DC: I Became A Godfather

Calendar Man's cold, inked face twisted into a grimace as he leveled his gun at Adam.

"I don't know how you know so much about me," he said slowly, "But on this sacred day, I need the blood of a pure girl to fulfill my ritual. You…" He tilted his head, eyes narrowing into predatory slits. "…I could shoot through your hands, your knees. I could leave you screaming in your own blood, neither alive nor dead. Do you want to test me?"

Adam smirked, but a shiver of unease rippled through his chest.

'Damn it… this guy's sharper than I thought. No easy way out of this.'

"Test you?" Adam said, voice cool but laced with a hint of mockery. "If I didn't have a plan, do you think I'd just stroll in here?" His eyes stayed locked on Calendar Man's, deliberately ignoring the black muzzle of the gun hovering dangerously close to his torso.

"I heard you're an expert with dates, numbers, and festivals," Adam began, feigning curiosity. "But there's a riddle that's been eating at me—something about dates no one could answer. I figured you might."

Calendar Man's brows lifted slightly. His instincts screamed that Adam was trying to distract him, but his vanity, that gnawing paranoia that all Gotham's criminals carried like a badge, compelled him to listen.

"You came in here… to ask me questions?" Calendar Man chuckled darkly. "Are you insane, or just an idiot?"

"Neither," Adam said evenly. "You're an artist, right? You take pride in what you do. Someone who understands the meaning of time. So tell me—let's see if you're as good as they say."

Calendar Man paused, the barrel of his gun lowering just slightly. He gave Adam a razor-sharp glare.

"You've got one minute. No tricks. No sudden moves. Impress me, detective."

Gotham's criminals were all cracked mirrors, fractured reflections of obsession. Riddler left clues knowing Batman would find them, unable to resist the urge to prove his genius. Two-Face, after surgeries to repair his scars, destroyed his own face again, convinced the "normal" side was a lie.

They weren't the strongest villains in the DC universe, but their madness made them iconic.

"Tell me, Calendar Man," Adam said, hands still raised. "Do you know who Solomon Grundy is?"

Calendar Man's lips curled into a chilling grin. "Is that your big question? Grundy? Every Gotham brat knows him. Born on Monday, baptized on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, sick on Thursday, worse on Friday, died on Saturday, buried on Sunday—that's the rhyme. Cyrus Gold, murdered and dumped in Gotham's swamps. Halloween and Monday's magic turned him into an undead monster. He's power, detective. Power born of dates."

Adam gave a small nod, as though pleased with the answer. "Exactly. Grundy's legend says he's practically unkillable. Even Superman's had trouble with him. But here's the thing—" Adam tilted his head, a sly grin spreading on his face. "—what was the exact date of Cyrus Gold's death?"

Calendar Man's eyes gleamed. "That's easy. Halloween, 1894. He was born on Halloween, 1852. Both dates bound him to the power of that day. His entire life is tied to that cycle."

"Right. Halloween," Adam said, his tone casual but sharp. "Then riddle me this—Grundy was born on Monday, right? So why weren't either of those dates Mondays? How does that rhyme hold up?"

Calendar Man froze. His eyes darted sideways, his mind visibly spinning.

"Wait… 1894… Halloween was a Wednesday that year…"

"Exactly," Adam cut in, his voice dropping to a low, taunting whisper. "Not Monday. And 1852? Not Monday either. So what does that say about your little 'calendar truths'? Maybe they're just… fairy tales. Maybe time doesn't hold the power you think it does."

Calendar Man's breath quickened. His gun wavered slightly as he instinctively began counting dates in his head, calculating, recalculating—his obsession overtaking him.

Adam pressed his advantage, voice like a knife twisting the wound.

"You think dates are sacred. You think they give you control. But what if they don't? What if your entire philosophy—your 'art'—is just wrong?"

Beads of sweat formed on Calendar Man's forehead. The calculation of decades, the alignment of days, the fixation on meaning—Adam was unraveling it all with a single, mocking question.

'He's distracted,' Adam thought, watching the man's hands tremble. 'Now's my chance…'