DC: I Became A Godfather

Commissioner Loeb wasn't looking at the money scattered across the floor. His focus was elsewhere—on the worn, dog-eared booklet Adam had slid across the desk. A cheap thing. Smelled like mold and poor taste.

He opened it slowly, flipping through the pages with a casual air. His lips curled, just slightly. Not at the content—which was tasteless and obscene—but at the message.

Because Loeb wasn't stupid. He didn't need neon signs to recognize a bribe when it arrived dressed in dirty humor and wrapped in nervous charm.

And make no mistake—he'd known what Adam had been up to since the night before.

Every disc copied. Every machine borrowed. Every dollar earned.

The moment Adam started operating outside the Arkham status quo, whispers had already crawled into Loeb's ear like maggots drawn to heat.

Loeb didn't mind cops making side money. Hell, it was practically Gotham's second job. But doing it without telling him? Without kicking up tribute? That was the mistake. That was the insult.

And until five minutes ago, he'd planned to let Adam stew—maybe hang him out to dry for the rest of the department to pick clean.

But then the booklet.

Then the money.

Then the implication.

Zhou hadn't just realized he screwed up—he came to fix it. Came to pay respect. Even had the good sense to use the same smut he was selling as a wink, a nod, a kind of oily confession wrapped in plausible deniability.

Loeb looked up from the pages. Adam was still standing, posture tight but humble, playing the "loyal dog" routine with wide, apologetic eyes.

Smart. Almost too smart for his own good. But still a pup.

"I've been thinking about you a lot since you gave me this opportunity, sir," Adam began, voice painted with sincerity. "Arkham's got... primitive methods for earning. Lotta time, little return. I didn't want to waste your trust while I scraped pennies off the floor. So I... got creative."

He gestured toward the money on the floor.

"I swear on my badge, sir—this wasn't about greed. It's just loyalty. I thought it best to show it, not talk about it."

That last part? Pure theater. But Loeb liked a man who understood pageantry.

The commissioner exhaled slowly, steepling his fingers. "Mmm. Loyalty. Yes, that's what matters most in this city."

He gave Adam a measured look, the smile on his lips now easier, smoother.

"Relax, son. I believe you."

Adam didn't blink, but inside, his muscles eased a notch.

Dodged that one. For now.

Loeb continued, tone now more instructional than threatening.

"You're still green. Arkham's a tough post. I don't expect you to learn everything overnight. That's why I always say—lean on your colleagues. Ask Weaver for advice. Share the burden."

Adam's eyes flicked up at that name. Weaver. Chief of Arkham District. Old, quiet, and deep in the game.

So that's the play. Kickbacks don't come to Loeb directly. They run through local handlers. Makes sense. Harder to trace. Easier to manage.

Loeb was giving him a lifeline… and a leash.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to coordinate with Chief Weaver moving forward. I... appreciate the guidance."

Loeb nodded, pleased. The fire had gone out of his voice. The room, suddenly, was all old-boy camaraderie and secondhand smoke.

They talked a bit more—light banter about Gotham's economic slump, scandals in entertainment, even a joke about the mayor's latest mistress. Adam laughed when appropriate, careful not to overplay it.

He'd stepped into this office ready for war.

Now? He was walking out with a license to print gold.

Just as he was about to leave, Loeb added—almost lazily, but not without purpose:

"Oh, before you go... I hear you've been investigating bootleg publications in Arkham?"

Adam paused. The air shifted. That was the test. The moment Loeb pulled the pin from the grenade and rolled it across the floor.

He turned, keeping his tone righteous. "Sir, the pirates are out of control. They leech off honest creators and damage Gotham's economy. I intend to crack down with full force—justice demands it."

Loeb snorted softly, amused by the gall of it all. The man burning pirated discs by the hundred now stood there spouting anti-piracy rhetoric like a congressional witness.

Shameless. Which, in Gotham, is the highest form of professionalism.

"Well said," Loeb replied dryly. "You'll be glad to know we've got a stockpile of seized contraband from various busts sitting in the evidence vault. Might be some of your jurisdiction's spoils in there. Why don't you take a look? See what's... relevant to your 'investigation.'"

Adam's eyes lit up—but only for a second.

The gate to the treasure room just opened.

"Thank you, sir. I'll get right on it."

"Of course," Loeb said, waving a hand. "Just make sure you document what you take. And... next time, let's avoid surprises. Understood?"

Adam nodded, sharp and quick. "Crystal clear."

He left the office smiling politely, but inside, the gears had already begun turning.

With the evidence vault unlocked and Weaver marked as the funnel, the operation just went from backyard hustle to full-scale enterprise.

But the deeper he dug into this system, the more it became clear—

There was no such thing as clean money in Gotham. Only smart money and dead men.