DC: I Became A Godfather

It was said that Commissioner Loeb had little interest in enforcing laws—except one: the smoking ban. That rule was ironclad, likely because Loeb himself didn't smoke. Anyone caught lighting up inside the precinct would face an immediate, scathing reprimand.

Take the Batman: Year One comic, for example. Loeb would often chew gum in front of his chain-smoking subordinates, as if silently flaunting his personal victory over the addiction. As a result, James Gordon had taken to sneaking out to a secluded spot behind the police station whenever his cravings got the better of him.

After making absolutely sure no one was following, he'd reach into his pocket, pull out a crumpled cigarette, light it, and take a long drag. The bitter nicotine and tar rushed down his throat, washing away the tension that constantly weighed on his shoulders.

"Sigh... This is probably the only time each day where I won't be interrupted," Gordon murmured to himself with a wry smile.

The space in front of him had once been used by the department's gardener to store old tools. It was tucked beside the rear door of an abandoned hotel—quiet, out of the way, and perfect for a solitary break.

At least, as long as he didn't accidentally burn the shed down with a stray cigarette butt.

Then, something unusual caught his eye.

A hundred-dollar bill was pinned against the chain-link fence that bordered the outer wall. The green note stood out starkly, almost like it had been intentionally placed there.

"Strange... Who leaves money out here like this?" Gordon wondered, narrowing his eyes. "Did the gardener forget it? Or did it blow in from somewhere?"

Instinctively, he reached for it. Gordon was an honest man—he never took bribes—but even honest people know better than to leave cash lying around. There's a difference between corruption and common sense.

But the moment his fingers touched the bill, a voice drifted from the other side of the fence.

"James Gordon, you're finally here."

Startled, Gordon instinctively dropped into a defensive posture. His eyes scanned the gaps between the fence links, searching for the source of the voice. At the same time, his hand slipped toward his holster.

But before he could draw his weapon, something cold and metallic pressed firmly against his waist from the other side of the fence.

"What the—? Is that... a gun?" Gordon thought, alarmed. Even through the fabric of his shirt, he could feel the unmistakable chill of metal. Judging by the wide, cylindrical shape, it had to be a large-caliber rifle—or something made to look like one. And with the weapon positioned through the fence, he couldn't move or turn around to identify his attacker.

"Don't move, Gordon." The voice was calm, almost casual, but carried an undercurrent of warning. "And don't bother reaching for your pistol. I'm not your enemy. On the contrary—this meeting is to help you. I've got important information."

"I don't talk to cowards hiding behind fences," Gordon replied, his voice full of disdain. "And this is the backyard of a police station. If you've got the guts to shoot me, go ahead. But the second you do, the entire force will come down on you like hell itself."

"Oh? Is that what you think?" the voice chuckled darkly. "Let's be real, Gordon. Do you really think anyone in that station would care if you were gunned down out here? You don't exactly have a fan club."

The words struck a nerve.

Gordon's expression darkened. It was true. Despite his years of service, he had few true allies in the department. Just earlier, he'd tried to switch shifts with someone—anyone—so he could spend time with his daughter. Not one officer had agreed, even those who were clearly free.

"Let's get to the point," the voice continued. "Don't bother looking around. I don't want to be seen speaking to you. Now, bend over—pretend you're tying your shoelaces. Actually, tie both shoes together. It'll make our little chat more... productive."

Gordon narrowed his eyes. This man was clever. By making him appear hunched over, no one walking past would suspect anything unusual. Tying both shoelaces together? That was clearly a delay tactic—to keep Gordon from chasing after him once he escaped.

Whoever this guy was, he wasn't just a common thug. He was cautious. Strategic. And clearly wanted to talk without being identified. Could he be from a gang? A syndicate? Was he here to recruit Gordon as an informant?

"Listen closely," the voice said. "Your colleagues aren't just annoyed—they're angry. They're planning to teach you a lesson. Maybe a baseball bat. Maybe a crowbar. Either way, it'll leave you limping."

Gordon tensed. His hand instinctively moved to his belt.

"That's ridiculous," he said, trying to sound confident. "I've followed every rule. Maybe they don't like me, but assault? That's a stretch." He paused. "Who are you? How do you know all this? I should report you to the commissioner—"

"Loeb knows. In fact, he approved it," the voice cut in. "Once he heads to Metropolis on that lecture trip in two weeks, it'll begin. That's your window, Gordon—believe it or don't, but you'd better be ready."

The words sank in like lead. Gordon wasn't naive. The timing was too convenient. If Loeb were out of town during the attack, he'd have the perfect alibi. He could claim ignorance, even if everyone knew otherwise.

"Who are you?" Gordon asked, his voice laced with frustration and curiosity. "How do you know so much about what goes on in our precinct?"

No reply.

He waited for several seconds, then slowly turned—only to find that the "gun" pressed to his waist was nothing more than a rusty pipe. Its shape mimicked a barrel, but that was all.

"Damn it… played like a rookie."

Kicking off his shoes—still tied together—Gordon vaulted over the fence barefoot, hoping to catch whoever it was.

But the alley beyond was empty.

Not a soul in sight.

Except… on the grimy brick wall opposite, someone had scrawled a message in dripping water:

"Watch out, Flass."