Floyd Norton—known to so as Deadshot—walked the cracked sidewalks of Gotham like a ghost.
His boots were heavy. His belly growled, hollow since dawn. The sun above beat down like a desert drum, baking the pavent and searing his skin with a cruel, familiar heat.
Afghanistan had taught him many things.
Hunger. Pain. Survival.
But not how to find a job in a city that didn't want him.
He'd gotten up before the sun, pressed his old army jacket, and walked three miles to the job fair for a local security firm. He'd shaved. He'd practiced his answers.
Didn't matter.
The mont he saw the application form, he knew it was a waste of ti.
"Please list your post-secondary academic certifications, specialized diplomas, or training outside public schooling."
Three lines. Empty.
He was a decorated marksman. A tactical genius. But to them? Just another high school grad with blood on his boots and no "relevant experience."
He dropped off the form anyway, out of pride if nothing else, then made his way across town to the Departnt of Veterans Affairs.
He waited two hours. Two hours of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the forgotten, the limping, the half-broken.
When his number was finally called, the clerk didn't even look at him.
"Sir," she said, monotone and tired, "your record doesn't qualify for benefits."
Norton blinked. "What?"
"We only process two categories here—career soldiers with twenty-plus years of service, or those receiving disability benefits for certified injuries. You… were discharged." She slid his form back across the counter with a fake smile. "There's nothing we can do."
If it had been Adam standing there, he'd have slipped a hundred-dollar bill across the desk and asked about alternative solutions.
But Floyd Norton wasn't Adam.
Not yet.
He didn't argue. Didn't shout. The discipline of the military was branded into his bones. Instead, he walked out of that building with fire in his gut and sha biting at his heels.
He was tired and broke.
"It's been a goddamn month since I got back," he muttered to himself, drifting down the crowded streets of Gotham, his eyes vacant. "Still no job. No prospects."
His mind went where it always did—back to them. The gangsters in the alleys. The brokers whispering nas and dollar signs. The jungle rcs who didn't care who you were, only how steady your hands stayed when the bullets flew.
Killing pays, they said.
Fast money. No rules. No rent checks. No judgnt.
But…
There was always a but.
And her na was Zoe.
"My parents died when I was a kid," he murmured. "No ho. No love. Just foster care and fists. I swore if I ever had a daughter, she'd never go through that…"
He paused at a crosswalk, shoulders slumped.
"…But what kind of father hides behind a rifle? What kind of life is that for her?"
He thought about his ex.
About her boyfriend.
The guy was a joke. A leech who mooched off Zoe's mother while pretending to be a provider. And yet, when Floyd had to leave town—when the heat got too close or the jobs got too ssy, that man was the one left to raise his little girl.
The thought made his stomach twist.
And then it hit him.
"…Shit."
Today was the end of the month.
Alimony.
Rent, food, heat, Gotham taxes—none of it mattered.
The court didn't care about excuses. If he missed the paynt, his custody would be contested again. The judge had warned him already—one more slip, and he'd lose Zoe for good.
Norton's hand instinctively dove into his jacket, fingers clawing at his empty wallet. A few crumpled singles. So coins.
Not enough.
Not even close.
His jaw tightened. He looked up, spotted an old phone booth near the corner liquor store. At least it looked clean enough to stand in.
He stepped inside and punched in the number he hated dialing.
It rang once. Twice.
Click.
Thumping music spilled through the receiver—cheap bass, loud laughter.
He didn't wait for her to speak.
"Listen," he said flatly, "I'm calling about the money. I'm short this week, alright? Gotham's damn bureaucracy is slower than a three-legged mule. The paperwork got delayed, the VA bounced around, and—"
He paused, exhaling through clenched teeth.
"…I just need a few more days."
There was silence on the other end. Then a voice. Tired. Annoyed.
"Norton? What the hell are you talking about?"
He frowned. "The alimony. I'm—"
"Paid. Already. You sent three months' worth this morning. Don't play dumb."
Floyd froze.
"What?"
"You heard . Full paynt. Even noted your na on the transfer. Ca into our account around noon."
The voice turned snide.
"I thought maybe you'd grown a conscience. Guess not."
Click.
Deadshot stood in that phone booth for a long ti, the dial tone humming in his ear like static.
Soone had paid for him.
Soone had stepped in.
Soone who knew his real na, his bank details, and his burdens.
He stepped out into the sun and squinted upward, as if the sky itself might give him an answer, and mustered the only na that ca to his mind.
"…Adam?"
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