Chapter 1423

The architecture of the Florence Supermax Prison presents a hollow regular hexagon as a whole. Each side on the outside is a different type of prison cell, while the recreation area is in the very center of the building, which can very well prevent prisoners from escaping.

But this type of architecture has a very big problem, which is lighting. The surrounding structure of the polyhedron dictates that several directions of the building cannot receive direct sunlight.

But fortunately, the prison doesn't need very good lighting. Or rather, in the cells of ordinary prisoners, having a window large enough to stick an arm in is already Amanda's extra grace. Before she compromised with the FBI, all the cells were completely sealed cans.

This small window added later didn't play any role, just to complete the minimum requirements of the Human Rights Act. Therefore, sunlight could no longer be used as a natural alarm clock. Bruce was awakened by a burst of commotion at the end of the corridor.

He heard an incomparably heavy footstep. Every step on the ground seemed to be stepping on a pit with force. But soon, Bruce distinguished that it wasn't someone stomping with force, but the person coming was a terrible big guy.

Bruce rarely used the adjective "terrible" to describe anyone, but when he looked over the railing and saw the person outside the door, he even felt that "terrible" was not enough to describe this monster.

Bruce hadn't seen big guys before. His good partner Killer Croc, whom he knew in the East End, was a quite rare big guy. But the man outside the railing was a head taller than Killer Croc, and much wider. It was no exaggeration to say that this man's arm was thicker than Bruce's thigh.

Bruce knew that even if he hadn't become thin, he couldn't confront this kind of monster in terms of magnitude. But he also knew that ordinary humans couldn't reach such arm circumference. He must have used drugs.

Bruce looked up again and saw that the person who came also wore a mask. The mask was black and white, covering the upper half of his face. And what was even more eye-catching were the tubes like hair behind his head and the strange equipment carried on his back.

Bruce narrowed his one eye exposed outside slightly, looked at the liquid surging in the pipes, and then he heard the prison guard call the man's name and push him into the cell.

"Bane?"

Bruce sat on the bed staring at the big guy and called out. The other party didn't respond to him, just sat by the bed, staring at him silently with deep eyes under the mask.

Bruce finally ended his relaxed posture. He lifted the quilt and sat up, tensing the muscles of his back like a spring ready to be ejected at any time. And the other party's gaze kept measuring the muscles on his neck, waist, and legs.

"Amanda lied to me."

The big guy called Bane kept staring at Bruce with those deep eyes, and after being silent for a while again, said: "She said you were just a crazy rich young master, but you are not."

"I am."

Bane's gaze didn't change, still staring at Bruce. Bruce felt pressure in others' gazes very rarely. The last time he felt this pressure was when facing Schiller, and that was when facing the pathological Schiller.

"You have the cold-blooded temperament of a general on you. Have you fought in a war?"

Bane asked again. His tone wasn't cold; it sounded ordinary, and it didn't sound like many people deliberately lowering their tone when forcing others to answer. But this made Bruce's hair stand on end.

"You could say that."

"Where?"

"In hell."

It seemed that Bane took this answer as a cold joke that wasn't funny. The eyes under the mask didn't blink. And Bruce asked again: "Did Amanda send you to kill me?"

"No one can make me do anything." Bane answered: "Whether to kill you depends on me, and also depends on you."

The alarm bell in Bruce's heart rang even louder. Besides being very strong, the other party also had a brain. Compared to the lunatics in Cat Getan, he was no less inferior.

Bruce entered the Batman state after a long time. He took a deep breath in an imperceptible way, increased his heart rate, and let more blood supply to his brain.

In an instant, space and time condensed. The blue-eyed Bruce stood up from Bruce's body, walked to Bane's side, and began to observe him.

There was a fishy smell on Bane's body, but it wasn't the smell of good-smelling sea breeze, but a smell of body sweat amplified by humid air. He very likely lived in a relatively closed place with high moisture content in the air for a long time. Bane very likely lived there for more than ten years, which was why he would have such a smell.

Cat Getan is a seaside city. Bruce also lived in the slums by the sea. He was very familiar with this smell. It often appeared on people who did hard labor in the living hell before the transformation of Cat Getan's East End.

The basements of seaside cities are relatively humid. The underground water veins flowing nearby are prone to seawater backflow, and the salt content is relatively high. If the air is not circulated, then a strong fishy smell is easily accumulated on the body.

But there were no traces of hard labor on Bane's body. Although his arm muscles were developed, there were no scars left by long-term wear and tear on his shoulder skin. He hadn't done any work of carrying things or pulling ropes. Compared to other parts of his body, his waist muscles were not developed enough, his fingers had no traces of wear and tear, so he wasn't a porter, and the wear and tear traces on his feet were light, so he wasn't an errand boy either.

Bruce showed a confused expression. The other party was very strong, but there were almost no traces of exercise on his body. Instead, there were many scars. And judging from his strength, he shouldn't have been bullied at any age, unless this strength didn't accompany him throughout his life.

Cyborg?

Bruce focused his gaze on the tubes behind Bane's head again. He had tried his best to avoid looking there, because he felt that looking at it one more time was an insult to his biology and chemistry knowledge level.

From the insertion angle to the processing method, and then to the technical content, those tubes were simply a pile of dog shit.

Bruce had tried his best not to use his technical level to judge them, but if judged by the human modern biology and chemistry level, this thing was not only a pile of dog shit, but also pulled in violation of all laboratory safety and hygiene regulations.

Seeing this, Bruce really couldn't take it anymore. He gave up the subsequent observation and reasoning, looked at Bane's deep eyes with that one eye, and then pursed his lips and said.

"Let's not talk about anything else first. Who connected the tubes behind your head? Does he have a doctor's license?"

Bane seemed completely unexpected that he would talk about this, so he didn't speak for a while. But Bruce said again.

"Do you have any feeling that the second tube on the right side of the back of your head hurts extra when you turn your head to the left? That's because the doctor didn't avoid the nerves there when cutting, and why did they fix a circle of metal bolts outside the interface?"

"Because the tubes need to be fixed..."

"No, because they chose the wrong pipe material for the brain implantation. Soft tubes should be used, not rigid metal tubes. They had already connected the tubes to your brain before they discovered that the pipes couldn't be bent, so they could only connect a circle of metal bolts to forcibly pull it over."

Bane saw the young man with a head full of bandages take a deep breath, then pressed his chest and said: "Listen, I absolutely don't have obsessive-compulsive disorder, but this is too outrageous."

Bane narrowed his eyes slightly. He tentatively opened his mouth and said: "I killed seven people in the original prison, so I was selected as an experimental subject."

"Even if you deserve it, it can't cover up the fact that their technology is no better than drilling wood to make fire."

Bane looked at Bruce silently. After a long while, Bruce sighed and covered his only remaining eye with his hand, saying: "Sorry, what did you just say you were talking about?"

"This doesn't look like something a rich young master would understand." Bane's tone became slow, sounding more like chatting than threatening.

Bruce tightened the muscles around his eyes and said: "Do you actually know how bad they did?"

"Of course, butchers who kill fish are better than them."

Bruce felt very strange. This big guy in front of him made him feel very contradictory. He wasn't the kind of person like Dog who constantly showed off his strength and radiated aggression toward anyone at all times.

He even had a scholarly temperament when silent, as if he had conducted more in-depth thinking than anyone else in the first half of his life. This calm temperament didn't match his rugged appearance at all, as if a philosopher's soul had been stuffed into a beast's body.

Thus, Bruce also stared at Bane silently. The two of them stared at each other like this for a few minutes, as if reading the other party's soul through their eyes.

"You are not a rich young master, nor a serial killer." Bane tilted his head slightly and said: "FBI agent? Police? Mad scientist?"

"You are not a serial killer either. Who exactly are you?"

"Just a prisoner."

The two fell silent again. And this time, it was Bruce who ended the silence. He asked.

"What is your purpose for coming here?"

"To kill you, originally."

"Then why did you change your mind?"

"Because you are not you."

"Then you can also kill me."

"I don't intend to do that."

"Why?"

"I will kill you when I should kill you."

Bane's answer seemed meaningless, but combined with his eyes, Bruce could read more information.

Bane must have intended to do something when coming here. There must be a timing for him to take action to kill his roommate, but not now. Now he is waiting, waiting for a certain opportunity.

Bruce moved inward again, leaning his back against the wall. He was thinking that Bane was definitely not a good roommate, and more importantly, he was not a good target for manipulation.

Bruce felt very helpless, and even a bit complaining. This mentality was not common in Batman's career.

And all his thoughts could actually be summarized as—

Why is it the Sunset King Shrimp again???

There are always people who say they want to see Batman have bad luck.

Is there a possibility that Batman is always having bad luck?