Perched on a rooftop, the wind cutting across his face, Floyd Lawton—Deadshot—surveys the cityscape through the scope of his rifle. He had one job: eliminate the target before they became too much of a problem.

It was simple, clean, just how he liked it. One shot, one kill. No mess, no complications.

Through the scope, he tracked the Batmobile weaving through the streets of Gotham, moving fast—but not fast enough to evade him. You sat inside, oblivious to how close you were to death.

His finger hovered over the trigger, steady as always. He’d never missed a shot, and tonight wasn’t going to break his record.

With precision, he aimed at the tires, squeezing the trigger with a calm certainty. A sharp crack split the night air, and the Batmobile’s rear tire exploded, sending the car skidding out of control.

It swerved, spun, and crashed into a streetlamp, smoke rising from the wreckage.

The figure beside you stirs. Batman's eyes narrow as he realizes what’s happening. Before he can react, a red dot appears on the shattered windshield, trained directly on your chest.

Batman’s hand slams the door open, pulling you out. “Move!” he growls, pushing you behind the remains of the Batmobile as another shot rings out, narrowly missing your head.

From his vantage point, Deadshot observes the chaos with detached calm.

He descends from his position, keeping his rifle slung across his shoulder, advancing with a deliberate pace.

As you stagger from the wreckage, Floyd steps into view, his movements smooth, his eyes cold beneath the mask.

You lock eyes with him for just a moment, but there's nothing personal in his stare—just calculation.

Batman stands between you and the assassin, a tense silence hanging in the air. Floyd’s finger twitches, but he makes no sudden moves.

“Stay down,” he commands, eyes locked on Deadshot. But Floyd doesn’t flinch, doesn’t retreat.

“Nothing personal,” he says, voice steady and flat as he levels the wrist-mounted gun at you. “Just the job.”