Poor Gordon

"Gotham itself isn't sick. The ones who are sick are Gotham's residents. So all we need to do is replace them with a new batch. Though killing so many people saddens me as well, cutting off a poisoned limb takes resolve. There will always be growing pains."

Falcone was about to pour himself a drink, but Sofia took the bottle first. She not only filled Falcone's glass, but also topped up Gordon's.

"That many? That's eight million! Eight million people!"

Gordon angrily slammed his glass onto the table, spilling the golden liquor inside.

"Father, Commissioner Gordon doesn't seem to be feeling well. Shall I take him somewhere to rest?"

Sofia asked Falcone with a smile, but her bones crackled loudly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees at once. The cat on the carpet immediately woke from its nap and warily searched for the source of the danger.

Falcone soothed her, smiling as he took out a few tissues and wiped the table himself.

"It's fine. Gordon has been like this since the day I met him. Once this is over and he sees the new Gotham, he'll understand me. And although you're a girl, don't threaten people at every turn. The Falcone family values honor and rules. We persuade people through reason. What you did was far too unbecoming."

"Yes, Father. I'll be more careful."

Sofia softened, picked up the cat from the carpet, and began playing with its ears.

Falcone gave her a kindly look, nodded, then turned to Gordon.

"My apologies for the spectacle. Heh heh, my daughter learned a few skills in the Far East. She's young, so she has plenty of energy. Sometimes she can be a little impolite. I hope you'll be understanding in the future."

Gordon already felt that there was no way to communicate with these two lunatics, but Falcone's words reminded him of something.

"Barbara! Where is my daughter, Barbara?"

He sat up straight and looked at Falcone.

The Roman's smile finally stiffened for a moment. After hesitating briefly, he gave Sofia a quiet instruction.

"Turn on the television. Let Gordon see." After saying that, he looked apologetically at Gordon. "I'm sorry, Gordon. I know you love her dearly, but something went wrong with our invitation operation."

Gordon shot to his feet, but as Sofia passed him to turn on the television, she merely waved a hand. His legs instantly went numb, and he dropped back onto the sofa with a thud.

"What did you do to her? How is she?" Gordon struggled, still staring fixedly at Falcone.

"It wasn't us who did anything to her. You angered some people before, and someone wanted to deal with you." He gestured for Gordon to look at the television.

Another news broadcast happened to be playing. Before Gordon could even turn his head toward the screen, a hoarse, demonic voice came from the television.

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

When Gordon came back to his senses, he felt as though all hope had been extinguished. Tears streamed freely down his face as the image replayed over and over in his mind: the killer in a black-and-yellow mask firing at Barbara, her small, frail body collapsing into the rain.

He hated himself. Why was it that whenever he offended someone, his family were always the ones who got hurt? Barbara was only seventeen. Why did this have to happen?

At the side, Falcone took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his own eyes, looking deeply saddened. Sofia, meanwhile, was absorbed in cuddling the cat, all her attention focused on the white cat before her.

"My condolences, Gordon. I'm deeply grieved by your loss. This wasn't the original plan—you and your daughter were supposed to join my daughter and me for a happy family gathering down here in safety. But I never expected someone in the city to hire Deathstroke. I'm sorry. My control over the city is nowhere near what it used to be. I didn't receive a single word of warning."

As Falcone spoke, he found a fresh handkerchief and handed it to Gordon. He spoke earnestly, saying that he had never intended to harm Gordon or his daughter.

"What... what did I do? Who did I offend? I'm the one who should have died!!!" Gordon clutched at his hair and crazily smashed his head against the armrest of the sofa.

Falcone gave Sofia a look. Sofia immediately raised her hand and pressed lightly against Gordon's chest. Gordon discovered that, apart from his head, he could no longer move any part of his body. He could only let the tears flow from his eyes.

"Gordon, my good lad, don't torment yourself. This isn't your fault. You only wanted to make the city better. You and I are the same—we're both good people." Falcone walked over, adjusted Gordon's body, and let him lean more comfortably against the back of the chair. Pressing a hand to his chest, he said, "The ones at fault are the people in this city. They've gone mad, and we need to cure them. We can avenge Barbara. We have the opportunity right now."

Gordon did not answer. He merely wept silently, his eyes vacant as he muttered under his breath.

"Barbara... Barbara..."

He had severed his awareness of the real world and was completely immersed in his grief. Whatever anyone said to him now, he could not hear it at all.

Falcone turned to look at Sofia. This was not the Gordon he wanted. Before Gotham was reborn, they had to kill Deathstroke and make Gordon pull himself together.

"Sofia, are you confident you can defeat her?"

Sofia knew whom he meant. Several expressions crossed her face—disappointment, anger, and unwillingness—but not the one Falcone wanted to see.

She lay back limply on the sofa and gently shook her head. "Sorry, Father. I'm no match for her."

"How is that possible? Your teacher said you were a once-in-a-century genius, that once you completed your training, you could go anywhere in the world." Falcone frowned, his imposing authority bearing down on her. He suspected his daughter was simply afraid of trouble and unwilling to act.

Sofia sighed. She was not lying in the slightest. "Then she must have only told you half of it. I can indeed go anywhere in the world, but there are some people I'd be better off avoiding. Deathstroke is one of them."

"Is she really that strong? I'd never seen her in Gotham before." Falcone returned to his seat. He already believed Sofia.

"Absurdly strong. She's very young, perhaps even younger than me. If you asked me to deal with Bliss, I could bring her before you using only my legs, because Batman doesn't kill."

Sofia gave a bitter smile and shook her head. She knew her own strength well. "But Deathstroke is different. She isn't just a Combat Master in unarmed fighting; she's also an All-Weapon Master. All-Weapon means that whether it's blades, spears, swords, halberds, axes, hooks, forks, Submachine Guns, grenade launchers, or even tanks—anything that can be used to kill, she has mastered it all to perfection."

"Your teacher said that?" Falcone calmed down and lowered his head to stroke the petals of a rose.

Sofia nodded, absentmindedly stroking the white cat's head, which bore a smear of her lipstick. "Yes. Since I'm probably close to Deathstroke in age, my teacher sometimes brought her up to teach me a lesson. Even after I completed my training, Deathstroke remained someone she specifically told me to avoid."

"Hmm." Falcone pondered something.

"My teacher said that if I faced Deathstroke, I might have a sixty percent chance of escaping alive in unarmed combat. If Deathstroke used blades or swords, that chance would drop to thirty percent. If she also used firearms, I would undoubtedly die." After saying that, Sofia fell silent.

The room returned to silence, leaving only Gordon's desperate murmurs.