"Gotham itself is not sick; it's the residents who are. So all we need to do is replace the residents. Although killing so many people makes me sad, this is how it is with drastic measures—there's always going to be some pain."
Falcone intended to pour himself a drink, but Sofia took the bottle willingly, not only refilling Falcone's glass but also topping up Gordon's.
"So many? That's 8 million! 8 million people!"
Gordon angrily slammed his glass onto the table, spilling the golden liquid inside.
"Father, it seems Director Gordon is not feeling well. Shall I take him to rest?"
Sofia asked Falcone with a smile, but the joints in her body cracked loudly, and the room's temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. The cat on the carpet immediately awoke from its slumber, warily searching for the source of its unease.
Falcone calmed her down, smiling as he waved it off, personally taking some paper to wipe the table:
"It's fine. Gordon has been like this since I met him... Once this matter is over, he'll see the new Gotham and then understand me. Also, even though you're a girl, you should stop resorting to threats so often. Our Falcone family values honor and rules, and persuades through reasoning; what you did was too unbecoming."
"Yes, Father, I'll be more careful."
Sofia softened, picking up the cat from the rug and playfully twiddling its ears.
Falcone looked at her warmly, nodded, and turned to Gordon:
"Sorry for the embarrassment. Haha, my daughter learned some skills in the Far East and, given her young age, she can be quite energetic. She may be rude at times, so please bear with her in the future."
Gordon found it impossible to communicate with the two lunatics, but Falcone's words reminded him.
"Barbara! Where's my daughter Barbara?"
He straightened up, directing his gaze at Falcone.
The Romans' smile finally stiffened slightly, hesitating for a moment before softly instructing Sofia.
"Turn on the TV, let Gordon see." With that, he looked at Gordon apologetically: "Sorry, Gordon, I know you love her dearly, but our invitation encountered some mishap..."
Gordon stood up excitedly, but as Sofia passed by him to turn on the TV, she casually flicked her hand, causing his legs to lose sensation, and he fell back onto the sofa.
"What did you do to her? How is she?" Gordon struggled, continuing to stare intently at Falcone.
"It's not what we did to her; it's because you've offended some people before. Someone wants to get back at you." He signaled Gordon to watch the TV.
At that moment, the news cycle began again, and before Gordon could turn to look, a hoarse, demon-like voice emerged from the TV.
"Good evening, host. Good evening, Gotham!"
.............
When Gordon came to his senses, he felt utterly hopeless, tears streaming down his face, his mind replaying the scene of the masked assassin in black and yellow shooting Barbara, her frail body falling into the rain.
He hated himself, wondering why, whenever he offended someone, it was always his family who got hurt? Barbara was only 17. Why did this happen?
Falcone, nearby, took a handkerchief to wipe the corners of his eyes, feigning sadness, while Sofia was engrossed with the cat, her attention fully on the white feline before her.
"My condolences, Gordon. I deeply regret your loss. This wasn't how it was supposed to go—you and your daughter were meant to join us happily for a family gathering in this safe hideout... But I had no idea someone in the city invited Deathstroke. I'm very sorry. My grasp of the city's affairs is not what it used to be, and I obtained no intel at all."
Falcone said, taking out a new handkerchief for Gordon and speaking earnestly, insisting he never intended to harm Gordon and his daughter.
"What... what did I do? Whom did I offend? It should have been me!!!" Gordon clutched his head, frantically banging it against the sofa armrest.
Falcone signaled Sofia, who immediately raised her hand to press Gordon's chest. Gordon found that except for his head, his entire body was paralyzed, unable to move and left only to allow tears to spill from his eyes.
"Gordon, my dear boy, don't beat yourself up. It's not your fault. You just wanted to make the city better. You and I are alike; we're both good people." Falcone approached, adjusting Gordon to sit more comfortably against the chair back, pressing his own chest as he spoke to him: "The fault lies with the city's people; they've gone mad. We need to cure them, and we can avenge Barbara. We have the chance now."
Gordon did not respond, remaining silent with tears in his eyes, muttering softly.
"Barbara... Barbara..."
He disconnected his senses from reality entirely, fully immersed in his grief, unable to hear anything said to him now.
Falcone turned his gaze towards Sofia. This was not the Gordon he wanted. Before Gotham's rebirth, Deathstroke must be eliminated to lift Gordon's spirits.
"Sofia, are you confident in defeating her?"
Sofia knew whom he was referring to. Several expressions flashed across her face—disappointment, anger, unwillingness—but none of what Falcone hoped to see.
She lay back on the sofa, sighing softly and shaking her head: "Sorry, Father, I'm no match for her."
"How can that be? Your teacher said you're a genius not seen in a century, capable of anything after your training." Falcone frowned, his authoritative aura imposing, suspecting his daughter was shirking to avoid trouble.
Sofia sighed deeply, speaking with utter honesty: "Then they must have only told you half the story, for, while the world is definitely for the taking, some individuals are better avoided, and Deathstroke is one of them."
"Is she really that strong? I've never seen her in Gotham before." Falcone sat back down, now believing Sofia.
"Unbelievably strong. She's very young, maybe even younger than me. If you asked me to deal with Briss, I could capture her with just my legs because the Bat doesn't kill."
Sofia shook her head with a wry smile, aware of the limits of her own abilities: "But with Deathstroke, that's a no-go. She's not only a master of hand-to-hand combat but also a master of all weapons. By all weapons, I mean whether it's swords, spears, or tanks and grenades, anything that can kill, she's mastered flawlessly."
"Your teacher said this?" Falcone calmed down, lowering his head to stroke a rose petal.
Sofia nodded, absent-mindedly petting the white cat's head, which bore a trace of her lipstick: "Yes, because I'm close in age to Deathstroke, my teacher sometimes mentions it as a lesson. Even after my apprenticeship, Deathstroke remains a name she instructs me to avoid."
"Hmm..." Falcone pondered deeply.
"My teacher said that if I faced Deathstroke in hand-to-hand combat, I might have a 60% chance of surviving. But if she used blades, the odds would drop to 30%. If she also employed firearms, I... would undoubtedly die." Sofia finished and then fell completely silent.
The room reverted to silence, only the sound of Gordon's hopeless murmurs remaining.