Chapter 153

When he returned to the interrogation room, only Schiller remained; he had not let Gordon or Batman follow him.

At this point, Cobblepot's water had been dried off, his soaked coat removed, and Mrs. Mona was closing the interrogation room door; seeing Schiller, she said, "You're the doctor, aren't you, sir? This child seems terribly frightened—I tried changing his clothes earlier, but he struggled violently and nearly bit me."

"Thank you, madam, you've done more than enough. He's currently overstimulated—I'm taking him to the hospital now."

"Then go quickly—he's tired now and won't resist as fiercely."

Schiller stepped inside the iron gate; Cobblepot still sat in the corner, wrapped in a new coat, silent. Schiller called Brand and said, "Send an ambulance. We have a patient to transport."

The Sun and Moon's Splendor

"What kind of patient needs an ambulance? Doesn't he have his own luxury car?"

"A real patient—not one of those mob bosses who get medical parole only to reoffend."

"What's the condition? I'll have the nursing station prepare."

"Acute stress disorder, possibly something else too. Prep some sedatives first—I'll give you details when we arrive."

Soon, Cobblepot was strapped to a stretcher and carried into the ambulance; Schiller paid no attention to his struggles.

At the hospital, Brand came out to meet them, wearing a white coat—he'd clearly been working nonstop. He said, "Good heavens, we finally have a real patient. I was starting to think I graduated in finance…"

"Don't get too excited—if I tell you he's a key witness in the Falcone heir case, will you still feel so relaxed?" 【70】 Recent requirements for nucleic acid tests and grocery hoarding may cause unstable updates—sometimes delayed. Please bear with us.

Brand's face fell instantly. He cursed under his breath and said, "I knew it—this place never brings anything good."

"He's in severe motoric excitement, barely communicable. Administer sedatives first. We'll reassess tomorrow morning."

Schiller returned to his office at Arkham Asylum, changed into his doctor's attire, and entered Cobblepot's ward. Cobblepot's hands were bound to the nursing bed rails; his limbs twitched uncontrollably, his face flushed, eyes bulging wide, and his mouth constantly exhaling harsh breaths.

A nurse stepped forward and said, "Doctor, his agitation is too high—he's broken free of the restraints. If this continues, it will severely damage his joints."

"Administer sedatives." Schiller's tone was calm. He leaned down, flipped open Cobblepot's eyelids, and found his gaze unfocused, his face severely congested.

Schiller called two more nurses, ordering them to hold Cobblepot down. Brand entered as well and said, "I haven't seen a stress disorder case this severe in years. What happened to him?"

Brand examined Cobblepot closely and noticed injuries on his neck and shoulders. He said, "Was he abused?"

"Likely—and for some time, or the symptoms wouldn't be this extreme," Schiller deduced. "He's been subjected to prolonged abuse and beatings, triggering acute stress disorder."

After the sedatives were administered, Cobblepot's agitation lessened gradually, but he still twitched incessantly, unable to focus. Schiller observed his vital signs and said, "Increase the dose."

More medication was injected; Cobblepot finally calmed, then drifted into sleep. Brand crossed his arms and sighed. "This isn't sustainable. His psyche seems more sensitive than average, and he's still a minor. Once the sedatives wear off, the agitation will return—and we can't keep escalating the dosage."

"What do you plan to do?" Brand asked Schiller.

"He needs a full diagnostic evaluation," Schiller said, staring at Cobblepot's face. "I suspect he has additional psychiatric disorders—otherwise, his reaction wouldn't be this extreme. Genetic illness is also possible."

"What about his family? Any medical history to reference?"

Brand immediately dismissed the thought. "Oh, this is Gotham. Trying to identify a real psychiatric patient here is like finding a needle in a haystack."

Schiller told Brand, "Go rest. I'm on duty tonight—I'll draft a treatment plan."

After Brand left, Schiller returned to his office, sat down, and pulled a notebook from his desk drawer, beginning to reconstruct what he knew of Penguin's life.

In the comics, Penguin's childhood is barely detailed—only mentioned that he carries an umbrella because, after his father died of pneumonia caught in the rain, his increasingly deranged mother forced him to carry one always.

In the TV series Gotham, Penguin was also confined to Arkham Asylum, where he suffered torment at the hands of the director, Hugo. Whether he was ever formally diagnosed with a true psychiatric illness remains unexplained.

Based on Schiller's current observations, at least this version of Penguin—Cobblepot—suffers from a genuine psychiatric disorder.

The night at Arkham Asylum was profoundly quiet, for there were virtually no true psychiatric patients here, and thus no sudden outbursts to disturb the silence.

In the entire doctor's office, only Schiller's desk lamp glowed; the still room echoed only with the soft scratch of his pen.

At first light, Victor, clad in a trench coat, hurried up the steps to Arkham Asylum's entrance. The rain had just stopped; the cold wind of the overcast morning whipped through his hair.

Schiller, in his white coat, stepped out to meet him. Victor said, "I just finished teaching at Hell's Kitchen, and I heard Oswald was hospitalized—from that little fat kid."

"Then I learned you'd taken the day off—I guessed you were treating him."

"Oh? How did you guess?"

"Didn't I mention? I visited Oswald's home. I met his mother. She suffers from convulsions—you're not a specialist, but even I could tell her mind was unstable."

"Matches my hypothesis. Cobblepot likely has a hereditary psychiatric disorder." Schiller and Victor climbed the stairs together. As they walked, Schiller said, "Acute stress disorder triggered his agitation. Last night I administered an overdose of sedatives, yet this morning there's been no improvement."

Arriving at Cobblepot's ward, they found him lying in bed, muttering incessantly—but the words made no sense, as if merely venting.

Victor approached the bed, glanced at Cobblepot, and said, "This resembles a former student of mine—extremely agitated, talking to himself, with violent tendencies—even injured classmates."

"What will you do?" Victor asked Schiller. "Honestly, I see potential in him. I know Gotham's full of madmen—we can't save them all—but he's here now. We must try."

"I'll admit him. That proves I intend to treat him. But this mix of symptoms suggests a complex etiology—I need to investigate further."

As they spoke, Brand entered with a stack of reports and handed them to Schiller. "Earlier today, we ran a full physical. Results are poor. Beyond psychiatric issues, his body bears multiple injuries—likely from beatings. New and old wounds overlap; this has clearly persisted for some time."

"As we suspected," Brand concluded. "This is acute stress disorder triggered by severe abuse, which has activated his other psychiatric disorders, plunging him into uncontrollable, extreme agitation."

"We'll discuss psychiatric treatment later. How severe are his physical injuries?"

"His left ankle joint is severely damaged. His right arm is fractured. Treating just these will take considerable time."

"If his agitation flares again, we won't be able to treat his injuries. And I advise against further overdose of sedatives—he's too young. His brain may not withstand it."

Schiller rubbed his brow. "This is a mess. Can we contact his mother? I need his medical history."

Victor shook his head. "Difficult. His mother's mentally unstable too. Last time I visited, she nearly chased me out with a broom. To investigate, we'll have to go to the house."

"Then this is it," Schiller finally decided. "Brand, treat his external injuries immediately. Victor and I will go to his home—find out what happened."

After leaving, Schiller and Victor sat in the car. Victor drove, saying, "You've surprised me. I thought you were the kind of doctor who… never meddled."

"Don't be so polite. I know—you think I'm the type who lets people die if the payment's not there."

Victor coughed awkwardly. Schiller, in the passenger seat, placed his umbrella beside him and tightened his trench coat. "Actually, you're right. Most of the time, I am."

"But in that vocational school, Cobblepot was the only student who could write characters I recognized. If he goes mad, I fear I'll go mad from his chicken-scratch handwriting."

Victor smiled, gripping the wheel without turning. "I think you're tough on the outside but soft inside. You pretend to be a heartless quack, but you've got compassion."

"Let me repeat—I may be unethical, but I am not a quack."

The car twisted through narrow alleys beside Hell's Kitchen. As they stepped out, Schiller poked a loose stone on the curb with his umbrella's tip. "Hell's Kitchen's renovation still too small. This place is still filthy."

"It's improved," Victor said, looking up at the surroundings. "Before, cars couldn't even enter. Now it's much better."

They entered a dark stairwell, climbed two floors, and Victor knocked on the door. "Mrs. Cobblepot, are you home?"

"You're sure he'll answer? I've heard some psychiatric patients lack basic self-care."

"He should. Mrs. Cobblepot only has physical convulsions when she's not having an episode." Victor knocked again, but no answer came. He frowned. "What's going on?"

No response. Victor said, "Something's wrong. Let's go to the rooftop across the way and enter through the balcony. That's our only option."

They circled around, exited through the door at the end of the corridor, reached the terrace, walked around, and climbed over the adjacent balcony into Cobblepot's home.

Through the window, they saw the interior of the Cobblepot residence in chaos—as if a struggle had just occurred—and Mrs. Cobblepot was gone.

————EXTRA NOTES————

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