Adam wanted to complain to Deadshot—really, he did. The crushing taxes, the empty bar, the pressure building up. But he swallowed it. As much as he trusted him, some parts of struggle didn't need to be shared—not when you had a reputation to maintain.
So instead, he lit a cigarette and offered one across the bar.
"The Arkham police unit's recruiting," Adam said casually. "Thought you might want in."
Deadshot took the cigarette but didn't light it. He gave Adam a half-smile. "Come on, man. You know me. Uniforms, red tape, corporate corruption? Doesn't exactly fit my style. You expect me to shake down fruit vendors for bribes?"
Adam smirked but didn't answer right away.
If anyone had a right to detest the system, it was Deadshot. Born in the worst part of the city, orphaned by gang violence, raised by the streets—he'd fought to build something of himself, only to be blacklisted after speaking out too many times. To the system, he was a threat. To Adam, he was potential.
"This time's different," Adam said. "It's not part of the old guard.There are no bribes or bs silent codes. I'm putting together something new—an independent enforcement unit. Different rules. New recruits. The kind of unit Gotham's never had before."
Deadshot raised an eyebrow, slightly interested.
"Graduates only," Adam continued. "No aging cops looking for payoffs, no corruption. I need someone who can train them right. Someone these kids will respect."
That pulled Deadshot deeper into thought.
He'd been floating between underground gigs for months. Corporate security didn't want him. The gangs didn't trust him. Only Adam had kept calling—and occasionally, slipping him cash no one talked about.
Adam coaxed, "The whole world's jumping on the prohibition train. Gotham won't be any different. Sooner or later, someone's going to need boots on the ground to enforce it. And when that happens, I want us to be the ones holding the leash."
It took a moment, but Deadshot nodded slowly.
"I was hoping you'd say something like that."
Just then, the cheeky voice of Edward Nygma echoed through the bar.
"Well, if it isn't our prohibition pioneer!" he said, walking in like he owned the place. "I swear, the name Vlass is popping up everywhere lately. Who's dragging his legacy through the mud tonight?"
Adam turned, a hand reflexively hovering over the dial on Deadshot's glass, then dropped it and smiled. "Take it easy, genius. We just got here."
Nygma wasn't alone—he'd brought his girlfriend, a rare development. Adam had gently nudged him toward the dating scene a few weeks ago. Who would've guessed it would work? The awkward man with a brain full of riddles had, surprisingly, found some balance.
"Got your usual," Adam said, already pouring.
Deadshot gave Nygma a nod. They weren't close, but they'd crossed paths enough times to keep things polite.
Still, behind the warm smiles, Deadshot seemed distant—clearly still thinking about Adam's offer.
As if reading the room, Adam leaned back and joked, "You came at the worst time, genius. Drinks used to be free for friends. Today's special? 20% off. I'm desperate—tax season hit like a cinder block."
Nygma's jaw dropped in mock horror. "What?! Used to be?! You treated your friends like kings! Now you're charging me? Oh, that hurts. Deep."
Adam chuckled as Nygma leaned into the drama.
"Come on," he added, "look at these tax bills. They're bleeding me dry. Rent, permits, licenses—you name it. Jason even told me he wants to go to MIT—MIT! I nearly dropped my glass."
That made Deadshot smirk.
He knew the truth—Jason hadn't applied for college yet, probably didn't even want to—but Adam had already scouted schools, paid extra for recommendation letters, and even shelled out for a sponsorship slot at a prep academy. He didn't say it—but none of them would be where they were without Adam in the background, paving the way.
"I swear," Adam sighed, "I'm knee-deep in fake student loans and imaginary business debts just to explain the cash coming through."
Nygma leaned on the counter, grinning. "Well, just remember who helped design the tools behind that shady disc duplicator setup of yours."
He caught himself mid-sentence—realized he might've said too much with a stranger nearby—then cleared his throat and changed the topic.
"…By the way," he added before taking a sip, "this bar of yours needs way more than discounted beer. It needs charm and attraction. I'm talking about a few actual waitresses—maybe ones people want to look at? You're marketing your own face, man. And let's be honest—you're not exactly heartthrob material."
Adam stared at him.
"…You know this?"
"Hey," Nygma said with a wink, "IQ 190. I know everything."
He raised his middle finger with style.
Adam laughed. So did Deadshot.
And as the night went on, the bar's empty corners somehow didn't feel so heavy. For the first time in a while, Adam stopped thinking like a survivor—and instead, started thinking like a builder.
Which is probably why, in that passing thought about hiring new staff—his mind landed on a specific memory.
A girl.
Or maybe just an idea which he wouldn't ignore it.