DC: I Became A Godfather

The moment Adam's request for extra entourage went through, he was summoned to Commissioner Loeb's office. The old man sat behind his desk like a hawk, his face stiff with authority.

"Originally, Bruce Wayne refused your inclusion," Loeb said, his voice slow and deliberate. "But I fought for you, Adam. I pulled every string, spent every favor, and made sure you got this chance."

Adam forced a polite smile, masking the sarcasm boiling inside. "Director, you've gone to a lot of trouble for me. I'll make sure a… small token of appreciation finds its way to your place later."

Loeb waved a hand, neither accepting nor declining, then continued, "The entourage you requested has been approved. But about Jason…" He leaned forward. "Bruce Wayne suggested the boy stay at Wayne Manor while you're gone. South America isn't a playground—it's dangerous. Do you really want to drag a kid into that mess?"

Adam's expression didn't flicker and he said, "Thanks for the kind offer from the billionaire prince of Gotham, but Jason stays with me. We don't do handouts, and I don't trust him in Wayne's care."

In truth, Adam had his own agenda. He wasn't stupid—Bruce Wayne was Batman, and Jason living in Wayne Manor would be like throwing raw meat at a wolf. The kid would end up another pawn in Wayne's twisted "mentorship."

Besides, Jason was his trump card.

Black Mask needed Adam to smuggle his people into San Pedro Sula. The plan was simple: Jason's spot on the delegation would be swapped at the border. Adam would sneak one of Black Mask's men in under Jason's name—clean, untraceable. Meanwhile, Jason could relax somewhere nearby—Colombia, Honduras, wherever—while enjoying the three essentials of the Galle Sea: sunshine, beaches, and bikinis.

Loeb's voice broke Adam's thoughts. "There's one more thing. This isn't just a sightseeing trip. The GCPD wants a quiet investigation into whether drug cultivation is truly being eradicated. We suspect the military government's official narrative is a lie. I want you to dig deeper—head into the northern mountains if needed—and report directly to me every day."

Adam stiffened. That didn't sound like Loeb. The man was a political animal, not a crusader for justice. This smelled like Wayne's handiwork.

Still, Adam forced a grin. "A mission for justice, huh? Consider it done."

Loeb nodded, handed him a sleek satellite phone, and dismissed him with a stack of classified documents.

Outside the office, Adam ran a hand down his face. "What the hell am I doing?"

Black Mask wanted him to smuggle people in. Loeb wanted him to be a spy. And Wayne… Wayne was probably pulling both strings just to see him squirm.

Before he could sort out who he was actually working for, a familiar voice called out, "Adam! I heard you're heading to South America to fight drug lords?"

It was the Riddler—Edward Nygma himself—leaning against a wall, dressed like a college professor who'd lost a bet.

"'Fight drug lords' is a bit dramatic," Adam muttered. "I'll eat some Brazilian barbecue, come back in two days, and then you and I can hit the town with a couple of models. That's the plan."

But Nygma wasn't smiling. His glasses glinted ominously.

"I've been tracking the radio chatter from San Pedro Sula," he said, voice low. "It's not as simple as you think. Hostile forces have placed bounties on the incoming delegation. If you die there, they'll blame General Lionel, and the international community will crush the regime. It's a perfect setup."

Adam cursed under his breath. 'Great. A death trap with my name on it.'

Before Adam could reply, Nygma pulled something from his bag.

"This might help you. I… borrowed this from the evidence locker. It's a modified version of Scarecrow's gear. I made improvements."

Adam took the object, raising an eyebrow. It was a glove—sleek, black, and unsettling. Each finger tipped with a retractable needle. Thin tubing snaked across the fabric, connecting to tiny vials. It looked like a mix between an Assassin's Creed hidden blade and Freddy Krueger's nightmare.

"There's a micro atomizer on the wrist," Nygma explained. "Sprays fear toxin in a one-meter radius. Don't use it against the wind unless you enjoy psychotic hallucinations. The needles can be triggered with a flick of your wrist—just a scratch, and whoever you hit will be lost in a terror nightmare within 12 seconds."

Adam slid it on. The glove was lightweight, perfectly balanced. "Damn. This is… nice work, Nygma."

Nygma adjusted his glasses, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "You're my best friend in this cesspool of a police department, Adam. I don't want to attend your funeral. Not even if they bring your body back in one piece."

Adam smirked, flexing his fingers and watching the needles glint under the light. "Don't worry. I plan on coming back. With souvenirs."