DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam, meanwhile, didn't stop moving. He popped open the drawer, fanned through the bills, and did a quick count of the discs he'd left on the counter—twenty. Without hesitation, he pocketed exactly two hundred dollars, tucked his badge away, and left the lobby like a man who owned the building.

Once outside, Adam sprinted toward his car, eyes darting around the alley like he expected Batman to drop from the sky.

He slid into the driver's seat, closed the door behind him, and exhaled like a man who just pulled off a heist without even meaning to.

"Shit…" he muttered. "Does that count as robbery?"

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the badge still clipped inside his coat.

"Nah... Nah, I gave him equal value in product. Twenty discs. Two hundred bucks. That's wholesale." He paused. "Besides, police departments have done worse in the name of 'community service'..."

Still, he glanced upward, scanning the cloudy skyline for any sign of the bat signal.

Not yet. Good.

He reached for a cigarette, lit it with shaking fingers, and took a drag.

"This whole street's barely six hundred meters... but there are girls on every corner. And where there are girls, there are hourly inns."

He leaned back with a grin, the shadow of cash dancing in his eyes. "Yeah... it's time to expand the operation."

And with that, Adam shifted the car into gear, his coat flapping as he made a sharp turn and disappeared into the moonlit Gotham night—leaving behind a very satisfied Riddler and a manager too stunned to scream.

The Morning After...

By dawn, Nygma stumbled out of the hotel like a man who'd just gone through both war and resurrection.

His hair was a mess, shirt half-buttoned, beard unshaven, and his eyes redder than the Devil's shoelaces.

He squinted at the sun as if it had personally betrayed him.

"Almost thirty years of savings… gone… just like that…"

He whimpered and sighed, clutching his aching back. "Worth it? …Maybe. Still hurts though."

Elsewhere, the Arkham District

In a greasy booth inside a dim Arkham diner, two cops were drinking at a corner table, muttering in frustration between gulps of cheap whiskey and stale coffee.

"That damn Adam. Skipped another shift. Guy's been on the job for, what, a week? Already acting like he owns the department."

The speaker was Captain Irons, a long-serving officer in charge of field teams. Opposite him sat a bald man with a gray mustache and tired eyes—Weaver, the chief of Arkham's GCPD substation.

Weaver grunted, rubbing his temples. "Don't think I haven't tried. When he first showed up, I was ready to ship him straight to Blackgate or the madhouse to babysit lunatics. But Loeb?" He scoffed. "That bastard moved him right under my nose."

Irons blinked, leaning in. "You mean... Loeb's protecting him?"

Weaver tossed back another gulp of whiskey, scowling. "Not just protecting. That little bastard knew exactly what Loeb was up to. Heard from a contact—Adam marched into HQ in the middle of the night and handed Loeb five grand like it was spare change. Bought himself a ticket to immunity."

Irons nearly choked. "Five thousand?! Just like that?"

Weaver nodded bitterly. "My whole gambling ring pays out barely two grand a month in tribute. And that's running half the vice in Arkham. No wonder Loeb doesn't even look me in the eye lately."

Irons, ever the bean-counter, started adding things up in his head.

"Where the hell did Adam get that kind of cash? You think pirated DVDs could make that much?"

Weaver rolled his eyes. "What kind of idiot watches discs in a city crawling with street girls? Come on. Gotham's a carnival of sin. No one's hiding in their apartment to jerk off to old bootlegs."

He snorted. "More likely? The kid borrowed from the wrong people. I heard whispers—Black Mask. Ten grand loan, interest sharp enough to bleed a shark. He's trying to climb the ladder with borrowed steps."

Weaver poured himself another drink, his frustration growing.

"There are better ways for a cop to make money—gambling, protection rackets, turning a blind eye for the right price. But this punk decides to play retail hustler?"

Irons kept nodding, lips twitching with jealousy. The truth was, all of Arkham's dirty money flowed through Weaver. Adam, bypassing that, was an insult they couldn't ignore.

And Weaver was done watching.

He slammed his glass on the table, loud enough to make heads turn.

"We're not letting this punk get comfy. I don't care if Loeb loves him—Arkham doesn't."

He leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially.

"I've got a three-step plan. Starting tomorrow, you and your men focus your patrols on video stores, hourly hotels, and every place Adam's sold his trash to. Anyone caught airing his discs? Shut 'em down. Make it painful. Make it public."

Irons chuckled. "Crackdowns. Old-school. I like it."

Weaver continued, gritting his teeth.

"Second—dump every cold case, every unsolvable disaster, straight onto his desk. Let's see how 'efficient' Officer Adam is when he's knee-deep in Gotham's worst."

And just as he was preparing to unveil step three, a flicker of movement caught his eye outside the frosted diner window.

He froze.

"...Hold up. Who's sneaking around outside the booth?"

Weaver's hand slid beneath the table toward his holster. Irons straightened, suddenly tense.

Outside the glass, a silhouette lingered—shadowy, still.

Someone had been listening.

And if Weaver was right, someone was going to die.

—

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