"Gotham itself isn't sick. It's its residents that are. So all we need to do is change the residents. I know it’s tough to kill so many people, but that’s how it goes when you have to make a clean break—there's always some pain involved."

  Falcone was about to pour himself a drink when Sofia took the bottle from his hands. Not only did she refill his gss, but she topped off Gordon's as well.

  "All this? That's eight million people! Eight million!" Gordon smmed his gss down on the table, the golden liquid spilling out.

  "Father, looks like Commissioner Gordon's feeling unwell. Should I take him to rest?" Sofia asked with a smile, but as she did, a series of cracking sounds echoed from her bones, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. A cat on the carpet immediately woke up from its sleep, nervously scanning the room for any signs of danger.

  Falcone gave a comforting gesture, reassuring Sofia that it was fine. He personally grabbed some napkins to clean up the spilled drink.

  "It’s okay. Gordon's always been like this since I met him. Once this is all over, and he sees the new Gotham, he’ll understand. And by the way, even though you’re a girl, don’t go threatening people like that. The Falcone family values honor and order. We rely on reason to persuade others, not cheap intimidation. It’s... undignified."

  "Yes, Father. I’ll be more careful," Sofia replied softly, her attention now on the cat, which she picked up and began to py with, tugging on its ears.

  Falcone gave her a kind look, nodding gently before turning to Gordon. "I apologize, Gordon. My daughter learned some skills from the Far East, and she’s still young, full of energy. Sometimes, she can come off as... rude. Please bear with her."

  Gordon could hardly believe he was still trying to communicate with two psychopaths, but Falcone’s words reminded him of something.

  "Barbara! Where’s my daughter, Barbara?" He straightened up, gring at Falcone.

  For a moment, the smile on Falcone’s face faltered, just for a second. He hesitated, then quietly instructed Sofia.

  "Turn on the TV. Let Gordon see." He gnced apologetically at Gordon. "Sorry, Gordon. I know you love her, but our little operation... didn’t go as pnned."

  Gordon stood up in a panic, but as Sofia walked past him to turn on the TV, she casually waved a hand. Suddenly, his legs felt like they had lost all sensation, and with a thud, he colpsed back into the couch.

  "What have you done to her? How is she?" Gordon struggled, his eyes fixed on Falcone.

  "It’s not what we did to her," Falcone replied calmly. "It’s that you pissed off the wrong people. Someone wanted to get back at you." He gestured toward the TV.

  The next round of news broadcasts was pying, and before Gordon could even look, he heard a hoarse, demonic voice from the television.

  "Good evening, host. Good evening, Gotham!"

  ...

  When Gordon finally turned to the screen, he felt his world crumble. Tears began to flow freely down his face as the scene repyed in his mind over and over—the image of a masked assassin, with bck and yellow, shooting Barbara. Her fragile body crumpled in the rain.

  He hated himself. Why had he crossed the wrong people? Why did his family always suffer for his mistakes? Barbara was only 17—why did this have to happen?

  Falcone, still seated nearby, dabbed at the corner of his own eye with a handkerchief, visibly upset. Sofia, on the other hand, seemed absorbed in pying with the cat, oblivious to the tension in the room.

  "Take heart, Gordon. I’m truly sorry for your loss. This was never the pn—we were supposed to have a nice family gathering here, safe and sound, underground... but I had no idea someone brought in Deathstroke. My control over the city isn’t what it used to be; I didn’t hear a thing."

  Falcone reached into his pocket for another handkerchief and handed it to Gordon, speaking earnestly. He had never intended for any harm to come to Gordon or his daughter.

  "I... what did I do? Who did I offend? Damn it, it’s all my fault!" Gordon gripped his hair, desperate, smming his head against the armrest of the couch.

  Falcone exchanged a look with Sofia. Sofia immediately raised her hand and pressed it against Gordon’s chest, freezing him in pce. Gordon could feel his body immobilized, only his tears flowing freely.

  "Gordon, my boy, don’t bme yourself. It’s not your fault. You just wanted to make the city better. You and I, we’re the same—we’re both good men." Falcone stepped closer, helping Gordon settle into a more comfortable position on the couch. He pressed his hand over his own chest and said, "The ones at fault are the people of this city. They’ve gone mad. We need to treat them, and we’ll make sure Barbara gets her revenge. We have the chance to do it now."

  Gordon didn’t respond. He simply stared, tears streaming down his face, murmuring softly, "Barbara... Barbara..."

  He had completely disconnected from reality, drowning in his own grief. Nothing anyone said could reach him now.

  Falcone turned to Sofia, his expression hardening. This wasn’t the Gordon he needed. Before Gotham could be reborn, they had to take down Deathstroke. Gordon needed to snap out of it.

  "Sofia, do you think you can defeat her?"

  Sofia knew exactly who he was talking about. Her face shifted through several emotions—disappointment, anger, defiance—but the one Falcone was hoping for was missing.

  She sighed and slumped back onto the sofa, shaking her head. "Sorry, Father. I’m no match for her."

  "How is that possible? Your teacher said you were a once-in-a-century prodigy. After you graduate, this world is yours for the taking," Falcone replied, frowning, his voice tinged with authority. He suspected his daughter was just avoiding the trouble, unwilling to get involved.

  Sofia sighed again, not lying. "Well, she must’ve only told you half the story. The world is big, sure, but there are some people you’re better off avoiding. Deathstroke is one of them."

  "She’s really that strong?" Falcone asked, sitting back in his chair. He had started to believe Sofia.

  "She’s ridiculously strong. She’s young, maybe even younger than me. If you asked me to deal with Brees, I could probably get her in front of you using only my legs, because Batman doesn’t kill." Sofia smiled bitterly and shook her head. She knew her own abilities well. "But Deathstroke? No. She’s not just a hand-to-hand combat master—she’s a weapons master, too. Whatever weapon you can think of—swords, guns, knives, grenades, even tanks—she’s an expert in all of them."

  "Your teacher said this?" Falcone asked, his expression softening. He lowered his gaze, gently stroking the petals of a rose.

  Sofia nodded, distractedly running her fingers over the cat’s head, which was smeared with her lipstick. "Yes, because I’m probably around Deathstroke’s age, my teacher sometimes uses her as an example when teaching me. Even after I graduate, Deathstroke will always be the one my teacher specifically warns me to avoid."

  "Mm..." Falcone seemed to be deep in thought.

  "My teacher said if I ever face Deathstroke, I have a 60% chance of escaping alive in hand-to-hand combat. If she’s using bdes, that drops to 30%. If she’s using firearms... I’d be dead for sure," Sofia finished, then fell silent.

  The room once again grew quiet, save for Gordon’s broken muttering.