[{"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-160":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},2322728,4544,"Chapter 160: The Party and the Umbrella (Seven)","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-160",160,"\u003Cp>“Weking Umbrella Shop? Oh… that’s ancient history now.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the Gotham Police Department office, Brock lit a cigarette and leaned against a filing cabinet as he spoke to Gordon: “You see, I’m from the East Side—born and raised in Gotham, a kid from the slums.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I remember when you first came to Gotham… that was a few years ago, right? Back then, the East Side was still glorious—four great families, rows of upscale clubs, bars and nightspots, even the strippers were the best.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Don’t think it was some rundown slum,” Brock switched the cigarette to his other hand, drew a deep drag, and exhaled smoke as he slipped into memory.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“The East Side shone for a long time—centered on Greene Street, spreading out into dozens of streets, including what’s now the gang hub, Elizabeth Street. But back then, Elizabeth Street didn’t even rank—when it came to true prosperity, Greene Street was unquestionably number one.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But now, it’s kind of…” Gordon frowned, touching his lip. “I went there just the other day while working that case—it really doesn’t match what you’re describing.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Of course, I said it was all in the past—about five or six years ago… maybe seven or eight—back then, it was still the East Side’s busiest commercial center. Weking Umbrella Shop stood at the end of an alley there—don’t think it was remote; actually, that was the best location.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Brock exhaled another plume of smoke, recalling: “That shop was the most unusual in the East Side. Under gang rule, commercial streets were all bars, dance halls, and high-end restaurants—having an umbrella shop there felt utterly out of place.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But its customers were elite. Old Umbra Weking was a master craftsman—his handmade umbrellas were symbols of status among Gotham’s gang bosses. Whoever carried a Weking-marked umbrella in public was recognized as an upper-tier figure in Gotham’s underworld.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I know,” Gordon nodded. “When I first came to Gotham, there was a craze for handmade goods—a retro trend sweeping the East Coast and beyond. Everyone said machine-made things were cold, soulless; only handmade items had true taste.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Maybe so—but not entirely,” Brock walked over and sat in a chair. “You know Gotham’s weather—umbrellas are genuinely practical.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon rested his elbows on the desk, leaning his full weight forward as he flipped through a file. “The old umbrella maker must’ve been skilled. Too bad he’s dead.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“True. Every Gotham gang boss bought only from him—so all other umbrella makers gave up. Today, he was the only handcrafted umbrella artisan left in all of Gotham.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“His craftsmanship was unquestionable, but his temper was strange. When I still lived in the East Side, I heard he sold umbrellas only to certain people—no matter how much you paid, others couldn’t buy one.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Really?” Gordon looked at Brock, skeptical. “Those gang bosses aren’t fools. How did this old man dare refuse them? Didn’t they come after him?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I don’t know,” Brock shrugged. “But no major conflicts ever broke out.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I think you won’t find any leads from him. He was probably just collateral damage.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon pressed on: “Kevin’s death is tied to Fish’s. I found nothing on Kevin—so I have to look elsewhere. Do you think…?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon sighed, dismissing his own speculation. “Forget it. Unlikely. The handmade craze’s long over. Kevin, an uneducated gang boss, wouldn’t bother with custom handmade umbrellas. Our informants never said he knew the Weking shop owner. They were probably strangers.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But I still find it suspicious they died in the same case,” Gordon straightened up, hands on his hips. “Gang wars often spill over—but this one feels… off.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Your instincts are usually right,” Brock told Gordon. “I’ll go back to that umbrella shop. I grew up in the East Side—I know it better. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s all we can do.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As Gordon finished speaking, a junior officer knocked and said: “Chief Gordon, Mr. Evans Falcone has arrived.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon and Brock hurried out, going upstairs, where they found the police chief chatting with Evans—dressed in a sharp suit, flanked by several bodyguards.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The scene made it seem as if he were the real owner of the police station.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Evans inherited his father’s good looks—tall, upright, strikingly handsome—and his mother’s beautiful golden hair. He looked less like a crime boss and more like a movie star or an impassioned artist.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Seeing Gordon, he turned and shook his hand. “Detective Gordon, I’ve heard so much about you—from my classmates and professors. You’re a good cop…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon and Brock accompanied the chief and Evans in polite small talk.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In Gotham, that’s how it is—even if Evans is the prime suspect in a murder, every officer must treat him with courtesy, even as an honored guest, because of his name: Falcone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Just as they were about to escort Evans to the meeting room, he said: “No need. I have something to say here…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the basement of a hotel on Elizabeth Street, Maroni screamed as Batman shattered his leg with a steel pipe. Maroni cursed: “You damn meddling freak…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman’s voice remained cold as ever: “I stopped you from killing the hotel owner—not because I happened to pass by. Clearly, I have business with you. You’d better cooperate.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni glared at him fiercely: “Don’t expect me to tell you anything! You son of a bitch…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Ten minutes later, Maroni lay sprawled on the floor, all four limbs broken. Batman asked: “Did you shoot Fish?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni seemed stunned by the question. He let out a short, ragged breath—pain nearly knocked him out—but Batman injected him with a stimulant to keep him conscious.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Cooperate, or I won’t know which limb to break next,” Batman kicked Maroni’s arm. Maroni let out a deathlike shriek from his throat—then finally broke. “It was me… yes, it was me…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Why?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I had a grudge against Fish.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Batman stepped on Maroni’s broken arm. Maroni screamed violently, trembling: “Someone threatened me… I had no choice…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Who threatened you?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni fell silent. No matter how Batman pressed, he refused to name the person.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Finally, Batman said: “I know where the Maroni family’s base is. I know where your core forces and wealth are hidden. If you don’t want that place to burn down with no survivors, you’ll cooperate.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni lay still, as if dead. Just as Batman thought he wouldn’t speak again, Maroni rasped out a name:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Evans Falcone.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In a ward at Arkham Asylum, Schiller drew back his arm, set the umbrella down, and leaned its tip against the floor. He said to Cobblepot: “Don’t tell me you bought this. You know you couldn’t afford it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So, did you steal it—or rob it?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot looked insulted. He clenched his lips and glared at Schiller: “It’s mine by right!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Schiller placed his hands atop the umbrella’s handle and stood still. “Why say that?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot turned his head away, refusing to answer.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At that moment, a knock came at the door. Schiller turned. “Come in.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was Gordon. He scanned the room, glanced at Cobblepot, then fixed his gaze on Schiller. “Young Falcone has confessed.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The room froze. Cobblepot jolted as if electrocuted, nearly leaping from the bed. He whirled on Gordon, shouting: “What? Who confessed?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His voice dripped with disbelief. Gordon swallowed hard. “I know you can’t believe it—I can’t believe it either.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But the truth is, before I came here—about half an hour ago—Falcone’s own son, Evans Falcone, walked into the police station…”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“And admitted he ordered Maroni to kill Fish Mooney.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Cobblepot’s movement halted mid-air. His eyes bulged from their sockets. He collapsed back onto the bed, muttering in disbelief: “He ordered Maroni to kill Fish… then what did I do? What did I do?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>fantuan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I…” Cobblepot choked. From his expression, in mere seconds he had replayed every plan and action in his mind. Then he declared firmly: “Impossible. Young Falcone wouldn’t… this makes no sense.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon sighed. “Tell me about it. Brock and I were stunned. Evans stood right there in the police station, surrounded by officers, and said he turned himself in—that he ordered Maroni to kill Fish.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“He had no motive,” Cobblepot said to Gordon. “Isn’t that what you cops always care about—motive? What reason could young Falcone have? What does Fish’s death gain him?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He paused, then said incredulously: “Well, maybe killing Fish does help him—intimidates rivals—but he shouldn’t….”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I know what you’re thinking. Even the dumbest son of a crime boss wouldn’t eliminate a rival this way. More importantly, even if he did, he’d have zero reason to confess.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Gang hits are common in Gotham,” Gordon frowned deeply, the creases on his brow etched into his skin. “Everyone knows they happen daily—but that’s no reason to drag them into the open.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“What does he want? Why drag the police station into this?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even as Gordon spoke, he felt absurd. Why would a murder case involve the police? Good God—what was he saying? Was he still a cop?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But in Gotham, this was the unspoken rule: gang killings were never reported to police. Doing so would brand you weak, destroy your reputation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Now, the crime boss’s own son walked into the police station and openly confessed to murdering Fish. The nature of this case had changed entirely.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If he hadn’t confessed, no one could force him—because he was a Falcone. But now that he did, no one could ignore it—precisely because he was a Falcone.\u003C\u002Fp>",1563,"2026-06-20T16:39:12.484Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","9ee1e64e2f7be31d295e77acf33f2c1eefcbec0a182ac2b0c1841bf55dc75a89","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-161","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-159",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]