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Chapter 69: The Black Sun and the Bat-Signal (2)

"Hello? Help me transfer to The Godfather, please."

"Good afternoon, The Godfather. I'd like to discuss some business with you."

Inside the office of Arkham Asylum, Schiller hung up the telephone receiver, gave the cord a little tug, blew off the dust from the receiver, and poured himself a drink. He picked up the vintage telephone, dialed a number, and said, "Hello? Brand? You've made it to Hawaii?... No, no need to worry, enjoy your vacation; I can handle it."

After a while, Bruce walked in, placed a stack of documents in front of Schiller, who said, "It's quitting time. Would you like a drink?"

"Thank you, but I don't drink."

"You seem a bit worn out."

"Well, I haven't slept for nearly fifty hours."

"Of course, your new giant bat signal has been quite active lately. The entire Gotham knows there's a Batman."

"But..." Bruce sighed, hesitated, and then said, "Pour me a drink, please."

"What could make Batman drown his sorrows in alcohol?"

Bruce said, "I feel like I shouldn't be doing this. The bat doesn't light the signal, and it shouldn't."

Before Schiller could inquire further, Bruce continued, "I've set up six Bat-Signal towers throughout Gotham. In the past few days, they've been activated a total of 25 times, and 19 of those times were pranks."

"So, I designed a fail-safe for them. Afterward, I received 12 distress calls, all gang shootouts, asking me to back them up."

"I don't allow gangs to use them, so they wreak havoc instead. Of course, I designed a security protocol, and it's been somewhat effective. The poor and homeless press the signals, and the next day, they get killed by the gangs."

Bruce covered his face, took a deep breath, and then took a sip of his drink, struggling to swallow it. He said, "Those beyond salvation shouldn't be saved by anyone. If this is Gotham, then I have to admit, I oversimplified things."

"I knew... there would be no bat lighting up the signal," Bruce concluded.

"I suggest you take a few days off. When you encounter problems, sacrifice some rest time to deal with them. Then, when you face new challenges, continue in this way. It's a vicious cycle, and you need to stop. It's pointless."

Bruce, looking weary, said, "All right, I'll go back to sleep. Tomorrow, I'll come to work, copy medical records, answer phones, make rounds, or whatever."

The next day, Bruce indeed showed up for work as promised. Schiller was already seated in the office, sipping a steaming cup of coffee, while Bruce brewed himself a cup of black coffee and started reading a paper.

After a while, a nurse knocked on the door and said, "Doctor, Andre in room 5 on the second floor has been causing a commotion. He keeps demanding an increase in his morphine dosage or threatens to file a complaint against us."

Schiller didn't even raise his head and replied calmly, "Give it to him, charge three times the market price. If he continues to complain, make it five times."

Bruce nearly choked on his coffee.

"On the third floor, Berd has been requesting pain medication all night."

"Tell him that the pill supplier fell off a railing last night, headfirst, and now we're out of stock."

"In hospital room number 6..."

Schiller flipped through the files and said, "Hall or Gaul, doesn't matter. Tell him to send someone in, we'll split it seven to three."

After the nurse left, before Bruce could speak, the telephone rang again, and Schiller picked it up while continuing to look through the files.

"Hello? Whiskey shortage?... Yes, I have the last bottle, who was it that claimed to have some? Let me check... Room 1 on the fourth floor. Tell him to bring a line from the bar, and warn him not to use counterfeit liquor; otherwise, I'll give him a permanent treatment recommendation..."

Schiller hung up the phone, then picked up the receiver again and dialed a number, saying into the telephone, "Tell them that killers are not allowed in here. To gain entry, they must have a door pass, which costs a hundred thousand dollars. The inpatient department door is fifty thousand, and above the third floor, add another thirty thousand for wear and tear. Buy the full security package, and we'll throw in a security patrol map..."

"Hello? The equipment department said the Brainwaves machine broke down yesterday. Whose patient is on the second floor, number 2? East District's old Bandle? Donate a machine to him and have him take the patient away. He can come for the rehab recommendation later."

After hanging up the phone, Bruce said, "Professor..."

Before he could finish, the telephone rang again, and Schiller answered, saying, "Hello?... No agreement reached? Tell him that the twins from the south are offering half a million dollars, and it's not a buyout. If he disagrees, he won't see a cent of the liquor business here."

"Hello? No, the security at Arkham Asylum is now handled by the Falcone Family. If he wants to force his way in, let him try, and The Godfather sends his regards."

Schiller had just hung up the phone when Bruce, looking deeply conflicted, was staring at him. His gaze held a mixture of shock, as if to say, "How can you do this?" and disdain, as if to say, "I knew it."

"Don't look at me like that. The hospital is running smoothly, isn't it?"

"But..." Bruce opened his mouth to question Schiller but couldn't replace a starting point.

"I made a deal with Falcone. He manipulated the Black Glove to provoke some lucrative gangs and had his police station underlings arrest them. I provided them with psychiatric diagnoses to admit them here. What happens next depends on whether their benefactors or adversaries offer more money."

Bruce stared at Schiller, and Schiller shrugged, saying, "What? Do you replace it unbelievable? Or do you truly believe I'm a good person, just like Harvey? What gave you that illusion?"

Bruce was speechless.

Over the next few days, Bruce watched helplessly as Schiller not only joined but also creatively forged a new Gotham-style industry chain. His esteemed Professor seamlessly integrated into Gotham with a demeanor that left everyone in the dust, surpassing even the best.

But Bruce couldn't replace the words. In this perfect Gotham industry chain, the only ones harmed were the Gangs.

In terms of outcomes, the Gangs were pitted against money, and Arkham Mental Hospital swiftly established order. The medical staff was safe, and the Gang members within the hospital behaved impeccably. When Bruce made his rounds, he was surprised to hear them thank him, thinking he was a doctor who could prescribe painkillers. Some of the Gang leaders, aware of his connection with Schiller, tried to get close to him, hoping to involve Schiller in their operations.

Once, while following Schiller to review a case, Bruce overheard the nearby Gang leader chatting.

"Colt is a bad kid, a complete scoundrel. He got his hands on absinthe and had another gang smashed to monopolize the liquor business here. He had conflicts with those twins..."

"In my opinion, he did it quite smoothly, considering it's a multimillion-dollar operation."

"Is it really worth that much?"

"That redhead downstairs, selling cigarettes here, makes twenty grand a week! Who doesn't smoke cigarettes here? Who doesn't enjoy cigars? He gets top-notch stuff from the pier, and people even come from afar to get a piece of this smuggling route..."

"Room 2 is making a fortune too. Who doesn't know he's been lucky, getting in touch with The Godfather himself? Next quarter, he'll be opening another restaurant."

"Be careful when the nurses come around, put out the cigarettes. Don't anger those girls; they're all Black Widows under the Queen of Hearts..."

In just a few days within the hospital, Bruce witnessed a complex and perplexing world.

Bruce wondered, what would he do if he were in Schiller's shoes? After much contemplation, he had to acknowledge that he couldn't come up with a more efficient or righteous solution.

One night, Schiller was in a hospital room, speaking to a legless woman, "It's going well; the medication is taking effect, and the excitement will subside soon..."

The woman lay on the bed, seemingly calm or perhaps numb, as if she couldn't hear Schiller's words. However, Schiller continued, "We've had quite a few cases lately, but no relationships. The psychological therapy is almost complete..."

His voice was well-suited for these nights, always carrying a calm strength.

As Schiller turned around, he found Batman standing behind him. Batman's voice was deep, "How did she end up here? You fixed her physical issues, helped with the amputation, but she has some congenital mental problems, she was admitted here earlier..."

Schiller glanced at Batman; his mouth always seemed to turn downward. Compared to daytime, he appeared colder and more sharp, making it hard for people to approach.

"You seem surprised. Do you think I only associate with Gangs? What gave you that impression?"

Batman remained silent, and Schiller paid him no mind. He turned back and adjusted the woman's bed, then pulled up the blankets.

Schiller didn't look at Batman; he asked, almost to himself, "Do you feel disappointed?"

"For this ungrateful city, for those who aren't worth saving, and for those who won't let you save them?"

"Do you think the Bat-Signal decision was right?" Batman's deep voice echoed in the hospital room.

Schiller paused for a moment and replied, "No need for disappointment. Even a black sun is still a sun. Batman may not light the way, but in the darkness, the bat's light is still light."

Cold light illuminated the pristine hospital sheets. Schiller straightened up and turned his head to look out the window. Batman saw Schiller, backlit by the moonlight, casting a long shadow behind him.

Batman looked up and saw, on most of the walls and ceilings, his own shadow – a bat with pointed ears. Bats don't light the way; he didn't even have a light to shine upon himself. In this world, there was never a light for him, and for years, there had been no glimmers of hope.

But now, this bat decided to learn how to light a beacon, for the dark nights of this city, for this seemingly hopeless city.

Batman also gazed out the window, at the faint, almost imperceptible lights in the pitch-black night. He thought that if, one day, the sun would never rise over this absurd city, at least on the eve of the apocalypse, there would still be his faint light in this chilly night.

A light that illuminated in vain, yet still illuminated.

A light that a bat had lit.