The rooftop had emptied, but the weight of what was left unsaid lingered like smoke. Adam gave Deadshot Norton one final look as the man stood in silence, hands clenched, jaw grinding with conflict.
Sometimes silence wasn't hesitation—it was resistance. Other times, it was fear.
Adam could see it clearly now: Norton wasn't ready to say yes, but he didn't want to say no either. A man with no job, no prospects, and a daughter to raise—anyone else would've leapt at the offer. But this wasn't about money. It was about identity. Norton had spent a lifetime nursing a hatred for everything the badge represented, and no persuasive speech could unshackle a prejudice forged in blood.
Adam understood. Too well.
He gave a dry chuckle and looked to the sky, as if searching for some cosmic punchline. Then he turned, his tone casual but carefully measured.
"Alright, alright. Don't stare off like someone just fed you a bowl of shit," Adam said, waving him off. "I'm not asking for your answer today. We're just two guys having a drink and some roast pig, remember? You've got time. Hell, take all the time you need."
He delivered it with a wink and a shrug.
Deadshot's eyes flickered with faint relief. He knew exactly what that meant. The pressure was off… for now. Adam wasn't going to corner him or drag him into something he wasn't ready for. That alone earned him points.
Before he could speak, Adam raised a finger in mock sternness.
"Just don't come crying to me when I'm a big shot and your salary hasn't been adjusted accordingly. Promotions come fast in Gotham if you don't die."
That cracked a laugh from Norton. Genuine. Small, but genuine. For the first time in years, someone had seen value in him beyond a gun barrel. He wasn't just a killer. He was potential.
That was dangerous in a city .
Still, as they walked back down to the street-level courtyard, the tension between them began to dissolve. Over the next hour, they drank under the open sky with mismatched dishes and borrowed chairs. Neighbors peered from windows. Children gathered with wide eyes. A table had been set up in the middle of the slum's open square, and to anyone watching, it looked like Deadshot Norton was hosting a very important guest—a police officer, no less.
Adam had done that intentionally.
Public perception was its own weapon. In a place , where the line between criminal and civilian was barely visible, reputation could decide who got a knock at midnight and who didn't.
He had no illusions. Norton wasn't ready to pledge allegiance—not yet. But every drink, every shared laugh in the open, every casual exchange in front of slum-watchers planted seeds. If a gangster tried to recruit Norton now, they'd hesitate. They'd have to. What if he was working with the cops? What if he was undercover?
A whisper in a place could be lethal.
Adam hadn't chained Deadshot Norton with threats or bribes. He'd wrapped him in ambiguity—a noose made of perception.
Norton laughed more that night than he had in years. Talk of firearms and old ops spilled between bites of charred meat and mouthfuls of lukewarm beer. For a moment, he wasn't a disgraced ex-soldier or a man barely hanging on—he was just Floyd. A father. A man at the table. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs NovᴇlFɪre.ɴet
Eventually, night fell. Norton declined another drink and stood up, muttering something about a job interview tomorrow. He offered to walk Adam to his car, almost embarrassed by the gesture.
Adam smiled. "Next time, bring better beer."
And then he was gone.
Back behind the wheel of his police cruiser, Adam let the smile drop. The steering wheel felt gritty beneath his fingers as the car bumped and groaned over the potholes of Gotham's eastern slums.
The headlights barely cut through the gloom. Streetlamps had been stripped for copper years ago. Alley cats fought rats for territory. And every third building had a broken window that screamed don't ask, don't tell.
He drove slower here—not because the roads were crap, but because this was the kind of place where a wrong turn could mean your last.
And besides... slowing down had its perks.
He passed a cluster of women standing on the corner, dresses cut higher than was practical, eyeliner drawn on like armor. They leaned against rusted railings and smoked cheap cigarettes, eyes lazy but alert.
Predators and survivors.
The streets of Gotham had many faces.
Adam rolled his window down slightly, letting the night air drift in. It smelled like garbage and gunpowder. But under that… a faint trace of perfume and heat.
His gaze lingered for a second too long on one of the girls, who flashed a hollow smile and waved.
He chuckled, low and to himself.
"Damn... been a while, hasn't it?"
He loosened his tie, the alcohol finally warming his blood. His mind wandered, half-sober, half-stirring.
"I mean… I've spent all day playing savior, giving speeches like I'm some righteous crusader," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Is it really that wrong to blow off steam once in a while?"
His foot eased off the gas. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Capitalism's finest nightlife… let's see what this city's got to offer."