[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-157":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Mental Mentor in Marvel",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2322725,4544,"Chapter 157: The Party and the Umbrella (4)","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-157",157,"\u003Cp>“What gives you the right…” Cobblepot glared at Schiller, then suddenly realized something and cursed under his breath: “Damn it…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He turned back to Schiller, but saw no triumphant expression on Schiller’s face—the kind police officers wear after extracting a confession. Instead, Schiller genuinely looked puzzled, and that filled Cobblepot with humiliation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot pressed his lips together, stretched his neck, tilted his head, and shifted his shoulders before saying: “Untie the restraints on my arms first—they’re making me uncomfortable…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He expected Schiller to refuse, but Schiller stood without hesitation, walked to his bedside, and unfastened the restraints on the armrests. He had just freed one hand when Cobblepot immediately flexed his arm.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His right hand was in a splint. Schiller reminded him: “Because you delayed treatment, your fracture became severe. If you’d waited two more days, amputation would’ve been a risk. Keep it bound for now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot muttered under his breath, as if cursing, but when Schiller turned his gaze toward him, he fell silent, as if choked.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller sat back down, picked up the medical chart, and said: “Let’s continue. From the crime scene setup, it’s clear you were in a hurry. Tell me—what happened?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot wrinkled his nose and lifted his lips, making himself look fierce. He wanted to refute Schiller’s claim, yet felt he shouldn’t reveal too much to a stranger, a psychologist.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Let me hear your criminal logic. After all, you went to such great lengths—wouldn’t it be a waste if no one understood it?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot gripped the railing with his good arm, turned his head, and stared straight at Schiller: “You damn psychologist…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot admitted: Schiller’s words were more effective than any interrogation tactic the police had used.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller smiled at him. He knew clearly: every criminal who would one day rise to prominence on Gotham’s stage was a fundamentalist of crime.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They took pride in crime itself—precision of method, presentation of results, the psychological manipulation of bystanders—all aspects meticulously perfected.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Every criminal plan they executed considered these elements, and they expected someone to recognize their genius.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They believed: a crime without an audience was not a perfect crime.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot’s reason told him that confessing now was a bad idea—if Schiller had recorded him, he might never escape trial.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet he couldn’t bear the itch inside him. Another voice whispered: Schiller was like him. He would be a good listener—someone who could understand the intricate details of crime that ordinary people could never grasp, someone who could appreciate his uniqueness.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Soon, Cobblepot couldn’t hold back. He said: “It was an accident—if not for…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot paused, as if organizing his thoughts, then relaxed fully, lay back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and began his tale.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I met the Don entirely by accident. My father was once a minor crime boss in the East End. After he died, the wolves who surrounded us carved up his territory and assets…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My mother, to protect me, took me back to our old house near the Living Hell. But we still weren’t safe. My father’s old enemies hunted us repeatedly…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“One night, I was washing dishes in a bar in the East End. When I stepped out, they surrounded me—just about to shoot. Then a car passed by. Inside was Don Falcone. He stopped them, drove them off…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The Don saved you?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes. I was twelve then—thin, frail, looked even younger. Maybe he couldn’t stand the idea of them shooting a child. Either way, that’s when I met the Don…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I don’t know what he saw in me. I was scrawny, sickly, unattractive, and terrible at networking. But the Don secretly supported me…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So when he needed you, you killed for him?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot said flatly: “What’s wrong with that? He saved me. I know it meant nothing to him. But killing? It meant nothing to me either…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I have to say, the old Edward case—you handled it like a seasoned pro. Not a rookie. Tell me about that day.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot shook his head: “That was all thanks to the Don’s reputation. No one dared cause trouble on his turf. Nothing worth boasting about…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Alright, let’s get to the point. Everything you’ve done wasn’t random. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I want to break free from the Don’s control.” Cobblepot stunned him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“To be precise—not the old Don…” Cobblepot added. “I’m willing to work for Falcone, kill for him—but only for Don Falcone…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Lately, I’ve learned the old Don plans to retire. He wants to hand his power over to his son—Little Falcone.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot snorted, sneering: “He’s useless. Little Falcone doesn’t come close to his father. Following him leads nowhere.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The new Don will inherit the old Don’s position, wealth, and connections—including me. But Little Falcone is far too weak. I won’t serve him.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why do you think that?” Schiller asked.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Earlier, he tried to reform. The territory the old Don gave him—he turned it into chaos.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“He’s full of energy but has no direction. Brutal, but lacks strategy. Simply put—he’s not cut out for this.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So what did you do?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I knew the old Don wasn’t dead yet. Trying to break free by force would kill me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’ve received his grace. I’ve killed for him. Maybe we’re even.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But every Gothamite knows: once you’ve done this, you can never go clean. Either you die, or you walk this path to the end.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But I don’t want to be treated as part of the inheritance, forced to obey the new Don. Or worse—the new Don’s stupidity won’t just kill him. It’ll kill me too. I don’t want to die. So I must leave.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“When the Don sent me to the Living Hell to watch this place, I realized: the opportunity had come…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My first target was the Mooney Gang.” Cobblepot raised his voice. “I needed to establish myself here, understand the terrain, before planning anything else. So I joined the Mooneys, took orders from Fish, and quickly learned everything about this place.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Cobblepot spoke, his words grew fluid. When discussing this, the future Penguin rambled endlessly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Once I completed my reconnaissance, the Mooneys were no longer a good base. Fish’s territory had been squeezed tighter and tighter. His operational space shrank. I couldn’t gather enough intel. At that point, I couldn’t let the Don think I wasn’t working hard.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So I seized an opportunity and connected with Kevin. Yes—it wasn’t him who chose me. I chose him…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Cobblepot continued speaking, his voice echoed through the ward. His recent life unfolded like a series of scenes before the two of them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As his words ended, the red curtain rose, revealing the narrow corridor of the Living Hell.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot and Kevin stood in the corridor. Short, hunched Cobblepot bowed obsequiously to Kevin: “Mr. Kevin, please, sir—please patronize my business…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Tall Kevin looked down, took the pack of cigarettes from Cobblepot, opened it, and inspected it: “New cigarette vendor? I’ve never seen you before. You must be that crazy woman’s guy, right?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Yes, yes…” Cobblepot nodded eagerly, then rubbed his hands nervously: “I’m just trying to survive. The South Side doesn’t buy enough cigarettes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t risk coming here…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“How much per pack?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Seventy cents, sir. Just seventy cents.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kevin raised an eyebrow in surprise: “Seventy cents? What’s going on? Our street vendors charge ninety cents or a dollar. Why so cheap?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kevin examined the pack again, pulled out a cigarette. Cobblepot leaned forward eagerly to light it. “I still make a profit. I operate in both the South and North. One round takes an hour and twenty minutes—I sell about six or seven packs. Even if I make only ten cents profit per pack, and I work thirteen hours a day, I average…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Kevin inhaled, exhaled smoke, and sized up Cobblepot: “You do math? That’s unusual. The kids I meet can’t even make change…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot kept smiling, bowing, casually revealing he’d once attended school in the wealthy South District. He chatted nonstop. After two cigarettes, Kevin grew tipsy, flicking the butt: “You’re decent. Working for that crazy woman? No future.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Great Ming’s First Minister\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Go get me two good packs of cigarettes, and I’ll put you on the second-floor loading dock. Three cents commission per ten items—way more than selling smokes.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot’s face lit up with joy. Kevin sneered: “Kids like you—weak arms, weak legs—can only run errands, buy newspapers, sell cigarettes… maybe count numbers.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Those brats keep miscounting. Their brains are rustier than a door latch. Cost me money. Don’t you dare slack off.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Kevin’s cigarette smoke drifted away, the curtain slowly closed. Schiller turned to Cobblepot: “I can tell—so far, you’ve done well.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You used your small stature to pose as the most common street vendor in the Living Hell. Subtly revealed your calculating skills. Successfully transferred to Kevin’s crew.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But this isn’t all I want.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The curtain rose again. Piles of cardboard boxes grew taller. Bills fluttered from Cobblepot’s hands, flying through the Living Hell’s narrow corridors, past the loading dock, up the freight stairs, into restaurant kitchens—a small figure darting between them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The final sheet of paper slapped against Cobblepot’s face. When he pulled it away, his eyes reflected the dazzling neon glow of a restaurant sign.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You didn’t lie about this part,” Schiller judged. “I can tell—you truly want to open a restaurant.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot, lying on the bed, moved his lips. He fell silent for a moment, then said: “Correct. But that’s not what I need to think about now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Right now, I need to realize: as a runner, I’ve hit the bottom. Next, I must find a way to become management.”\u003C\u002Fp>",1603,"2026-06-20T16:39:12.484Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","84c1561c0af899f47d7b7724f85b5ad3fcda61bedc9612b894d0bee1045796b1","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-158","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-156",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]