent, but the vines stirred, betraying her presence. She stopped, arms crossed, her green eyes boring into him.
Pamela: tense mood, high interest in the plan. Possible reaction: distrust or irritation if answers are unconvincing.
"What's next?" she asked, her voice, as always, like poison wrapped in silk.
Alex set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. "First, we need a start. The greenhouse won't do—you seized it by force, we have no legal rights to it. One wrong move, and the cops or some gang will kick us out. I suggest the docks. Gotham's most ruined district: no infrastructure, water poisoned by factories, and most importantly—no serious players will fight for it. Maroni, Falcone, Penguin—they don't give a damn about those ruins."
She squinted but remained silent, so he continued. "With the deal's money, we buy commercial buildings in the docks, build a control ring—territory under us. Then we buy old factories to start agriculture. Without their toxic waste in the water, we can set up fishing. While I battle humanity's hell—bureaucracy—you'll be in the lab with pharmacists. I've already ordered equipment and hired two specialists who want to work specifically with you. They're ready to study your plants, create medicines, maybe even something more serious."
He was about to elaborate—about architects, about green districts—but his phone buzzed on the table. Too early. His mind calculated:
Call: 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Possible reasons: Maroni's betrayal, gang robbery, mafia interference, police. Delivery routes: chosen by me, low probability of random failure.
Alex glanced at the screen, and Pamela noticed his face harden. "Trouble?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah," he replied curtly and picked up the phone. "Jimmy, what's up?"
Jimmy 3's voice trembled on the line, but he tried to stay composed. "Cops, boss. Stopped the truck. Checking it."
"Don't panic, follow the instructions," Alex said, sitting at his laptop and opening Gotham PD's database, leaked a couple of weeks ago. Jimmy hid the phone in his chest pocket so the cop wouldn't notice, but Alex heard everything. Footsteps, then the cop's voice, clear, by the book:
"Officer David Crowe, Gotham PD. Show your documents and license."
Alex typed the name into the database. David Crowe, 38, married, two kids, address: East End, 47th Street, house 12. Mortgage debts, but clean record. Probability of accepting a bribe: high with the right approach.
The cop handed back Jimmy's documents. "Open the truck for inspection."
"Jimmy, give him the phone," Alex said.
"Someone wants to talk to you," Jimmy said, and the cop took the phone.
"Officer Crowe," Alex began, his voice steady as steel. "David Crowe, 47th Street, house 12, two kids at St. Mary's School. There's 10 tons of weed in the truck for Falcone. I'm just the supplier, but if the deal falls through, the mafia will start asking questions. To you and your family. I'm offering 50 grand cash, and you walk away. Your call?"
Silence on the line. Crowe breathed heavily, then handed the phone back to Jimmy. "Have a good one," he muttered, stepping away. Jimmy got into the truck, the engine roared to life.
Alex ended the call. Pamela watched him, eyes narrowed. "Would you really hand him over to the mafia?"
He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "No, Pamela. Most of the money's already in the account, Falcone got his. I wouldn't set up a cop, but I'd keep an eye on him. If he'd risked stopping a truck full of weed, mediocrity would call him a fool for staking himself and his family over some crime. But Gotham slid into the abyss precisely because no one takes risks. If people—cops, residents—worked as a single mechanism, the city wouldn't have become this. Mafia, corruption, fear—it all feeds on disunity, where everyone thinks only of their own skin. One honest cop deciding to go against the system could be the spark that ignites change. But he drowns in this swamp because the rest stay silent, hide, trade principles for survival. You and I are trying to change something, but even our plan is just an attempt to snatch a piece from Gotham's jaws. The unity that could save it is already a fantasy."
Pamela's reaction: thoughtfulness, slight respect for the words. Possible response: agreement to continue the plan or clarifying questions.
Pamela remained silent, watching him, her vines twitching slightly as if listening. Gotham pressed down, but Alex felt: they had only just begun.