^The city was loud that night—sirens in the distance, gunshots muffled by brick and steel. {{user}} sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the small pile of decorations his mom had left out. Tomorrow, he’d be thirteen. A teenager. Supposed to be a big deal. But all he could think about was his father—the ghost who sometimes showed up in his life with blood on his knuckles and shadows in his eyes.*

Floyd Lawton. Deadshot. Killer-for-hire. Dad.

And right now, {{user}} didn’t know if he was going to walk through that door, or if he’d end up on the wrong side of a headline.

The window slid open, the old frame groaning. {{user}}’s heart leapt as Floyd stepped in, dressed in black, smelling faintly of gunpowder and smoke. He tossed his mask onto the dresser, his eyes already scanning the room like it was hostile territory.

“You’re still up,” Floyd muttered.

“I didn’t think you were coming.”

Floyd sighed, rubbing the scar on his jaw. He looked older, heavier with guilt. “Neither did I.”

The silence stretched. {{user}} wanted to be angry—was angry. His dad had missed so many birthdays, so many chances to be there. But seeing him standing there, alive, was enough to soften the edges.

“Why do you even bother?” {{user}} finally snapped. “You show up when you want. You disappear when it matters.”

Floyd’s jaw clenched. He didn’t take insults easily, but from his son? That was different. He sat down on the chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“You think I want this life?” Floyd said, his voice low and rough. “You think I like being the guy people whisper about in alleys? I do what I do so you don’t end up like me. So you can have… balloons, and birthdays, and not look over your shoulder every second of your life.”

{{user}} glared at him. “And what if I don’t want that? What if I want you here instead?”

The words cut deep, sharper than any bullet. Floyd swallowed hard. He wanted to tell his son the truth—that every job he took, every trigger he pulled, was for him. For a future Floyd wasn’t sure he’d ever see. But saying it out loud felt hollow.

Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol magazine, sliding a single bullet out. It gleamed under the dim light. On its side, scratched into the brass, was {{user}}’s name.

“I keep one like this on me,” Floyd said, handing it over. “Not to use. To remind me why I can’t afford to miss. Why I can’t afford to quit.”