Chapter 180

Gordon set his coffee cup on the table; the bottom clinked sharply against the wood. He sighed, pulled out his chair, and as his buttocks barely touched the cushion, the old TV beside him burst into violent static, making him leap straight up.

The TV had been playing a routine drama when suddenly the screen filled with snow, emitting a deafening roar. Then, in a flash, a man with pale skin, green hair, and a horrifying clown makeup design appeared on screen.

His smiling face made him look perpetually cheerful, yet his mouth emitted muffled sobs as he wiped his eyes with his arms, his voice hoarse: "Breaking news: a missing persons alert from Sad Jack—my good friend Batman is gone…"

His voice sounded like burnt wood—dry and gritty. Suddenly, he stopped performing, staring directly out of the screen. His lips twisted sharply downward, yet the makeup retained its grotesque grin, making his expression grotesquely distorted.

"... 'll find him, even if he just humiliated me." He spoke with a dark glare; when he wasn't smiling, a terrifying atmosphere spread.

Schiller sat in his ward at Arkham Asylum, watching the TV on the wall.

The Joker suddenly made a sorrowful face and said: "I'm a homeless wretch. After the roads cracked, the trucker lost his job. I still have bank loans to pay off. Waaah…"

Then he covered his face and wept, the muffled sobs rising in pitch until they erupted into manic laughter. He threw his head back, mouth wide open, the piercing sound echoing through every corner of Gotham.

"You thought I'd say that?! He screamed wildly: "It doesn't matter!! What matters is the Bat! You idiots!!!"

He clutched the camera lens, his deathly pale face magnified endlessly, as if searching for something through the screen, pressing his eyes closer and closer.

"When did I first see him? Let me think… let me think…"

"Oh!" The Joker suddenly shrieked, leaning back then snapping upright, flinging his hair forward to shadow his eyes. He frantically swept it aside; his downturned lips slowly curled upward into a gentle, yet deeply unnatural expression.

"I smashed a thug with a hammer—his head burst like a watermelon. Just like this—bang!"

"Then his buddies yelled, 'The Bat's coming! The Bat's coming!'" The Joker puckered his lips, mimicking the cry.

"The Bat? Hahaha, the Bat… a Bat that doesn't kill…"

"How could such a person exist? I thought—these gangsters actually believed Gotham had a savior! Hahahahaha…"

"I blew up buildings, crushed skulls, made people run screaming for help… but the Bat never came! He wouldn't come see me! My savior won't come…"

The Joker covered his face with both hands, slowly sliding down until his fingers tugged his pale skin downward, easily exposing the blood-red muscle beneath his eyelids.

"And today I finally understand why…"

Suddenly, he seized the lens again, screaming: "Because he thinks I'm a killer bred by those idiots!! He thinks I'm no different from the lunatics on the street! He… waaah… he thinks I'm just an ordinary madman… waaahhh…"

"An ordinary person… waaah… how could he ever be friends with the great Batman…"

The Joker wept as he wiped his tears with his arm, mournfully saying: "When I went to save him… he thought I was a killer from the Owl Court…"

Suddenly, he straightened his chest, sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs, then seized the lens and roared: "He thinks I'm ordinary!!! He thinks I'm nothing special!!! It's all YOUR FAULT!!!!"

"You created so many madmen!!! You made Batman think I'm just another lunatic!!!! He doesn't see me! He doesn't see me! He won't play my game…"

He was nearly screaming himself hoarse, as if howling—everyone watching the TV could feel his rage and sorrow.

Suddenly, he calmed, staring straight into the lens: "You have a plan. So do I. I have one too. I'll prove to you—I'm Batman's friend. I am. I'm different…"

"I call this plan…"

"Owl Court's Bad Luck! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

As the mad laughter echoed overhead, lightning split the sky—Gotham began to rain again.

The TV returned to static. Schiller stood, grabbed the remote, turned off the wall-mounted TV, tossed the remote aside, and turned to Batman lying in the hospital bed: "Well? Feel better?"

Batman clenched his lips tight, saying nothing. Schiller crossed his arms, smirking: "This is what happens when you ignore advice. I told you not to pick that unlucky name. Now look—you're split in half."

Evans shouted from the next bed: "That has nothing to do with it!"

His voice was still a bit dry, but strong and full of vigor. The Bacchus Factor in his body had healed all his injuries—even old scars vanished.

But Batman, beside him, was far worse—still hooked to an IV, clearly badly injured, unable to sit up properly even now.

"Who was that lunatic?" Batman asked, puzzled. "I was thrown by the explosion. When I woke up, he was right in front of me, grinning nonstop."

"I thought he was an assassin from the Owl Court, so I sprayed him with the anesthetic on my arm—but he didn't react at all."

"I asked if the Owl Court sent him to kill me—he started screaming, smashing everything, then crouched down and cried."

"He punched me. I spat out two mouthfuls of blood. Then he frantically apologized, ran out, and said he'd get me a doctor."

"I used his absence to rescue you," Schiller said, shrugging.

"Did he just say he committed many crimes before?" Batman frowned, speaking low. "I always assumed he was just another lunatic driven mad by the rain."

"But now I recall—about a few weeks ago, on patrol, I encountered three bombings in one night. Even in Gotham, that frequency is abnormal."

"He just wanted to be your friend. But you never saw him."

"Gotham has too many lunatics," Batman said, lips downturned, cold and stern. "Why should I bother distinguishing them? I have no interest in stepping inside a madman's mind."

Schiller walked between the two beds, pulled up a chair, and turned to Evans: "I already explained everything to you clearly. This is how it happened."

Evans's sorrow was obvious. He said: "I knew nothing. I was kept in the dark. I…"

He clutched his eyes in pain: "I clearly remember having a good relationship with my brother. I can even recall his smile. But when I try to think deeply, I remember nothing."

"Human memory has protective mechanisms. When your personality reawakens, too many gaps and inconsistencies in memory can trigger another collapse."

"At such moments, the mind's self-repair function activates—it beautifies key memories to fill the gaps and heal psychological wounds."

"I don't believe he was like that. He wasn't…"

Schiller suddenly reached out, pressed his palm against Evans's forehead, forcing his upright body to slump back onto the bed, his head sinking into the pillow. Evans twitched. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze had changed.

"You've seen Evans's behavior, right, Alberto?"

He remained silent. Though identical in appearance to Evans, when Alberto emerged, his facial muscles seemed entirely different.

"What I told Evans, you must have heard too. You're the personality created by the Owl Court—their brainwashing program's assassin."

Alberto sneered: "You really think I was loyal to them? If I hadn't acted fanatical, how would they have used me to complete their plan? How would I have gotten my chance at immortality?"

"You only seek immortality?"

"Revenge… and revenge," Evans's nose twitched, making him look vicious.

"If what you say is true—that I'm the personality the Owl Court created—then they made a colossal mistake."

"They shouldn't have molded me into another Don. They shouldn't have made me so like my father. They shouldn't have turned me into a true Falcone. No Falcone in this world would willingly submit to others."

Schiller leaned sideways, resting against the chair's arm, intrigued: "I thought it was strange too—their behavioral programming conflicted with their ideological programming."

"They wanted you loyal to the Owl Court, yet also to be the perfect heir to the Don—exactly like the old Don."

"But the old Don could never be a fanatical believer in some secret organization. He trusted only himself. Only the power in his own hands."

"So you were faking it from the start?"

Alberto shook his head: "No. I did defect to the Owl Court—but not because I believed in them. Because I wanted to avenge my father."

"I never understood why—until you told Evans the truth. Then I understood."

"I understood why I felt no affection from him. Why I felt no trace of his trust."

"He never saw me as his son."

Alberto's voice grew lower: "Perhaps to better play the role of Falcone's heir, the Owl Court never gave me the truth. So I believed—I really was Falcone's son."

"But he wasn't a good father. Every glance, every action of his carried malice…"

"... e wanted to kill me." Alberto's voice trembled.

"Can you imagine?" Alberto's voice edged into madness: "Your father sees you as a monster every single moment. Every day he struggles whether to kill you…"

"I had no idea why," Alberto said, in pain. "I thought I was his son. I didn't understand why he distrusted me—why he hated me. The invisible malice nearly drove me mad! I had to kill him. I had to take revenge!"

As Alberto spoke, Schiller seemed to see it: in the Falcone estate, on a stormy, thunderous night, young Alberto faced the towering Falcone, who held him, as if fearing he was frightened by the thunder, pulling him close.

But behind Alberto's back, Falcone's eyes burned with bitter hatred and madness. The child, held in his father's arms, stared out at the rain-lashed night—his eyes filled only with terror and helplessness, not because of the thunder that raged all night.