Reasoning with Nygma was always tricky. He could be ridiculously stubborn, sticking to his ideas no matter how flawed they were. Adam knew from experience that it was easier to guide Nygma with logic and real-world examples rather than argue.

"Man, you and me are good partners. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have started making money around here. I always remember that—I owe you," Adam started, smoothing things over.

Then, he asked casually, "But tell me this: suppose you're running a criminal empire. If your top lieutenants started forming a squad that you couldn't control, carving out their own little kingdom, how would you handle it?"

Adam knew that among Gotham's villains, Nygma was about the least likely to trust subordinates—just look at the comics, where even his supposed daughter ended up selling him out.

Nygma caught on quickly. "If someone started a crew behind my back, obviously I'd… wait, what are you trying to say?" He paused, thinking, realizing Adam was dropping a hint.

Adam jumped in, "Loeb has been running Gotham for thirty years. His network's deep. Directors don't get chosen by vote—it's just him appointing people. Go too hard, and you'll make him suspicious, and your time in office won't last long."

"So what should I do, then?" Nygma said, getting anxious now. "Try to cozy up to Loeb? Feels like being his lapdog. I couldn't stand that."

Adam didn't answer directly. Instead, he posed a key question: "What's the actual point of becoming police chief?"

It sounded simple, but Adam knew that for Gotham's villains, crime wasn't always about money. The Riddler could've been a top code jockey and lived comfortably—or the Joker could've retired as a baker after Batman 'died.' For these guys, causing trouble was about excitement, not profit.

Nygma thought for a minute. "Benefits of being chief? There's power, money… sure, it's a bit of everything, but you're right, no real downside."

"Exactly!" Adam replied. "The idea is to take whatever time you've got, use the job to build leverage, and then—even if you're fired—you still have power left over."

Nygma nodded, finally getting the point. He asked, "So are you talking about your Prohibition Enforcement Unit?"

"Yeah," Adam admitted. "Problem is, right now, the team's just an empty shell. We've got Norton, who's a crack shot, but nobody else. Finding good soldiers is a real headache."

Jason, listening in, was confused. "How can you not find people? There are guys on every corner. With a bit of cash, you could hire a couple hundred in a day."

Adam shook his head. "Those are just random street goons—only loyal until someone pays them more. If an enemy crew starts poaching, it's trouble." He leaned in. "What I want is simple: honest, idealistic young people. The type who actually believe in our goals, who'll follow orders because they trust me. Those are the recruits who'll stick."

Historically, Adam explained, armies picked soldiers from stable, 'good' families. Rome started with loyal citizen fighters—later, they used mercenaries who ended up switching sides for money. Commitment matters.

Nygma brightened. "Oh, that's easy. Giving you a tip here—there's been tons of bankruptcies lately, factories closing left and right. Those out-of-work employees are just the kind of eager, 'innocent' folks you want. I even heard a couple military schools shut down and are liquidating—maybe check those out?"

Someone at the bar who'd been ignoring the conversation looked up, incredulous. "Military academies can go bankrupt? Seriously?"

Nygma sighed. "Of course! This is capitalism—if you run out of money, you're done. Doesn't matter how old or famous you are."

He was right. Even in real life, like the New York Military Academy bankruptcy in 2018: big traditions, famous graduates, but once the money dried up, it was all over.

Adam's eyes lit up. Disciplined, trained students from a military academy—that was exactly the kind of reliable soldier he needed.