DC: I Became A Godfather

If there was one thing Adam had mastered in his short time in Gotham, it was short-sightedness. Not the metaphorical kind—he just had a real talent for focusing on the wrong damn things.

While unseen forces were already moving against him in the dark, Adam was... cleaning his apartment.

"Ugh, what's that smell? Did a pig die in here?" the girl gagged, stepping inside with her nose pinched. Her little boots tiptoed across the filthy floor like she was navigating a landmine field.

"They say otaku apartments are full of... leftover stains. What if I get pregnant just stepping in here?"

Adam winced as if she'd stabbed him. His head dropped. Three metaphorical black lines might as well have formed across his forehead.

"Okay, yeah—it's not the Hilton. But give me some credit. Compared to the hourly dive motels on Ninth, this is paradise." He grunted, rubbing his temple. "And I'm not some greasy troll hoarding body pillows. Don't lump me in with that crowd."

Still, he'd cleaned just enough to avoid lawsuits. He had the visor rigged, the camera in place, and now handed her a set of plain, casual clothes he'd prepped for the shoot.

She blinked in confusion.

"Are you serious? These are... normal."

In her mind, women who worked the street wore leopard print, fishnets, latex mini-skirts—the full adult cosplay fantasy. This? This looked like something a high schooler wore to brunch.

Adam, however, was already adjusting the lens with practiced fingers.

"Yeah, that's the point. Don't overdo it." His voice dropped into calm professionalism. "Personally, I hate platform heels—especially on petite girls. It throws the whole silhouette off. Makes you look top-heavy and awkward. Also, that cake-frosting makeup style? Not your age. It buries your natural charm."

He picked up a crumpled men's dress shirt and held it out like it was a designer piece.

"See this? Oversized on you. It drapes like a dress, shows contrast, emphasizes your size—and makes people want to protect you. It's subtle, but it works. Trust me. It's all about suggestion."

He would've kept monologuing like a broke fashion professor, but then—

CRASH.

A wine bottle exploded in the living room.

The sharp clatter echoed off the walls like a gunshot.

Adam froze. His eyes flicked toward the sound. Then toward the girl. Then back.

"Wind...?" he mumbled, scratching his cheek. He always had half-empty bottles lying around. Maybe one rolled off? Maybe the apartment was finally rebelling against his life choices.

Still, something didn't sit right. He gave the girl a half-hearted apology and wandered toward the sound, casually picking his nose like he wasn't walking into a possible crime scene.

But when he entered the living room, he stopped dead.

Darkness.

All the lights were off.

Which was strange, because he'd left them on. Gotham nights didn't forgive darkness. And yet, the living room now looked like it belonged in a crime documentary—all shadows and scattered trash, silence like a held breath.

"Huh... Weird. Rest of the place still has power..." he muttered, reaching for the light switch.

He pressed it.

Nothing.

He pressed again.

Still nothing.

Then... something wet touched his fingers.

He paused.

Brow furrowed.

"Wait... I didn't wash my hands. Did I spill something?"

He sniffed his fingers.

Alcohol. His spine tingled.

That wasn't cleaning fluid.

That was the smell of a trap.

A fallen wine bottle—possibly intentional. A disabled light—definitely intentional. And now, the light switch dripping with alcohol?

Someone had been here.

Someone had planned this.

His heart kicked once. Hard.

"Shit."

His mind raced. This wasn't random. This was bait. The broken bottle, the darkness, the silence—it was all a funnel. A predator's lure. And he'd just walked into the cage.

His breath caught in his throat.

The air behind him shifted.

Then—

WHOOSH.

A blade of wind cut past his head like a scythe.

Adam dived forward, rolling instinctively. The strike missed him by inches. Glass crunched under his palm as he hit the floor—he was lucky. Too lucky.

He came up, adrenaline peaking, and snapped back with a snarl:

"Really? You come at me with a sneak attack? Go play some Assassin's Creed before you try that again."

But no response came.

No footsteps.

Just a voice.

Low. Icy. Feminine.

"Tch."

That single sound chilled him.

A woman.

Adam's mind scrambled. A female assassin? Who the hell did he piss off recently?

Was this revenge for the pirated discs?

A street worker with a grudge?

A feminist death squad?

He shook his head. "Why do I live in Gotham again?"

Then the pain hit.

"ARGH!"

He looked down.

His foot.

Blood formed under his heel. The shattered wine bottle—the one he'd dismissed earlier—had been perfectly positioned. A calculated move.

The attacker had anticipated his escape route.

The broken glass was her trap.

She'd lured him into the open, weaponized the environment, and now had the advantage.

A pro.

Blood trickled down his ankle. He staggered, hissing through clenched teeth.

But pain wasn't enough to stop him.

Not tonight.

He drew his pistol with trembling fingers and aimed toward the shadows where the voice had come from.

"I don't know who the hell you are," he growled through the dark, "but I'm not going down in my living room wearing socks and boxers. You want to dance, sweetheart? Let's dance."