DC: I Became A Godfather

Jason didn't answer right away.

Instead, he dropped his gaze and said softly, with a seriousness that didn't match his age, "Sir… I've been on the streets since I was four. Did everything I could to survive—shined shoes, ran errands, delivered messages, stole bread when I had to…"

His voice was steady, but his hands were trembling—fingers locking together like he was trying to stop them from betraying his fear.

"…But the more I saw, the more confused I got. I mean, look at Black Mask. He kills, runs rackets, sells dope—and people call him 'successful.' Some of the kids I know even idolize him. Like he's proof that if you're cruel enough, you can make it big."

He paused.

Adam narrowed his eyes.

This wasn't just a confession.

Jason's words pulled Adam back into a deeper understanding of Gotham—the one most people pretend doesn't exist. Every year, a tide of abandoned, unwanted, broken children floods the streets. Some disappear. Some die. Some turn into Catwoman.

Years ago, when Thomas and Martha Wayne were alive, there had been warmth—charity drives, shelters, people who cared. Then the gunshots in Crime Alley ended it all. And the city handed its children over to wolves in suits.

Orphanages became cages. Kids were sold, broken, trafficked—if the gutter didn't already claim them. So street kids like Jason… they didn't learn from books. They learned from blood.

Crime was the only ladder anyone offered.

"I always thought it was wrong," Jason said, "but I also thought… maybe it's just how the world works. That being good gets you nowhere. That if I wanted to survive—really live—I'd have to be like them."

His voice faltered. He looked up.

"Until I met you, sir."

Adam blinked.

"…What?"

"When you were talking the other day, during that shoe-shine, you said Black Mask was just a lie in a suit. That he wore the mask because if people saw his real face, they'd know he was just a coward. You made him sound pathetic. And that… that stuck with me."

Jason's eyes were shining now, not with tears, but with something rarer in Gotham.

Hope.

"That's when I realized… maybe there's another way to climb. Maybe crime's not the only way to rise up. I just don't know what that path is. But you…"

He paused.

"…you see things clearly. Like you've seen behind the mask. So…"

He took a deep breath.

"…please. Teach me. Teach me how to see the world for what it is, and how to survive it without becoming like them."

Adam froze.

Of all the things he expected Jason to ask for—money, protection, favors—this wasn't it.

A student? A disciple? A damn protégé?

For a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

This wasn't a street hustle. This wasn't a setup. This was a kid—this kid—trying to rewrite his own future. And all he was asking for… was guidance.

And that's when Adam panicked

"Wait, wait, wait…" his brain started screaming. "You're asking me? Me?? To be a teacher? Bro, I smoke, I drink, I bribe cops, I flirt with nightclub dancers named Cinnamon—I'm barely qualified to raise a houseplant!"

Outwardly, he tried to smile.

Inwardly, it was like his neurons were tripping over each other, trying to escape.

"You're a good kid," Adam said slowly, "and smart. Too smart, probably. Someone like you needs a proper mentor—someone brilliant. Tactical. Noble. Someone who knows 300 martial arts and bench presses trauma like it's cardio…"

Batman, in other words.

But Jason didn't know his own future. He didn't know what he'd become. So when Adam deflected, when he started laying down excuses dressed as flattery—

Jason's face fell. His shoulders sagged and tears welled up in his eyes. Real ones.

The kind that carved trenches through dirt-streaked cheeks and punched guilt into a man's gut like a crowbar.

Adam had faced down twenty armed cops the other night and didn't blink. One crying kid had him flailing like he stepped on a live wire.

"Okay, okay—don't cry, come on—Jesus, I'll do anything, just don't…"

He threw his hands up.

"Look. Teacher? That's a strong word. But how about this—how about we take it slow? You follow me around, ask me whatever you want, and I'll do my best to answer without corrupting you completely."

Jason sniffled, his eyes lighting up instantly.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really."

"Okay! Then here's my first question!" Jason said excitedly, wiping his face with the sleeve of his too-large hoodie.

"Why'd you walk into a room full of cops who were about to betray you, carrying a bag full of money? Weren't you afraid they'd just beat you up and keep the cash?"

Adam froze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The kid had gone straight for the throat. The biggest risk Adam had taken this week. And he'd clocked it in five seconds.

No wonder Talia al Ghul would fall for this kid one day.

"Damn," Adam muttered. "You don't waste time, do you?"

Jason grinned.

And Adam realized, with a weird sort of dread-tinged affection, that he might've just adopted a street-smart bloodhound with abandonment issues and moral clarity sharper than most judges.

Maybe this wasn't what he'd planned.

But maybe…

Fate had better plans.

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