DC: I Became A Godfather

In Gotham, using a cat as a hostage might send Selina Kyle into a full-blown emotional meltdown—but try that on anyone else in this city, and they'd probably laugh in your face and pull a gun.

"Alright, can we calm down and talk now?" Adam tried to de-escalate. He needed answers. A fight without context just felt...pointless.

"You shameless beast!" Selina hissed.

"...Why did you break into my place? I don't have any gold bars or diamond necklaces lying around," Adam pressed on.

"You despicable bastard!" Selina shot back.

"...Are you working for Weaver? Sent to rough me up?" Adam asked again, trying not to scream.

"You dirty, sneaky villain!" she snapped, her tone still murderously righteous.

Adam finally snapped, forehead veins bulging. "Are you insane?! I've been yelling questions at you for ten minutes—can you not hear me?!"

Selina exploded in turn. "You dare to hold such a precious creature hostage?! What did that cat ever do to you, huh? Even the dirtiest, lowest scum in Gotham wouldn't stoop this low! Put the cat down and fight me like a man!"

Adam looked at the fat orange tabby in his hand, then at his own scrawny, currently-underpowered self. Fighting Selina Kyle one-on-one? That was a quick way to donate your teeth to the sidewalk. Honestly, even a group of neighborhood punks would be too much for him right now without a gun.

Still, his mouth didn't get the memo.

"Challenge you? Catwoman—the woman who can parkour her way across rooftops faster than Batman's grappling hook? The one whose combat skills make half the B-tier villains weep? What am I supposed to fight you with? Harsh language? Be real. I'm barely strong enough to lift bedsheets, let alone lay one down."

The shouting match was so fierce it was hard to tell who was the real villain here. Meanwhile, the orange tabby—blissfully unaware it was the center of a hostage crisis—gave the chocolate bar in Adam's hand a good sniff. When it realized it wasn't fish, it pushed his hand away disdainfully and struck a tragic pose, staring off into the sky like a feline Hamlet: "To die by chocolate or not to die, that is the question."

Just as Adam and Selina reached maximum volume, the rooftop door creaked open.

A familiar girl poked her head out with a deep frown. "Are you two done yet? I charge by the hour, okay? If I knew it was gonna turn into a full-blown drama shoot—Huh? Selina? You're here? Wait... did he hire you too?"

Instant silence.

Adam blinked. "Wait. You know each other?!"

Selina's jaw dropped. "Holly?! Oh my god, are you okay?! Did this bastard do anything to you?!"

Five Hours Earlier…

While Adam was out drinking with Deadshot, Selina Kyle was at home staring at a mountain of overdue bills. Even though she was the underground queen of Arkham's nightlife—the top pole dancer, idol to the masses, performer of the year—she still came home to reality: debts, stray cats, and no retirement plan.

Her apartment was practically a cat sanctuary. Dozens of rescued strays, all fed and groomed daily, and each one living like a pampered aristocrat. Feeding them cost more than feeding a small army.

And she didn't live alone either. Sharing her roof was Holly Robinson—her best friend, pseudo-sister, and, in recent comic canon, possibly more. They'd met in the slums, bonded over shared trauma, and had been inseparable since. Holly, despite her cheerful grit, knew how much Selina had sacrificed to give her a home.

So, one day, while Selina was out, Holly decided to help. Not with cooking or cleaning—no. She put on heavy makeup, borrowed Selina's best eyeliner, and went out to "earn some quick cash." You know, the kind of "work" slum kids grow up seeing all too often.

She also left behind a note:

"Dear Sis, gonna make some money so you don't have to feed 27 cats alone. Love ya."

Fast forward. Her first "client"? A half-drunk Adam, who thought he was about to score some "wholesome therapeutic care" before realizing he just accidentally abducted someone's underage sister figure.

Selina, meanwhile, returned home to find Holly missing and the note waiting for her. She panicked. Gotham cops weren't exactly known for their empathy. If Holly was in police hands, things could go south fast.

Furious and terrified, Selina dug out her old performance catsuit, slipped on a party mask shaped like a feline, and traced the Chinese cop (Adam) who had reportedly taken Holly. The plan? Sneak in, smack him around, and rescue Holly like in that one issue of Catwoman #52 where she caused a riot at the precinct.

Now…

After hearing the whole story, Adam sat there, emotionally flattened like a pancake.

He didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or question all of his life choices. Somehow, all he wanted was a night of relaxation, and he ended up being accused of cat abuse, kidnapped by a dominatrix, and verbally assaulted while holding a 20-pound feline hostage.

Is this karma? Was he just... doomed to be Gotham's designated punchline?

Why? Why did it always have to go this way?

Yes, it's true what they say: the path of desire leads to ruin—and somewhere under the pomegranate skirt lies a graveyard of poor fools like him.