After an unknown stretch of time, Charloes opened his eyes in his hospital bed.
He had been admitted to a private hospital twice in one week, once thanks to his father Seven Wolves' loving care, and once thanks to his younger brother's personality-correction punch.
But pain had done nothing to curb Charloes' urge to cause trouble. In truth, he understood his situation perfectly: he was an incompetent waste of space, and without his family's protection, Gotham would eat him alive.
As for William...
If he were William, taking power after years of lying low, his first move would inevitably be to make an example of the older brother who had once bullied him.
Such was always the struggle over succession.
Charloes knew full well that he had to keep going, but finding more weaknesses in William would hardly win back his father's trust.
Hiring a killer was the last option he could think of.
The following night, Deadshot received a message while teaching his daughter to draw at home.
Then a manila envelope was slipped under the door.
Work at last!
Floyd was visibly excited.
He had gone an entire month without a job, and living off his savings left the mercenary deeply uneasy. Running into Deathstroke a few days earlier had only made his anxiety worse.
Stuart-no, he should call him Slade Wilson now.
This junior, who had entered the business later and was a full five years younger than him, had already made a name for himself.
Did living in No Man's Land alone mean he deserved to be looked down on and held back by the people of Gotham?
"A big job... a big job!"
Floyd unwound the string, muttering to himself as he eased the documents out bit by bit like a gambler at a card