Chapter 253: Snowy Night Bonfire (III)

The atmosphere in the room was silent; the ripples on the tea cup reflected Victor's heavy breathing, while Cobblepot mechanically poured water into his mouth, oblivious to the scalding heat of the freshly boiled liquid.

"When she's a lunatic, she can hurt you without restraint, because she doesn't know who you are—or who she is."

"But when she becomes a mother again, no mother could ever accept what she has done..."

"Perhaps she's always wanted me to leave," Cobblepot's voice grew numb: "When she's ill, she hurls everything she can grab at me, screaming for me to get out..."

"But I can't leave. I can't leave her." Cobblepot's voice began trembling again: "No matter what, I can't leave her. She's my mother."

Victor closed his eyes; heavy breaths escaped his nose and mouth. Schiller sighed softly and said: "When I prescribed your medication before, I suggested you move to a new apartment—changing your environment would help the patient begin the next stage of treatment and recovery."

Cobblepot shook his head; tears glistened like fine beads in the dim light as he spoke: "She won't leave."

"Why?"

Cobblepot gripped the cup so tightly his knuckles bulged with raised veins.

"Because of my father."

"According to my mother, she met my father on this very street. He brought her here to meet his family—they ate dinner together, drank sweet wine, chatted by the fireplace..."

"My uncle sang songs, others laughed and urged them to dance..."

With a slightly hoarse voice, the firelight rose, casting dancing shadows around the sofa; someone brought wine, someone else brought fruit, and when a folk tune began, everyone clapped along.

A young couple stepped into the center of the room, dancing, their sleeves fluttering; when the song ended, they held hands, receiving their family's praise and blessings, then walked hand in hand into the church.

No locks.

Until one hand touched the name carved on the gravestone—in that cold, rainy night, only a madwoman spun alone in the dark, decaying old house, with only the rain singing for her.

"After my father died, my mother blamed it on him not bringing an umbrella that rainy night—so she constantly rummaged through every corner of the house, searching for an umbrella."

"But if I actually gave her one, she'd scream and curse, smashing it with a chair—she said it was cursed, that we were all cursed..."

"I can't even remember how long this has gone on..."

"At first, she'd drag me through the night, recounting their old stories. Later, every night she'd sit silently in the corner of the living room, endlessly rummaging through that cabinet—already emptied and searched a thousand times..."

"Whenever I tried to stop her, she'd attack me. Eventually, just my returning to this house was enough to make her scream at me to get out..."

"When she began to regain clarity, I was relieved—I thought this nightmare was ending. But I didn't expect..."

Cobblepot covered his face with both hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably; the choked sobs that wouldn't break into tears sounded more like the hoot of an owl—grotesquely absurd in the crushing silence.

Dawn came. A sharper phone ring pierced the air. Schiller picked up the phone: "Really? She's awake?... Good, we're on our way..."

As they stepped out of Cobblepot's old house, the sun rose over the horizon. The all-night rain had saturated the air with thick moisture, chilled further by the morning wind—each breath felt like swallowing ice.

The car drove toward the hospital. When the three stepped out, Gordon was already waiting, sighing helplessly: "Go in quickly—she's causing a huge scene."

Upstairs, before even entering the ward, they saw a nurse standing outside the door, one hand holding an IV bottle, the other gripping the IV tube and needle—dripping with fresh blood. An older nurse was about to enter. Victor grabbed her: "What happened?"

The young nurse sighed: "The lady just woke up and pulled out every IV needle in her hand—she bled heavily. She smashed people with the IV stand. We can't get close."

The older nurse peered inside: "We need to subdue her fast. She's still bleeding—if the wounds reopen, it'll be worse."

At that moment, footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Brand arrived with a group of nurses. He waved his hand: "Administer sedatives."

Inside, the elderly Mrs. Cobblepot raged like a demon, snarling and lunging at anyone who approached.

But fortunately, she was an old woman, weakened by blood loss. She was quickly subdued. Once the sedative took effect, she lay still, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Cobblepot walked ahead, Victor and Schiller behind him. Cobblepot reached his mother's bedside. The old woman turned her eyes toward her son. Cobblepot saw on her aged face an expression of guilt and pleading.

"Why are you stopping me... Or..." A dry voice emerged from her throat. Cobblepot's throat convulsed—he couldn't answer.

"I don't want to stay here anymore... I can't do that again... don't stop me..." The old woman trembled all over, yet couldn't move, frozen in place.

Schiller suddenly shoved Cobblepot forward and whispered: "Show your mother your arm."

Cobblepot turned, confused. Victor looked at Schiller too—but under Schiller's gaze, Cobblepot extended his arm and rolled up his sleeve.

His arm was thin, skin rough, complexion unnaturally pale—but not a single wound marred it.

Schiller stepped to the bedside and said to the old woman: "Madam, you suffer from catatonic schizophrenia. You imagine you attacked your son during your episodes—but we've administered medication. You're awake now."

The old woman froze. With claw-like fingers, she seized her son's wrist, strained to roll over, and used her other hand to trace Cobblepot's arm.

It was smooth—no scar remained. Connors' lizard serum antidote didn't merely heal wounds—it erased even the scars they left behind.

Cobblepot felt his mother's arm trembling. Then he heard her muffled sobs—whether from guilt or relief, he couldn't tell.

"I didn't want to do that... I didn't want to..."

"You didn't do it," Schiller said with absolute certainty—as if he weren't lying at all. Even Victor rubbed his eyes, wondering if the Cobblepot he'd seen covered in wounds had been an illusion.

"Yes..." Cobblepot gripped his mother's hand: "It was all illusion. Because you didn't take your medicine on time, Mother. If you stay in the hospital, take your medication, this won't happen again..."

The old woman was sobbing uncontrollably. Outside, Brand sighed: "You should leave now. The patient needs rest."

The old woman clung tightly to her son's hand. Cobblepot couldn't move. Only Schiller and Victor stepped toward the door.

Morning sunlight streamed through the window, turning the doorframe into a picture frame. Schiller and Victor stood framed in golden light.

Victor touched his lips with his fingers. Schiller saw his fingertips trembling. The emotions accumulated through the night erupted—this usually calm, composed professor looked as if he might collapse.

His gaze had lost focus, as if haunted by terrible hallucinations.

"If Nora dies..." Victor's voice cracked like a snapped violin bow. He looked at Schiller with desperate eyes: "... ould I go mad like this?"

Schiller couldn't answer. Because the man before him wasn't a character in a comic or film—he was a living person, his patient.

Familiarity with the plot, the foreknowledge of a time-traveler—here, it brought no superiority, only heavier sorrow.

In this world, everyone carries their own tragedy. No single answer can resolve every tragedy—and thus, there is no savior.

In Gotham, some perform tragedy, others comedy; some laugh at tragedy, some weep for comedy; some laugh while crying, some cry while laughing.

No one can make everyone weep. No one can make everyone laugh. Not even a time-traveler or prophet.

This is Gotham—a city that cannot be saved.

The golden background in the frame was about to overflow. Suddenly, Victor turned, trembling, and rushed back into the ward, staring straight at Cobblepot: "Come with me, Cobblepot... come with me!"

Cobblepot was pulled up from the bedside, led out of the hospital, and swallowed by the morning light. At some point, Schiller, standing by the door, vanished.

Back in the lab, Victor swiftly shed his damp coat and tossed it aside.

He placed a hand on Cobblepot's back, guiding him inside, then stepped to the lab table and turned to face him.

Victor had lost his usual elegance and gentleness. Under the lab's cold light, his face looked neurotic, almost mad.

"Cobblepot..."

Victor stared into Cobblepot's eyes—within them lay affection, hope, and a stubbornness incomprehensible to ordinary people.

Not a teacher looking at a student—but a father looking at his son. Or perhaps, a man rescued from tragedy gazing at another tragedy—a traveler on an endless snowfield, seeing another traveler.

At that moment, Cobblepot heard Victor ask:

"Cobblepot... do you know how water turns to ice?"

————EXTRA NOTES————

Someone can't laugh anymore. I won't say who.