"Gotham isn't the problem, it's the people who live here that are sick. So, the solution is simple—we replace the people." Falcone spoke with a strange calm, pouring himself another drink. Before he could finish, Sofia intercepted, filling his glass and Gordon's as well.
"Replace them? We're talking about 8 million people!" Gordon slammed his glass onto the table, spilling golden liquid over the edge.
Sofia smiled at her father, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Father, it seems Commissioner Gordon isn't feeling well. Should I take him somewhere to rest?"
As she spoke, her bones audibly cracked, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Even the cat, curled up on the carpet, jerked awake, sensing the sudden tension in the air.
Falcone waved his hand in a calming gesture, chuckling softly. "No, no, Sofia, that won't be necessary. Gordon's always been like this since the day I met him. He'll come around once he sees the new Gotham I'm talking about. And remember, my dear, you're a lady of the Falcone family. We pride ourselves on honor and decorum—threatening people isn't our way. We convince them with reason."
"Of course, Father. I'll be more mindful." Sofia's tone softened, though the dangerous glint in her eyes didn't fade. She picked up the cat from the carpet, stroking its ears as though nothing had happened.
Falcone smiled warmly at his daughter, then turned back to Gordon. "Forgive her, Gordon. Sofia's spent a lot of time in the Far East learning... certain skills. She's young and still full of energy, so sometimes she forgets herself. I hope you can overlook her enthusiasm."
Gordon felt like he was losing his mind trying to have a rational conversation with these two. But Falcone's words reminded him of something important.
"Barbara! Where's my daughter, Barbara?" He straightened up, eyes locked onto Falcone.
For the first time, Falcone's smile faltered. He hesitated, then spoke quietly to Sofia.
"Turn on the television. Let Gordon see for himself."
Turning back to Gordon, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Gordon. I know how much you love her, but there was... a complication with our plan to invite her here."
Gordon stood abruptly, but before he could take a step, Sofia casually waved her hand as she passed him, and his legs went numb. He collapsed back into the sofa with a thud.
"What have you done to her? What's happened to Barbara?" Gordon struggled against the paralysis, his eyes locked on Falcone.
"It's not us, Gordon," Falcone said with a hint of regret. "You made enemies, people who wanted to hurt you. Look at the television."
As Gordon turned to the screen, he was greeted by a familiar, chilling voice—a voice that made his heart sink into a pit of despair.
"Good evening, Gotham! And good evening to you too, Commissioner!"
The TV showed a masked figure, and before Gordon could fully process what was happening, the image shifted. His daughter, Barbara, lay crumpled in the rain, a small figure, motionless as blood mixed with the downpour.
Tears streamed down Gordon's face, unchecked. His mind replayed the horrifying moment on a loop—the masked killer, the gunshot, Barbara's fragile body hitting the wet pavement.
"No... no... why does it always have to be my family?" Gordon sobbed, clutching at his hair, his head falling against the arm of the sofa. "Barbara's only 17... she didn't deserve this!"
Falcone, appearing genuinely mournful, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. Sofia, however, remained detached, lazily stroking the white cat in her lap, seemingly uninterested in the unfolding tragedy.
"My deepest condolences, Gordon," Falcone said, his voice somber. "This was never the plan. You and Barbara were supposed to be here, safe with us, enjoying a family reunion. But someone hired Deathstroke, and for that, I apologize. My control over Gotham isn't what it once was."
Falcone handed Gordon a fresh handkerchief, speaking earnestly. "I never wanted to hurt you or your daughter, Gordon. Believe me, if I had known, I would have done something to stop it."
Gordon couldn't hear him. His mind was filled with guilt and self-hatred, his voice breaking as he muttered, "What did I do? What kind of enemies have I made? Why isn't it me that's dead?"
Falcone exchanged a glance with Sofia, who raised her hand and pressed it against Gordon's chest. Instantly, his body went rigid. He couldn't move, except for the slow, steady stream of tears rolling down his face.
"My dear Gordon," Falcone said gently, guiding Gordon's limp body into a more comfortable position on the couch. "You're a good man. You wanted the best for this city, just like I do. We are alike, you and I—both trying to save Gotham. And now we can avenge Barbara. We have that chance."
Gordon didn't respond. He was lost, drowning in his grief, his lips barely moving as he whispered his daughter's name over and over. "Barbara... Barbara..."
Falcone frowned, clearly displeased. This wasn't the Gordon he needed. Gordon had to be strong, he had to see the new Gotham take shape. And to do that, they needed to eliminate Deathstroke first.
"Sofia," Falcone said softly, turning to his daughter. "Do you think you can defeat her?"
Sofia hesitated, her expression shifting between frustration, anger, and reluctant acceptance.
She slumped back into her seat and sighed heavily. "No, Father. I'm not strong enough to beat her."
"How can that be? Your teacher said you were the most talented student in a century—ready to conquer the world." Falcone's voice grew stern, his presence commanding as he questioned his daughter's reluctance.
Sofia let out another sigh, stroking the cat absentmindedly. "If my teacher said that, she was only telling half the truth. Sure, I'm skilled enough to take on almost anyone. If you wanted me to capture someone like Bruce Wayne, I could do it using only my legs—because the Bat doesn't kill. But Deathstroke?"
She shook her head, her expression growing grim. "She's on a different level. Deathstroke isn't just a master of hand-to-hand combat—she's mastered every weapon imaginable. And when I say 'every weapon,' I mean everything from swords and knives to machine guns, grenades, even tanks. Anything that can kill, she's an expert with it."
"Your teacher told you this?" Falcone's intense expression softened slightly as he processed this.
Sofia nodded, still absentmindedly petting the cat. "Yes. My teacher would often use Deathstroke as an example to warn me. Even now, she insists I avoid crossing paths with her. That's how dangerous she is."
Falcone sat in silence for a moment, deep in thought.
"My teacher said that if I faced Deathstroke in hand-to-hand combat, I'd have a 60% chance of escaping alive. If she used bladed weapons, that drops to 30%. And if she combined that with firearms?" Sofia paused before finishing. "I wouldn't stand a chance."
With that, the room fell silent once more, save for the soft sound of Gordon's desperate, tear-filled whispers.