DC: I Became A Godfather

Adam still didn't fully understand the rage that flared in his chest.

But it was there.

Burning.

He fired again—not at the thug's head, though. Whether by instinct or restraint, the bullet cracked into the concrete floor just inches away, sending shards of stone and brass casings skittering across the alley. The gang leader flinched violently, suddenly yanked out of his daze by the smell of gunpowder and the sting of flying grit.

"Agh—m-my—!"

Before he could let out a full scream, Adam swung the pistol hard, smashing the wooden grip against the side of his face—once, twice, three times. Bone cracked. Blood splattered. The cries were muffled, silenced beneath the sheer force of those strikes.

Then, calm as ever, Adam shoved the barrel of the gun into the thug's mouth.

His finger tapped the trigger guard lightly—casual, but deliberate.

"Yellow-skinned monkey, huh?" Adam sneered, eyes burning. "Was your mother bored back in the day? Got knocked up by a decent man for once, huh?"

He leaned closer, voice a low growl.

"You've got a real filthy mouth for a halfwit," Adam said, grinning now. "You thought I wouldn't shoot? That I'd just stand there and take it?"

He tilted the pistol sideways slightly. "Lemme tell you something, genius— I'm a detective. A real badge-carrying cop. I shoot you in the head right now, chalk it up to self-defense, and I'm back on the streets tomorrow. What do you think about that?"

The gangster's eyes widened in pure terror. Sweat beaded along his brow as he gagged around the muzzle. The defiance that once filled his eyes had shattered into pleading. He shook his head violently, over and over, desperate for mercy.

Adam clicked his tongue.

"Pathetic," he muttered. "Where's all that big talk from earlier, Mr. Phil?" He jerked the gun free, let the man gasp and choke, then jabbed the barrel against his cheek like a branding iron. "What, you thought the name Phil made you hard? Thought you were some gangland legend?"

Soon, came the shrill wail of sirens.

Footsteps pounded the pavement outside the alley—multiple officers, approaching fast. Even the laziest patrols in Gotham couldn't ignore a gunshot in broad daylight. Not after Thomas and Martha Wayne's death. Ever since that night in Crime Alley, Commissioner Loeb had no choice but to issue a citywide mandate: all firearm incidents were to be investigated. Immediately.

Phil, despite the gun in his face, suddenly perked up.

"The cops!" he gasped, like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat. Hope flooded his face. "The cops are here!"

Funny, Adam thought. The same guy who two minutes ago wanted to strip him naked in the alley was now praying to be rescued by Gotham PD.

"Drop the weapon! Hands where we can see them!"

The first officer stormed into the alley, pistol drawn and voice tight. His eyes went wide when he saw the scene—the broken table, the blood on the ground, the man on his knees with a gun to his face.

Adam raised the pistol away from Phil's mouth and slowly lowered it to chest level.

He didn't move an inch beyond that.

His police badge was in his pocket, but he knew better than to reach for it. American cops didn't wait. Any sudden motion could be your last. Plenty of men had learned that the hard way—mentally ill civilians, deaf teens, immigrants with accents too thick to explain themselves. Even cops weren't immune if they made the wrong move at the wrong time.

So Adam stood still, silent.

Phil, however, found his voice again—and fast.

"Jeff! Jeff, it's me!" he called out, fake tears already streaking his filthy cheeks. "This guy's insane—he's got an illegal firearm, he assaulted me, he's impersonating a detective—arrest him!"

Adam's eyes narrowed. So it was true—these punks were connected to the police. At least at the bottom level.

He took a glance at the officer's badge: just a patrolman.

Figures.

Low-tier gangsters don't have mayors on speed dial. They bribe the guys who ride around in rusted squad cars and eat vending machine sandwiches.

Adam rolled his shoulders and let his voice carry, full of lazy arrogance:

"Downtown boys got some hustle today," he muttered with a smirk. Then, louder: "Perfect. You can ask this trash why I was feeding him the barrel of my Glock."

He cracked Phil's cheek with the butt of the gun for emphasis. The thug whimpered.

This wasn't just Adam showboating for fun.

He was making a calculated play.

In Gotham, power respected performance. A nobody who groveled for recognition got trampled. But someone who walked like he had authority—demanded it—could bluff his way into safety.

Adam knew full well that these patrolmen probably had no idea who he was. He was new. Loeb knew his name. Maybe a few desk sergeants. But guys like this?

No clue.

So he acted like a man with powerful friends. Like someone who would ruin careers with a phone call. He gave them a reason to hesitate.

And it worked.

The cops didn't shoot. They didn't even step forward.

Instead, they lowered their guns slightly and whispered among themselves.

Then the alley parted, and a man in a dark captain's coat stepped into view. Square-jawed. Cold-eyed.

He scanned the scene, saw the blood, the trembling gang, the frozen patrolmen—and Adam, perfectly composed with a gun in hand.

He didn't say a word.

He just walked up to Phil… and slapped him.

Hard.

Phil spun sideways from the blow and hit the ground, dazed and stunned.

"You blind bastard!" the captain snarled. "That's the only Asian detective in Gotham, and you thought it was a good idea to mug him? He's on undercover assignment today. You just pissed all over your last bit of luck."

He turned to his men. "What the hell are you waiting for? Beat this piece of garbage and his crew until the detective feels relieved. MOVE!"

The officers didn't hesitate. Batons came out. Fists flew. Screams filled the alley.

Phil's crew who had run away were dragged back to the alley and pulverized on the spot—no mercy, no hesitation.

Adam just stood there, blinking.

He hadn't expected this.

Sure, he'd hoped for a pause, a chance to reveal his badge and defuse things without bloodshed. He didn't expect the very cops that had just drawn down on him to suddenly act like he was their commanding officer's favorite nephew.

"...Huh," Adam muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his head as chaos unfolded. "That worked a little too well."

Maybe, just maybe, there were still some people in Gotham who knew how to read the room.

Or maybe Loeb had already pulled strings.

Either way, Adam was learning something very important:

He was becoming someone.

And not everyone in Gotham liked that.

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