DC: I Became A Godfather

The tram groaned as it rattled over rust-streaked rails, carrying its cargo of half-asleep laborers and lowlifes toward the heart of Gotham.

Adam stood hunched near a scratched window, watching as the city's neon glare flickered across the glass. The skyline burned with synthetic color—towering spires lit by excess and corruption, glowing like the city never slept. But here in the tram, Gotham's true nature breathed heavily all around him.

The stink of sweat, cheap cigarettes, and stale dreams clung to the air like mold. A baby wailed. Somewhere nearby, a woman—tired and indifferent—unbuttoned her shirt and began to breastfeed, her eyes glazed over. Two seats down, someone was clearly trying to unzip a stranger's backpack while pretending to be asleep.

Adam didn't blink. He just muttered under his breath:

"Never again. Next time, I'm flying in on a damn helicopter—even if I have to hijack one."

He didn't wear his badge here. Rule number one in Gotham: mind your own business. Trying to play hero on public transport was how people ended up missing teeth. Or fingers.

By the time the tram screeched to a halt, the sky was still black, Gotham's streetlights flickering like dying candles. But the platform was already packed—street vendors shouting over one another, waving everything from bootleg cigarettes to fake IDs.

A man in tattered robes shoved a worn-out paperback under Adam's nose.

"Good morning, my brother! For just three dollars, you can receive the sacred Confessions of the Fallen, detailing the sins of those who broke Moses' Seventh Commandment!"

Adam shoved him aside with a grunt. "Save it, Brother Scam."

The monk stumbled, still grinning as if they were best friends. Adam pushed through the crowd, shoulders squared, muttering:

"Seventh Commandment… Isn't that the 'don't cheat on your spouse' one? Gotham's sin economy's gotten so efficient, even the clergy are running softcore pamphlets now."

But something caught his eye.

Other vendors nearby held thick books in hand, barely selling a copy. But that so-called priest? His bag looked empty. People were actually buying his crap.

"No way… that dusty con-man actually made a killing selling bootleg erotica wrapped in scripture?"

Adam stopped walking. His eyes narrowed. Something dark and entrepreneurial churned in his brain.

He turned and yelled into the crowd. "Hey! I feel... inspired by the Lord. I'd like to give to the Church!"

The priest materialized from the shadows like a summoned demon. "May the Lord bless your soul, good sir! There is no greater virtue than supporting His word—especially at a bargain."

Adam flipped through the flimsy booklet. His eyes widened. Inside were tales of sordid trysts—affairs, betrayal, and scandal—all written like dramatic prose. The names might've been changed, but they were clearly inspired by real public figures. No wonder Gothamites were lining up.

"This city doesn't need prophets," Adam muttered. "It needs editors."

But the moment he scoffed at the lack of pictures, the priest's smile hardened.

"We're a legal operation," he snapped, his tone suddenly righteous. "The Gotham Gospel Life Committee strictly forbids images of lewd nature. We are a registered religious institution, thank you very much."

Adam smirked. "Right. And I'm the damn Pope."

Still, his curiosity was replaced by disdain. Compared to the internet buffet of the future, this stuff was bush league. He went to hand the book back.

Big mistake.

The priest clutched it to his chest like it was divine scripture. "Sir, your fingerprints are already on the blessed paper. You've defiled it. The spirits will punish you if you don't pay—lost poker hands, bad stocks, random plumbing failures!"

Adam stared at him, stunned. "You serious?"

The priest didn't blink.

Around them, the crowd stirred. Other vendors smelled blood. Like sharks in holy robes, they swarmed, waving their own books, begging, cajoling, surrounding Adam like a piranha circle.

By the time he pulled out his badge to clear the mob, he was twenty bucks lighter and three pamphlets richer—all worthless.

"Note to self," he grumbled, storming out, "never flash goodwill in Gotham again. They'll charge you for the smile."

Finally, after elbowing past the last vendor and dodging another pickpocket, Adam stepped into the Gotham Police General Headquarters.

He hadn't been back here since he got dumped into Arkham like some bureaucratic garbage. Now, walking these marbled halls again felt surreal, like a time traveler reentering a past life.

But his steps froze as two officers in clean, stiff uniforms walked directly toward him.

"Detective Baker," one of them said curtly. "Commissioner Loeb would like to see you. Immediately."

Adam's blood went cold.

He hadn't told anyone he was coming. He'd specifically chosen 4:30 a.m., when the brass would be home sleeping off their vices. He took a public tram, changed lines twice, even walked part of the way. Yet somehow, Loeb knew.

The weight of the badge in his coat pocket suddenly felt like a target.

"Where the hell did I slip up?" he thought, heart starting to race. "Was it the tram station? A traffic camera? A paid informant? Or was I followed the entire way?"

A dozen paranoid thoughts slammed into his skull. Was Loeb tracking him? Why? Did someone leak the disc-selling hustle? Was it about the time he defended Batman? Or maybe...

No. There were too many unknowns.

One thing was certain—Loeb didn't summon anyone at this hour for casual conversation.

The hallway that led to the Commissioner's office suddenly felt like a firing squad tunnel.

And Adam knew—

One wrong answer in that room, and he wouldn't walk out the same.