DC: I Became A Godfather

Amid the chaos and commotion of the alley cleanup, Adam had barely caught his breath when the precinct captain—calm, composed—slipped through the ruckus and came to stand beside him. It was almost casual, like they were old friends sharing a smoke behind a bar.

The man leaned close and murmured, just loud enough for Adam to hear:

"Word came down from the bureau this morning…"

Adam didn't need the rest of the sentence to know it was about him.

Without missing a beat, he reached into his coat, pulled out a crushed box of cigarettes, and offered one up like a peace treaty.

The captain took it with a grunt, struck a match with practiced ease, and blew out a cloud of smoke before speaking again—this time, with just a hint of weight behind the words.

"Big Brother Mian has spoken. You—three words—one of us."

Adam blinked. For a man as sharp as him, those words still landed with force.

There was a lot buried in that sentence.

The first takeaway? He'd just been officially absorbed into the inner workings of Gotham's real power structure—the one that lived beneath the official paperwork, the dirty little empire Loeb had spent years building. He wasn't a pawn on the board anymore. He was a player.

And that wasn't a title they gave out freely.

Need proof? Just look at Gordon.

The man had been in uniform longer than half the city's buildings had stood. He wore his rank like armor—Sergeant, Deputy Captain of the Tactical Division. A decorated veteran.

And yet, in Gotham's real game of thrones, he barely had the authority to shuffle a desk schedule.

Fras, the captain of the Special Operations team, held more sway over the force than Gordon ever had. And when someone like Gordon snapped, like he had this morning, it wasn't out of righteousness. It was because being ignored hurt.

It wasn't until right now—right here—that Adam realized it: he'd crossed that invisible threshold. The title of "detective" meant something now.

But even more shocking than being accepted into the fold?

The speed.

Adam had only walked out of Loeb's office a few hours ago. Not even enough time for Loeb to finish his morning coffee, let alone orchestrate a full chain-of-command update. Yet here he was, in an alley, hearing his name whispered from patrolmen's lips like legend.

'That's power, ' Adam thought. 'That's why Loeb runs this city.' 

He didn't need to yell. He didn't need to threaten. One whisper from the top, and every rank below fell into place like dominoes.

Adam didn't even have to fill out a damn report. No questioning, no hassle. The patrol officers chauffeured him back to Arkham District themselves, as if he were royalty. Hell, one of them even offered to buy him lunch.

Meanwhile, Gordon was probably still arguing with HR about overtime.

Back at his precinct, Adam didn't even bother pretending to work. He dropped into his chair like a man who'd just finished sprinting uphill with bricks strapped to his back. Arms stretched, cigarette dangling from his lips, he looked like a cop on his fifth cup of coffee after a twelve-hour shift.

In truth, he was just tired.

Too much thinking. Too much faking. Too much Gotham.

He drifted into sleep right there at his desk, and when he woke up, the light outside had shifted. Evening had rolled in like smog over the skyline. The shift commander asked if he wanted to tag along on the night patrol, but Adam waved him off with a yawn and lit a fresh cigarette.

He flipped open one of the precinct's free mags to kill time—some dry, state-issued nonsense meant to replace actual reading material.

No Playboys. No nudie zines.

Adam muttered under his breath.

There was a time—hell, a whole era—when adult media dominated the American market. Even under the slow collapse of print, there had been real money there. Zhou Hao, the name he once lived by, remembered those numbers. In 2009, "YBoy" had cleared over two million dollars in net profit. That was during the internet boom.

And don't even get started on video discs.

In 1997, the adult rental market in the U.S. was worth $42 billion.

Forty-two. Billion.

And that was before streaming, before camgirls, before pay-per-view anything. As far as Adam was concerned, his side hustle—underground AV disc sales—was still the safest investment in Gotham. All he needed was enough product, and he wouldn't be worrying about loans from Black Mask anymore.

He was halfway through calculating how many discs made a month's rent when an officer came strolling in with two cups of coffee and a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Yo, Adam!" he called. "There's some nerd outside struggling with boxes. Looks like a science fair accident. Ain't even taller than the stuff he's carrying. You should see it—it's hilarious!"

Adam froze.

A nerd?

Short?

Weak?

Something about that description sparked a memory. A familiar silhouette, awkward and twitchy, with a voice that always sounded like it was buffering…

Nygma.

Adam shot up from his chair and headed for the door.

Sure enough, outside the building, he found Edward Nygma—white lab coat fluttering, cheeks flushed, and posture warped under the weight of a massive cardboard box. The man looked like a stick figure trying to deadlift a fridge.

Around him, cops watched like bored spectators at a circus act. One of them even had popcorn.

Adam shook his head.

"Hey! Careful there, you'll throw your back out," he called as he approached.

In one smooth motion, he reached down and lifted the entire box with one hand—no strain, no drama—and set it on the sidewalk with a thud.

"Brother, come on now. This kind of grunt work's not for you," Adam said, still grinning. "You roll your ankle or knock your skull, then what? Let me handle this."

Nygma looked up, startled. His face twitched with surprise, then bloomed into something else—something warm. Gratitude.

It wasn't often people treated him with anything but indifference or scorn.

"Oh! It's no trouble, really. I promised I'd deliver these discs to you myself. Sorry for the delay," Nygma said, trying to wave it off.

Adam glanced at the truck behind him. Rusted, aging, American-made. Not a government vehicle. Private.

That said enough.

No department-run errand should require someone to use their own car. And the white lab coat? Pure academic—no field instinct. This guy hadn't even thought to change before moving equipment. He was a walking liability.

But Adam wasn't interested in making Edward feel worse. In fact, he had a different instinct.

One that could prove far more useful.

So instead of inspecting the boxes of AV discs Nygma had brought, Adam looked him right in the eye. Warm. Friendly. Even sincere.

"You didn't need to come all this way yourself. Honestly, I'm the one who should feel bad."

Then he added, cheerfully:

"Since you're already here, why not stick around? Grab a bite with me, shoot the breeze a little. We've got plenty to catch up on."

He clapped Nygma on the back and started leading him toward the precinct's rear gate.

The Riddler blinked, stunned.

No one ever invited him to anything.