Chapter 155

At this hour, dusk was near; in the narrow corridor of Arkham, the long windows let through only a sliver of light, like a brush dipped in golden paint drawing a streak across the floor.

The light sliced sharply into this dark building, golden lines gliding over Batman's form as he moved through Arkham's corridors until he reached the crime scene.

In truth, when he discovered this crime scene, his first reaction was certainly not to call the police—no matter whether Gordon was a good cop, Batman fundamentally distrusted the police.

He did this because there was more than just Fish dead here—there was Oswald Cobblepot, alive. Batman was no illiterate; seeing Cobblepot unconscious, muttering and twitching, he suspected a psychiatric episode.

To save a life, Batman had brought Gordon here, and Gordon had summoned the psychologist Shiler—only Shiler in Gotham had the exact expertise needed.

But now it seemed he'd saved the wrong person, Batman thought. Cobblepot was no innocent bystander—he was very likely the mastermind behind Fish.

Batman easily uncovered Cobblepot's record and confirmed he was the minor boss who rose to power after Kevin's death. It wasn't hard to find: in all of Arkham, the number of people who could read a water meter could be counted on one hand. Cobblepot had excelled in vocational school—he was one of them—and he just happened to appear at the scene of Fish's death. Arkham was vast; it couldn't possibly be coincidence.

As he reentered the crime scene, Batman examined the surroundings more carefully.

This was a small room in Arkham's north district. Like all rooms here, it was cramped and oddly shaped, with its only window facing west—outside the frame, the setting sun now hovered.

This windowed room served as the living area; with such a tiny layout, there was no need for a vestibule. Open the door, and you stepped straight into the living room.

To the left of the living room, against the wall, was a sofa stained with a pool of blood. Batman didn't care that the scene had been disturbed—his extraordinary memory had imprinted every detail of that moment into his mind. In his vision, Fish's corpse reappeared on the sofa.

Her body lay slumped on the sofa, tilted toward the door, her head resting against the backrest. A bullet had struck her left temple, spraying blood across the right side of the sofa and dripping onto the floor beside it. Her entire frame leaned sharply right—clearly, she had been shot dead while seated.

Batman turned his head to his right. Cobblepot's figure appeared in the room, slumped beneath the windowsill, his jaw chattering uncontrollably, limbs twitching.

Batman stepped further in, standing at the center of the room. Then, within his vision, time reversed. Blood on the floor and sofa floated upward, returning to Fish's head. A bullet spun backward out of her skull. Fish sat upright, alive again. The bullet hovered beside her left temple.

Cobblepot rose like a marionette, hunched before the window, facing Fish.

Batman stepped over the coffee table, approaching Fish's side, pressing close to her left cheek, fixing his gaze on the bullet.

When examining Fish's corpse in the morgue, Batman had noticed the bullet had entered her temple with perfect precision—the wound angle was perpendicular to the temple.

The Descent of Tian'a

Instantly, Fish vanished. Batman sat on the sofa. The bullet that killed Fish now hovered beside his own head.

Time resumed. The bullet rotated and drove into Batman's temple. Blood spattered across the sofa and floor.

Another Batman rose from the sofa, knelt to examine the bloodstains, and realized: this was indeed Fish's original death scene. Her body had not been moved. The spray pattern and spread of blood were entirely consistent.

Having confirmed this was the death scene, Batman turned—and time rewound to one second before Fish was shot. Fish reappeared on the sofa.

Batman walked behind her. From his viewpoint, Cobblepot had vanished from the window.

Suddenly, Batman whipped his head left—and saw Cobblepot standing at Fish's left side, at the doorway leading to the bedroom, gripping a pistol with a grotesque expression, aiming at Fish.

Instantly, Batman appeared at Cobblepot's position, snatching the pistol floating in midair as Cobblepot vanished. He muttered: "No."

Because at this moment, Fish turned her head—shocked, furious.

"In a room with only two people, Cobblepot's actions couldn't have escaped Fish's notice. The moment he raised the gun, she would have looked at him."

Batman pulled the trigger. The bullet flew—striking Fish squarely in the forehead, not the left temple.

He released the gun, then returned to the center of the room. Cobblepot reappeared. As time rewound, the bullet slid back into his pistol.

Then Cobblepot's figure reversed like a film in rewind, stepping backward into the bedroom. The bedroom door slammed shut.

Batman walked over and reopened the door. He saw: the door opened inward, its hinges on the left.

Batman stepped inside, standing where Cobblepot had been. With his left hand, he pulled the doorknob. As the door swung open, his right hand raised the pistol and fired. Fish remained unaware, never turned her head—the bullet pierced her temple instantly.

But Batman shook his head.

This theory worked only because the shooter was him—Batman.

The door opened inward. To open it, you had to pull the knob inward. To perform both actions—opening the door and firing—instantly, you couldn't hold the gun with both hands.

If the shooter were Batman, he could indeed pull the door open and fire with one hand, precisely striking Fish's temple—because he was Batman.

But if the shooter were anyone else, attempting to fire one-handed, ignoring recoil, and completing the sequence of aiming, firing, and hitting with pinpoint accuracy in an instant—already nearly impossible.

Moreover, the door's hinges were on the left, so the fastest motion was to pull the knob with the left hand and fire with the right the moment the door opened. But Batman had already checked: Cobblepot's right arm was fractured—and not a fresh injury.

A frail man, untrained, with a broken dominant hand—how could he complete the sequence of opening the door, raising the gun, aiming, and firing within two seconds?

Even if he could, he couldn't have done it without drawing Fish's attention—at the very least, she would have turned her head.

One Batman stood at Cobblepot's position, aiming the gun. Another sat on the sofa. Another stood at the room's center. A fourth stood on the windowsill. A fifth paced the bedroom, scanning. A sixth stood at the doorway, watching it all…

Countless Batman figures filled the tiny crime scene—some frozen, others moving across divergent timelines.

Bullets flew from the gun, rippling the air, then reversed back into the barrel. Light in the room brightened, dimmed, brightened again. Muzzle flashes flared, then flared once more. Dark silhouettes left countless afterimages. In the quiet dusk, alone, Batman threw himself a lively party.

Soon, Batman had investigated nearly every trace in the small room. He tested every possibility, eliminating most methods of the crime: Cobblepot's various ambush angles, Fish being drugged, bound, restrained, etc.

From all traces, it was certain: Fish entered the room fully alert, sat on the sofa. Cobblepot followed her in—and could not have ambushed her without her noticing.

But that didn't mean Cobblepot wasn't the killer.

Batman reset everything to the beginning. He stood at the center of the living room, surveying.

The entire scene became a room model on a table. A giant hand placed a black figurine into the bedroom.

Above the model, Batman lowered his head, intensely watching from above. As his gaze moved, the room expanded in his vision. The Batman standing in the living room walked into the bedroom, staring at the black figurine.

If a third party were added to this murder, everything became logical.

Time reversed again. The bedroom door shut. Cobblepot stood opposite Fish—at the window.

Fish remained seated on the sofa, gesturing wildly, furiously berating Cobblepot. Cobblepot, neck strained, screamed back. Fish was fully enraged.

Completely distracted by Cobblepot, Fish didn't notice the bedroom door, previously ajar, quietly opening. Then—a gunshot. Blood sprayed. Fish collapsed onto the sofa.

No, that still wasn't sufficient, Batman thought. Even if distracted by Cobblepot, Fish's vigilance was sharp. She might still have noticed the door opening.

Batman shifted his approach. If he were the killer, he wouldn't devise a plan relying on Fish not noticing the assassin or failing to resist—it was too unreliable.

Fish had reached her position for a reason. She wasn't weak. This woman was tough, quick-reacting, and an accurate shot—she'd survived countless gang wars to become a boss.

If she resisted, even a professional killer could be injured. Anyone who knew Fish wouldn't devise such a plan.

Only one possibility remained, Batman whispered: "An accomplice."

Batman stood to one side and saw two figures in the room, speaking with Fish. Originally, both stood facing Fish, unarmed.

Quickly, Cobblepot drew Fish's attention with a few words. The other shadow feigned a need for something and moved to Fish's side.

Cobblepot and Fish argued. Fish's full attention locked onto Cobblepot.

Instantly, time froze. Batman's figure replaced the shadow at Fish's side. He reached into his coat pocket, found the pistol, drew it, raised it, fired—*bang*. Blood sprayed. Fish fell.

The distance was close. The weapon was suited. The shot was precise.

Instantly, reality returned. Only dried, blackened blood remained on the sofa. Only Batman remained in the room.

He stood alone, yet felt no loneliness—calm, relaxed. He sat on the sofa, leaning back, eyes closed, like a happy drunk returning from a party.

Until the last sliver of sunlight sank below the horizon. The room plunged into darkness. Darkness swallowed Batman's form. The bat who threw himself a party vanished—no one knew when.