DC: I Became A Godfather

Night fell on Gotham like a bad habit—inevitable, ugly, and clinging to the bones. The smog hung low over Arkham's cracked streets, streetlamps flickering like dying fireflies in a jar. Beneath that dying glow, a tall man in a rumpled gray suit strolled down the sidewalk, humming to himself as if the world wasn't rotting from the inside out.

It was Edward Nygma—the Riddler. And he was in a particularly fine mood.

"I'll say this much," he muttered, sidestepping a puddle filled with god-knows-what. "Adam may be a bastard, but at least his bar doesn't charge me for being a regular drunk."

He adjusted his hat, walking past boarded-up windows and alley mouths that whispered promises of death. Arkham hadn't changed. It was still the kind of place where you could get stabbed for eye contact.

Still, something felt…off.

"Damn," Nygma muttered, squinting at the sidewalks. "Where the hell are all the street girls?"

The wild warblers—the sirens of Gotham's gutters, in their fishnets and fake lashes—were conspicuously absent. A few overdressed pedestrians huddled together, wrapped tight against the cold, avoiding eye contact like it was contagious.

"Is this still Gotham, or did someone dump us into a Mormon postcard?" Nygma huffed.

As if on cue, a scream ripped through the silence.

He turned just in time to see a hulking man—black hoodie, combat boots—shove a butterfly knife into some poor guy's gut. Quick, clean, practiced. He grabbed the wallet and slipped into an alleyway, vanishing like a shadow dissolving into deeper shadow. The victim collapsed in a messy, twitching pile, his cries echoing into the hollow buildings.

Nygma stood there, watching the blood pool.

He blinked, shrugged, and kept walking.

"…Yep. Still Gotham."

The Black Rose Bar blazed like a neon wound in the middle of decay. Warm lights, the low thrum of jazz remixes, and the sweet, corrosive scent of alcohol spilled out onto the sidewalk like perfume on cracked skin.

Inside, the temperature hit like a sauna with too many sinners. The bar was packed—hipsters with molotov mouths, corrupt cops off-duty, working girls in leathers and lace, and drunks who wore pain like cologne.

A waitress in a red one-piece swimsuit approached Nygma, her high heels clicking like a metronome of bad decisions.

"Whiskey sour tonight, Mr. Nygma?" she asked with a practiced smile.

He exhaled and adjusted his cuffs. "Yeah. Blood on the streets today. Need something mellow to pair with human suffering."

She winked and disappeared behind the counter.

Nygma squinted around the room. "Why the hell are there so many women here tonight? Feels like a soft-core crime documentary."

Adam stood at the far end, laughing with a few regulars, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette tucked behind one ear. Around him, the crowd buzzed with rowdy banter and secondhand stories.

"Ten bucks and a hangover? Best damn value in Arkham," one guy hollered, toasting his glass. "You know what they serve at the shithole bar across the street? Formalin-flavored piss water. And it's warm."

"You're welcome," He called back with a smirk. "In fact, next round's fifty bucks. Gotta pay for quality now that people have standards."

He meant it, too. Word was out—cheap bars were spiking their drinks with industrial chemicals and potato-based bathtub swill. He had sniffed the change before anyone else. Now, his bar was the last sane place in a city gone mad. A paradox in glass and neon.

But Adam wasn't there to bask in praise.

He stepped away from the bar. Tonight was different.

Tonight was the night Catwoman came to work.

Selina Kyle glided between tables with feline grace, balancing a tray like she was born to it—but her eyes burned with restrained murder.

She was in a bunny girl outfit.

Fishnets. Ears. Tail. Heels that could pierce Kevlar. If looks could kill, Adam would've died three times already.

The worst part? It wasn't even the skimpy outfit that bothered her—it was that she was working. Actually taking orders. Pouring drinks. Smiling at creeps. And all of it in a costume that screamed guilty pleasure tabloid fantasy.

When she'd agreed to help out for one night, she didn't expect Adam to hand her a pair of rabbit ears and a black satin corset.

But Adam was already waiting for her by the bar, holding out a glass of warm water like he hadn't just ruined her last ounce of dignity.

"Hey. You good?" he asked, eyes calm, voice casual.

Selina rolled her eyes and sipped the water.

"This place is a mess," she said. "But somehow, it works. Cops, crooks, waitresses, and Wall Street assholes all drink here without stabbing each other. You've built something…weird. But it's working. And judging by your tips, it's profitable."

Adam chuckled, lighting a cigarette. "You complaining? I'm not paying you, sure, but I bet your socks are full of cash right now."

Selina sighed, fingers brushing against the rolled-up bills in her bra. "Three to four hundred bucks. Easy. Could've been a thousand if I let those creeps slide it in my stockings."

Adam whistled. "A shame you have standards."

"I have self-respect, which is more than I can say for half your clientele."

He leaned in, cigarette smoke curling between them.

"Selina… you've spent your life walking alone. You've wrapped your love in claws and locked it away with your cats. But when someone from your past calls out for help, you still show up. You still care. And that's exactly why I do what I do. I've seen how cold this world is. So if I can make it a little warmer—for the people who matter—I'm gonna fight like hell to do it. This place? These people? It's how I prove I was here. That I gave a damn."

Her emerald eyes narrowed, a sly smirk rising.

"Wow. That was almost poetic," she said. "I thought you were about to say I should settle down and get married. That life's easier with someone to walk beside you."

Adam tilted his head.

"Maybe I was."