Floyd Norton, Gotham's most precise marksman, stood alone in the phone booth long after the call ended, brow furrowed, heart uneasy.
'That wasn't a mistake.', He thought.
A random deposit? Possible, sure. But three months' worth of alimony? Into the correct account? With his name attached?
That wasn't some idiot wiring cash to the wrong place.
And whoever did it… had access to confidential personal records, bank routing numbers, and court-enforced custody filings.
The kind of access only someone with official clearance could get.
Norton muttered under his breath, jaw tight. "Adam?"
Adam was the only man he'd met recently who wore a badge, held rank, and had both the gall and the means to pull off something this precise. But why? What did he want? The source of this content ɪs NoᴠᴇFɪre.nᴇt
'What game is he playing?'
Norton didn't have time to chew over it. The sun was sliding down the Gotham skyline. His daughter would be out of school soon, and she needed lunch.
He didn't have much left, but fatherhood wasn't a thing he ever did halfway.
He ran down six blocks. Not because he was in a rush, though he was, but because the public buses in Gotham were metal coffins soaked in sweat, shame, and mildew. And because his old Ford, rusted and limping, had been towed for unpaid tickets two weeks ago.
He'd been on foot ever since.
As he ran, the city passed him in shifting layers. Glass towers gave way to cracked tenements. Billboards morphed into graffiti-smeared brick walls. The air turned sour.
The real Gotham. Not the one tourists saw.
Old men dug through trash cans for salvageable scraps. Women too young to be so hardened stood on corners in smeared lipstick and high heels, exhaling smoke like defiance. Packs of street kids moved like shadows. Gangsters laughed too loudly in alleyways, pistols half-tucked under faded coats.
And yet, amidst it all, a child like his still smiled in the sunlight.
"That school's a damn joke," Norton muttered between breaths. "If we stay here much longer, she's gonna drown in this place..."
He needed out. He needed money and a plan.
Up ahead, half a block from his crumbling apartment, a black-and-white patrol car gleamed in the sunlight, parked like a shark in the slums.
No sirens. No flashing lights. Just presence.
That alone was suspicious.
'What the hell are they doing here?' Norton's instincts kicked in. He ducked behind a newspaper stand, eyes sharp, muscles tensing. He'd seen cops bust down doors without a warrant in this neighborhood, shoot first, clean up the paperwork later.
'Is this about the money?'
He slipped forward, silent as breath, until he saw her.
She stood in the dusty courtyard beneath their building, sunlight catching in her curls, holding a plush teddy bear in both hands like it was a sacred treasure.
"Daddy!" she squealed, eyes lighting up. "You're back early! Come quick, we have company!"
Norton didn't move right away. His gaze swept the area: rooftops, windows, alleys. No snipers. No men in black. No signs of a setup.
Still, he moved with caution, approaching his daughter slowly, kneeling beside her.
"What did I tell you about taking gifts from strangers?" he said sharply, eyes narrowed. "You don't ever—ever—accept things without asking me first. Understand?"
Her smile faded into a guilty pout. "It's not a gift! It's a prize. I won it. Fair and square."
He blinked. "...What?"
"I had a math contest with the guest," she said proudly. "It was that police guy! The one from the fancy hotel—the one with the weird accent. He's not a bad guy, Dad."
Gotham cops were wolves in uniform. You didn't survive in this city without learning that the badge meant nothing without leverage behind it.
Gangsters at least had the decency to tell you how much your life was worth. Cops? They took your money, your rights, your soul—and said it was for your own good.
Here was that cop, stepping out from the building's stairwell, wearing an apron over a white button-up shirt, his sleeves rolled, hands greasy with food prep.
Not a weapon in sight.
He looked like he'd walked out of a weekend cooking show.
"Brother!" Adam grinned, cheeks flushed from the stove. "Took you long enough. I've invited you to dinner four times, and you keep brushing me off—so today I came to you."
Behind him, in the shade of the building, sat a fold-out table packed with absurd luxury: roast duck glistening in the light, apple-stuffed pork, trays of steaming buns, colorful salads, even a row of champagne bottles.
Children from the block had gathered at the edges, whispering, pointing, some holding paper plates, too shy to come closer.
Adam turned back to the food, flipping lids and fanning away flies. "You wouldn't believe it," he said casually, "but your daughter smoked me in mental math. I was so embarrassed. She beat me on decimals, long division, even fractions! Had to give up the bear. I lost fair and square."
Norton narrowed his eyes.
The guy came prepared—with a plush doll, champagne, and five-star catering—expecting to win his way in.
It wasn't generosity. It was strategy.
Disarming. Charming. Methodical.
He knew Norton didn't accept bribes. So he went for the kid.
Norton's daughter was still smiling, cradling the bear. "He even made the sauce mild because he said spicy stuff might upset your stomach. Isn't that thoughtful, Dad?"
"...Sure," Norton muttered, still watching Adam with a sniper's gaze.
This was a recruitment.
He just didn't know for what yet.