DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam checked his watch dramatically, then stood.

"Ah, getting late. Got things to do."

He slung his coat over his shoulder like a movie gangster and turned toward the door.

"I've reserved a private room upstairs at Zeus Hotel. Tonight. If any of you are interested in being… friends,"

He smiled and said, "You're welcome to drop by."

Then he walked out. No guards. No fear. Just confidence and the weight of a man who'd outplayed the table.

Behind him, the police conference room was frozen—until he disappeared.

Then chaos.

The cops lunged like a pack of starving animals. The money bag split open across the table, green bills fluttering like fallen leaves. Men scrambled, shoved, grabbed.

The captain just watched it unfold, a hand dragging down his tired face.

"This guy… How the hell did he know we were planning to gut him this morning?" he muttered.

"Coincidence? Or…"

The words trailed off.

Something about Adam's timing—his presence—his absolute nerve—it all felt too perfect.

Outside – Arkham Police Station

Adam stepped into the mid-morning haze, flipping the cigarette butt into the street. His expression was unreadable.

Behind his calm demeanor, his mind was racing.

"The moment I got the tip," he thought, "I knew this wasn't just heat. It was a power move."

Someone had leaked the conspiracy to him—someone close enough to the cops to hear whispers, but far enough to stay clean.

"They tried to box me in… but all they did was show me the map."

He replayed the words he'd heard inside.

Weaver, as the precinct boss, could've simply ordered an inspection. That was within his power. Lawful. Routine.

But instead, he passed out bribes. A sign of weakness.

Cops get paid by the city. They're supposed to follow orders. So why grease palms? Because they didn't believe in the mission. Because Weaver couldn't control them.

Adam smiled faintly.

"If they're mercenaries, I just need to pay them better."

It was ridiculous, sure.

But this was Gotham.

Arkham Precinct was a dead-end. A dumping ground for cops with no future. No upward path. No escape.

Weaver could bark orders all he wanted—but there were no threats left. Transfer to the asylum? It was still Arkham. Guard duty at Blackgate? Still Arkham.

They weren't loyal. They weren't righteous. They were trapped rats, clawing for scraps.

And Adam had just shown up with cheese.

"Now let's see what they choose."

He took a long breath and turned toward the garden bed near the front gate.

A little boy stood there, grinning wide, scuffed shoes and dirt on his cheek.

Jason Todd. The street kid who had once shined Adam's shoes. The one who'd warned him last night.

Adam flicked his lighter toward the boy.

"Thanks for the heads-up, Lucky Star."

Jason beamed. His small hands were stuffed in a coat two sizes too big, but the mischief in his eyes was too big to miss.

"You owe me a soda," the boy said.

Adam smirked. "Make it two, if you stay quiet about today."

Jason just gave a sly salute and ran off down the street, vanishing into Gotham's maze of shadows.

Adam turned and lit another cigarette.

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