Chapter 252: Snowy Night Campfire (II)

When entering Cobblepot's old mansion, Victor and Shiler were both startled—it looked as if it had just been violently bombed.

Victor stared at the pool of blood on the floor and shouted: "Oswald!! Are you here? Oswald Cobblepot! …Cobblepot!"

Shiler gripped his shoulder and pointed to the bloodstain: "In the bathroom."

Victor strode across the hall and rushed into the bathroom, where he saw Cobblepot lying pale and bloodied in the corner.

He hurried inside, shook Cobblepot, and saw that his left shoulder and upper arm bore a deep gash down to the bone; his entire body was covered in wounds, and in his right hand he clutched a cellphone—the very one he had just used to call Victor.

"What the hell happened? Where's your mother? Mrs. Cobblepot?"

At the word "mother," Cobblepot's head twitched slightly; a sound like a stuck record emerged from his throat: "Second floor… second-floor bedroom…"

"Stay with him. I'll go up."

Saying this, Shiler walked from the bathroom door toward the second floor, passed through a narrow corridor, then climbed the creaking stairs—the smell of blood grew stronger upstairs.

Shiler entered the second-floor bedroom and found the frail Mrs. Cobblepot lying beside the bed, one hand resting on the sheet, which was soaked through with blood. As he approached, he realized she had slit her wrists over an hour ago.

But the wound no longer bled much. Shiler leaned closer to examine her arm—the cut was deep, but poorly placed; the blood had clotted. He pressed his fingers to her chest and found her heartbeat and breathing still strong.

Clearly, Cobblepot's mother had attempted suicide by wrist-slitting—she was determined, but lacked basic knowledge and failed. Shiler pulled out a syringe and injected it into her. Seeing the healing effect begin, he stood and walked back downstairs.

Victor also had the healing syringe Shiler had given him; by the time Shiler reached the bathroom, Victor had just put away the needle, and soon Cobblepot regained consciousness.

Victor crouched beside him and sighed: "What the hell happened? Why didn't you call me sooner?"

Cobblepot stared blankly at the ceiling. Shiler stood nearby, his shadow falling across Cobblepot's face. Cobblepot turned his eyes toward Shiler, who said: "Your mother is fine."

Cobblepot closed his eyes and turned his head aside, his face wearing an expression of despair and exhaustion utterly unfit for a child his age. Victor sighed, ignored the blood on Cobblepot's clothes, lifted him from the floor, and helped him to the living room sofa.

Though Victor was merely a scholar, Cobblepot was even weaker—he barely exerted himself to carry him to the sofa. Victor looked at Cobblepot's disheveled state and said to Shiler beside the sofa: "Watch him. I'll go find him a coat."

Shiler sat down on the other side of the sofa, adjusted his sleeves. Cobblepot remained dazed, even his usual gloom gone.

When Victor returned with a coat and draped it over Cobblepot, Shiler called Gordon on his phone. Soon, Gordon entered in uniform, still damp with rain and cold wind. Seeing the scene inside the mansion, he pressed his palm to his forehead: "Professor Shiler, what now? What have you done again???"

Ten minutes later, the three carried Cobblepot and his mother into a car and took them to the hospital.

Thanks to the lizard serum syringes Shiler had obtained from Dr. Connors, by the time they arrived, Mrs. Cobblepot was no longer in danger—only suffering from significant blood loss and requiring hospital observation. The younger Cobblepot's wounds were nearly healed and needed no treatment.

So they returned to Cobblepot's old mansion. After all that, all three were soaked in rain. It was past three in the morning; Gotham's night sky was pitch-black, and the rain grew heavier.

"It's cold. Let's have some hot tea."

Two minutes later, Victor stood in the cluttered kitchen, finally digging a kettle out of a cabinet. Facing a stove piled high with debris, he had no idea where to begin.

Suddenly, he heard movement behind him. He turned to see Cobblepot stepping over the debris piled at the kitchen door and entering: "I'll boil the water."

Cobblepot kept his head down; Victor couldn't see his expression. He handed the kettle to Cobblepot: "Go ahead."

Shiler no longer sat on the sofa. Instead, he crouched on the floor, examining the overturned debris. He brushed his finger lightly across the dust on the ground and said: "These items were moved at different times."

"These bloodstains…" Shiler glanced around—the hall had four or five small stains, more like accidental drips. The only large, alarming pool of blood was the one they'd seen upon entering, still wet.

"Worsened again?" Shiler murmured. As he examined the scene, the water boiled. Cobblepot carried a tray over.

It was a wooden tray carved with patterns, holding delicate ceramic cups—but paired with his half-worn clothes and frail frame, the whole sight looked absurd.

Victor took a cup from him and handed another to Shiler. Shiler glanced inside—the cup held only water. Cobblepot set down the tray and awkwardly rubbed the hem of his shirt. "No tea left. I haven't gone out to buy any lately."

Victor sipped the hot water, waved for Cobblepot to sit, and asked with deep concern: "What exactly happened? Didn't you say your mother was improving after taking her medicine?"

Cobblepot regained some composure. He traced the chipped rim of his cup with his finger. When his thumb brushed the chip, he pressed his lips together and offered a bitter smile: "... es, she was improving."

Shiler sipped his water, feeling warmth flow through his chest. When Cobblepot looked at him, Shiler met his gaze—that calm, steady gaze eased Cobblepot's tension.

"After I was discharged, I went back to work at the Underdwell. Most of Gotham was frozen—including the Underdwell's underground."

"That damaged the water system. To get running water, I had to lead former gang members to repair it."

"I did well enough. Though I didn't understand the core machinery, I could fix pipes and wiring…"

"Everyone needed water. Everyone relied on me. Soon, I gained great reputation among the gangs down here—and made a lot of money."

"Because the Underdwell's underground had a very advanced water purification system, our water supply recovered faster than elsewhere. So we could sell water to residents in surrounding areas earlier…"

Cobblepot spoke calmly of this, but Victor widened his eyes and said: "I didn't know you had the ability to run with gangs or do business."

"Of course he does. Otherwise he wouldn't have survived," Shiler said, sipping more water.

"I led the gang members, helped them earn money, and they trusted me. Things got better for me…."

Cobblepot looked up at Shiler. Shiler said: "Are you doubting me? Let me tell you—I prescribed your mother the correct medicine."

g.

Cobblepot shook his head: "No. I'm not doubting the medicine. In fact, it worked well—especially when my mother was in a manic state."

"She took the medicine for a while and became clearer. One night, we sat by the bed and talked about the past. She remembered fragments of my childhood. We hadn't talked like that in years."

"Then what happened?" Victor asked, puzzled. "If she was improving, why would she…?"

Cobblepot's body began trembling. His eyes reddened. His voice shook: "Precisely because she woke up. Precisely because…"

He swallowed hard, took a deep breath: "Before the medication, she was severely insane."

"When she went mad, I couldn't stop her. I could only wait until she grew tired and drank water. But as her symptoms worsened, she started attacking me…"

Victor turned his head toward the dried bloodstains in the room. Cobblepot clenched his hands, fingers tightly intertwined: "At first, she just threw things at me. My ear was cut—I bled a little…"

"Then she started slashing with knives. I feared she'd hurt herself, so I tried to take them away…"

"She cut my arms and legs, but the wounds weren't deep. I bandaged myself and hid the bloody clothes."

"But…" Cobblepot's voice trembled more violently. Victor heard a sob in it.

"After the medication began, I cleaned up the blood as best I could. But I was busy—too many tasks, too many people depending on me. I had to earn money to buy medicine. I couldn't tend to my wounds. When I hastily tidied up, some bloodstains got buried under the mess. I didn't notice them."

"After my mother woke up, one night while I slept, she entered my bedroom. My arm was outside the covers. She saw it and asked where the wounds came from…"

"I didn't dare tell her."

"Tonight, when I came home, I found the house like this—the bloodstains had been dug up, the bloody clothes found. I smelled heavy blood. I went upstairs and found… my mother had slit her wrists."

Cobblepot's lips trembled too much to speak. Tears streamed down his face. Victor's hand holding the cup trembled too. He heard Cobblepot continue: "Before you woke me, my last memory was walking into the bedroom and seeing so much blood…"

"Then why were you in the downstairs bathroom?"

"He must've had an episode," Shiler told Victor. "That wound on his shoulder was likely self-inflicted."

"He saw his mother's suicide, couldn't bear the shock, staggered downstairs, slashed himself with the dinner knife—blood splattered across the hall, then smeared over the sofa, and he ran into the bathroom…"

"But fortunately…" Shiler looked at Cobblepot, "you still had enough sanity left to pick up your phone and call Victor."