Chapter 251

"Should the second phase of the treatment plan be extended further?"

In the lab flickering with faint light, Schiller stood before the cryogenic chamber, notebook in hand, writing as he asked Victor.

Victor stood behind the cryogenic chamber, calibrating the equipment, and said: "I think it's improved a lot—perhaps we can move directly to the third phase."

"The drug protocol for the second phase may still need adjustment—let's add one more week as a final stage." Schiller looked up, intending to glance at Victor, but saw Mrs. Fries's fingertip twitch slightly inside the cryogenic chamber.

"Did I imagine that? Her fingertip just moved."

Schiller crouched down to peer into the chamber; Victor walked forward and said: "It's not an illusion—I saw Nora's eyelids flutter last night..."

"I haven't adjusted the cryogenic chamber's power output, so this isn't voluntary movement—it's the brain activity agent at work."

"Should we increase the dosage of the neural repair agent? After all..." Schiller turned to Victor, whose face looked worn under the chamber's cold blue light.

"You've waited this long."

Victor shook his head. "Precisely because I've waited this long, I don't mind waiting longer."

"Schiller, I know you want to help me, but this is enough." Victor sighed; a strand of gray at his temple glowed blue under the chamber's light.

"The recent changes have surpassed everything we've seen in years—Nora's condition has stopped deteriorating. The neural healing agent you provided has begun repairing her nervous system."

"Once we resolved the issue of brain activity during cryogenic stasis, many potential side effects from prolonged low-temperature hibernation were eliminated..."

He placed a hand on the cryogenic chamber, gazing into it with deep, focused affection, then turned to Schiller: "It's late, Professor Schiller. Go back. I'll recalibrate the chamber—we'll see each other tomorrow."

Schiller glanced at his watch—it was 1 a. . "I have morning lectures tomorrow, and I won't make it back to the estate in time. Let's stay here—we can talk."

Victor said nothing more, but the slight tightening of his lips pulled at the lines on his face, hiding all emotion within.

Schiller walked to the opposite table, sat down, and began organizing his thesis materials as he asked: "How's the vocational school going? I heard you went in to teach extra classes last night."

"Honestly, better than I expected." Victor sighed with quiet satisfaction. "Those little brats are unruly, but they learn fast."

"When will those gang bosses finally find a proper elementary teacher? You can't keep being a university professor teaching a bunch of kids."

"It's not that bad—I have experience with child education."

"When Nora and I lived in Florida, she once substituted at a middle school. Back then, I wasn't a professor yet—we'd take those kids on field lessons, teaching them how water freezes..."

Victor's voice was full of nostalgia. If there was one flaw in his interpersonal interactions, it was that no matter the topic, he always drifted back to memories of life with his wife.

But it wasn't off-putting—his stories brimmed with genuine emotion, and even the smallest moments of daily life revealed the quiet, tender happiness they once shared.

I'd pick up the hose like this, then ask, 'Who knows how water turns to ice?'—you know, that baby-talk tone...

"The hose connected to the fire hydrant had high pressure. The moment I opened the valve, a kid running past got knocked over."

"They didn't see any danger—they thought it was fun. They lined up and charged toward the hose. Nora was furious—her lesson turned into a water fight. She scolded me for a week..."

Victor spoke as he calibrated the equipment, his tone light and gentle. Schiller sat at the table finishing his thesis, when suddenly a sharp series of alarms shattered the lab's calm. Victor picked up the phone: "Hello? Oswald? What's wrong? What?... All right, don't panic—I'm on my way..."

Schiller turned to him: "What happened?"

"You know the student from the vocational school?" Victor set down his tools, stood up, and began changing clothes—clearly preparing to leave.

"That short one—Oswald Cobblepot."

"What about him?"

"His mother attempted suicide—she didn't succeed, but her condition is critical. He can't handle it himself. I have to go."

"I'll come too."

Schiller pulled on his coat. Victor went downstairs to start the car. Once on the road, Schiller in the passenger seat asked: "You seem close to Oswald. I only knew you admired him."

Victor gripped the steering wheel; streaks of city lights glided across his face. "Oswald is a rare good student. Unlike those kids whose parents are gangsters, he has clear goals, is eager to learn, and picks things up quickly."

"I think he's a bit like I was as a child."

Schiller studied Victor. "I recall you said you came from a middle-class family and were always an excellent student."

"Yes. My father worked in shipping. His business partners' children boarded ships with their parents from a young age—they understood their families' businesses inside out."

"But I was always a bookworm—obsessed with chemistry experiments, utterly uninterested in business."

"Oswald is just like me—we're both lettuce growing in a field of carrots, thinking and acting completely unlike everyone around us."

"And I think his nature isn't bad."

Victor turned the wheel at an intersection. "His father died too early, his mother can't care for herself. He struggles just to survive, yet still cares for her. That he's alive in Gotham is already a miracle—no one can ask more of him..."

"Or rather—he's one of the few normal people in Gotham." Schiller added: "Like you."

"Me? Of course I'm normal!... Well, I know you think my using a cryogenic chamber to freeze my wife is insane. But I have full confidence in my technology—and look, there's progress now, isn't there?"

"You're not including me in that group. I don't think it's insane. Perhaps in the future, this will become a standard medical treatment, common in every household."

Victor turned his head. His eyes held both the weariness of years and the innocence of a child's hope. "If that day ever comes, maybe I can take Nora back to my parents. I miss them... but..."

Victor's voice grew quiet. Schiller looked out the window. "They understand you. It's just that you won't go back, isn't it?"

"I don't want my shocking actions to turn them into monsters in their neighbors' eyes."

Victor was always adept at expressing his emotions plainly—he could articulate his inner state with perfect clarity. That's why Schiller got along so well with him: Victor was one of the rare people who never lied to him, never pretended.

"They love me. When I first began researching the cryogenic chamber, my father sent me money. My mother and sister wrote letters, urging me to return. But I knew I couldn't."

"I couldn't bring a cryogenic chamber with a living person frozen inside back to my home. My family would live under the gaze of people who see monsters. I know how cruel that looks."

"But I can't abandon Nora..." Victor's voice grew heavy with sorrow. "Just as she never abandoned me when my research failed and the university fired me."

The Guardian Is Here

"It'll get better." Schiller's voice always carried a quiet strength. Then he changed the subject. "You said before you never held a wedding with your wife. What happened?"

"Oh, that." Victor's tone carried a hint of guilt. "Didn't I mention? When I was just promoted to professor, an experimental accident cost me my job. Nora and I had already planned the wedding—but you know, no steady income, no grants, no funding..."

"Oh, that matter." Victor's tone carried a hint of guilt. "Didn't I already say? When I first became a professor, an accidental lab incident cost me my job. At that time, Nora and I were already planning our wedding—but you know, without a steady job, no projects or funding, so..."

"Later, I got hired by a low-temperature lab in Los Angeles. When things improved, I planned a surprise for her. But then she was diagnosed with a neurodegenerative disease..."

"Even with insurance, the costs of traveling across states for treatment drained us. If not for my father's financial help, I couldn't have built even the earliest version of the cryogenic chamber."

The car moved slowly. Soon, Gotham began to drizzle again—light, gentle rain tapping the windows without disturbing the conversation inside.

"Sometimes I think I've been incredibly lucky. Whenever I hit a wall, someone always steps in to help. When I lost my job, Nora stayed by my side. When Nora fell ill, my father funded me. When my research stalled again, you appeared..."

"Sometimes I think I've been incredibly lucky. Whenever I face hardship, someone always comes to help me. When I lost my job, Nora stayed by my side; when Nora fell ill, my father supported me continuously; and when my research stalled again, you appeared..."

"No matter how dire things get, as long as there's a glimmer of hope, it feels enough."

"That glimmer is what matters," Schiller echoed. "Even if you're in hell, as long as there's one thread of hope, you can still live as a human—not sink into a demon of hell, or become a complete madman."

"I like to compare that hope to a campfire in a snowfield." Schiller adjusted his seat. He and Victor often discussed literature and philosophy—never awkward, never forced.

"A traveler who's trudged far across a snowfield sees nothing but endless white. Every snowflake makes him colder..."

"But if a flicker of fire appears in the distance, no blizzard can stop him from moving forward."

"When he reaches that campfire, he feels warmth—as if the blizzard no longer terrifies him. But he knows: it's because the last traveler lit it."

"So before he leaves, he adds his few remaining sticks of wood to the fire—whether another traveler comes or not, the fire won't die."

Victor slowed the car and smiled. "You could sum that up in one word: offering charcoal in the snow."

Schiller shook his head. "Offering charcoal in the snow carries the condescension of the successful pitying the desperate. I believe the world doesn't need saviors—and Gotham especially doesn't."

"If I could choose, I'd rather be the traveler who leaves the fire behind. Whoever comes from any direction can rest there. If they truly wish to thank someone, let them thank themselves—for never giving up on their long journey."

As he spoke, Schiller opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.

Victor sat silent for a second, then carefully masked his emotion again. He turned, opened his door, and stepped into the cool night rain.

Victor sat in silence for a second, then suppressed that touched expression once more, turned, opened the car door, and stepped out into the cool night rain.