Chapter 799: The Deadly Joke (23)

"There's only one pizza left, but since you're a guest, you should have it." Schiller turned on the kitchen valve, heated the pan, warmed the pizza, poured two glasses of water, and set them on the table.

Bruce sat at one end of the dining table, staring at the steaming pizza, but had no appetite—he was far more concerned about the chair missing two legs, which he felt mattered more than any food.

Yet the body does not obey willpower; Bruce was truly hungry. Over the past two days, he had eaten only a few snails and seaweed, unable to resist the tempting aroma of modern industrial food. Eventually, his hands trembling, he picked up a slice and put it in his mouth.

Every standard unit in Hell's Kitchen had a refrigerator. This was possible due to dense ice: refrigeration technology had changed drastically, costs dropped, but preservation improved.

Thus, the pizza tasted excellent, as if freshly baked. Schiller sat across from him, watching him eat. Bruce mechanically stuffed the pizza into his mouth. After eating half, he asked, "Aren't you eating?"

"No," Schiller replied.

"Aren't you hungry?" Bruce asked again.

"If I were hungry, I'd find something to eat myself," Schiller said, sipping water, turning his eyes away, and holding the cup in front of his mouth.

Bruce thought of something unpleasant and immediately lost his appetite. At that moment, Schiller coughed twice and spat out the water.

"God! Why is this water so disgusting?" Schiller frowned, staring at the water in the glass. "Didn't they install a water purifier here??"

Bruce drank his entire glass. "Yes, but the purifier is a performance model—it doesn't guarantee taste. It's nothing like the private purifiers in the wealthy districts."

Schiller frowned, showing a look of deep disgust. He set the glass back on the table. "I need someone to bring me a glass of clean water. This is undrinkable."

"This is clean water," Bruce replied. "The purifier's safety is fully guaranteed—only the taste is poor."

"That's the point," Schiller said, rising from the table.

He walked to the telephone in the living room, dialed a number, and said, "I remember seeing a gang's phone number on an ad on the wall when I came in. Let me think… Oh, hello."

"... 'm Rodriguez, the new resident. Today's my first day here. Would you be so kind as to attend my housewarming party—and bring a glass of clean water as a gift?"

"No, this isn't a prank call. I'm serious. If you don't want to come to the party, just bring me one glass of water."

"You think I'm joking? I really need this water. Let me tell you what might happen if I don't get it."

"I have a rule: if I don't have an umbrella, no one is allowed to rain. If I can't drink water, no one else gets to drink either."

"If you don't bring me water, I'll walk 8. kilometers southeast to the ACE Chemical Plant on the eastern edge."

"It's currently producing a pesticide chemical agent. Even after dilution by 1, 00 times, it remains lethally toxic to humans."

"At 11: 0 tonight, I'll arrive at the northwest gate of ACE Chemical and distract the guards. At 11: 0, I'll enter the management office and locate where the chemical is stored."

"At 11: 0, I'll go to the warehouse, find what I need, fill it into a bottle, and bring it back to Hell's Kitchen."

"At exactly 2 a. ., I'll find the water valve of Hell's Kitchen, follow the pipes to the bottom purification zone, and slowly pour the chemical into the water supply."

"I'm not a chemist, so I can't estimate how many will die. But if a mass water poisoning occurs, you'll be blamed—or you can pin it on the idiot who made the purifier."

Schiller glanced at Bruce. "Besides, it's Batman's fault anyway—he made the purified water taste so awful."

He hung up. Less than five minutes later, a knock came at the door. When he opened it, a broad-shouldered man in a suit and sunglasses stood outside, followed by four or five armed bodyguards.

Schiller stepped forward and shook the man's hand. "Hello, Mr. Hans. Welcome to my new home. Please come in."

Hans didn't move. He scanned Schiller from head to toe, then waved his hand, signaling his men to lower their weapons—he was certain this man was exactly who he thought he was.

In Gotham, everyone knows one truth: if you're in the East End and see someone thin, weak, refined, speaking with precise diction and a soft tone, there's only one word—run.

The logic is simple: under Gotham's Zhian conditions, if you lack physical strength, how do you survive?

Hell's Kitchen sits relatively central in the East End, surrounded entirely by gang territories—all of them dangerous, volatile factions.

To enter here, there are two ways: either you look dangerous—massive, tattooed, clearly a hard case.

Or you enter without anyone knowing you're here.

Gothamites aren't afraid of strong men—they're everywhere. Gang enforcers, to gain advantage in turf wars, train themselves to look as fearsome as possible.

But those who look harmless, speak calmly, never curse, and seem easy to bully—and still survive in the slums—must use other methods. And those methods? They're varied, and none of them pass scrutiny.

Of course, some outsiders arrive like this. The smart ones try to blend into Gotham, adopting a tough exterior to gain advantages. The dumb ones never make it to Hell's Kitchen alive.

So seeing someone like this here? His identity is obvious.

And Gothamites also know: confronting such a person with violence is unwise. Unless you're certain you can grind him to dust, you might wake up one night to find him standing at your bedside, grinning at you.

He gave Schiller a firm, serious handshake. "The water here tastes terrible, doesn't it, sir? You just moved in today?"

Schiller nodded. "Yes. In fact, this is my first time in the East End. You can tell I'm not from Gotham—I've only just arrived. Oh, forgive me—I've kept you standing outside so long. Please, come in."

Hans stepped back slightly. "No, sir. I won't intrude on your housewarming. Here's the water you requested."

Hans handed over a bottle. Schiller stepped forward two paces, took it without hesitation, twisted open the cap, drank, nodded, and said, "Pure water tastes better. Thank you, Mr. Hans. If you ever need help, come to me. I'm happy to pay a good reward for this bottle."

Hans waved. "Goodbye, sir."

"Goodbye."

Schiller closed the door, drank two more sips, sighed with satisfaction, then took the two cups away, washed them, poured Bruce a glass of pure water, and said, "You should try this. The water you just drank will feel ashamed in your stomach."

Bruce covered his eyes with his hand. "You can't—"

"Can't what?" Schiller glanced at Bruce. "You're not going to say I shouldn't deal with gangs? Come on—look at the situation."

"I was suddenly told to live here for a while. I know no one here, have no friends. I need to settle down first, meet people, before I can even look for a job."

"A job?" Bruce's tone shifted. He pursed his lips. "What kind of job are you looking for?"

Schiller sat down, sipping water. "I want a job that provides enough food and water, isn't too exhausting, and ideally suits my personal interests."

He lowered his head and shook it. "Sounds ridiculous, right? But you have to dare to dream before you dare to act."

Bruce, hearing his job requirements, connected them to something terrifying. He studied the professor closely—he had never been this near to Schiller before.

"Near" here didn't mean physical distance, but their circumstances.

Often, Schiller acted as a teacher, habitually using speech to dominate Bruce and seize control.

Bruce usually focused on finding chances to strike back, reclaiming control. Their conversations were always a dance of Shitan, rarely calm or sincere.

Now, their circumstances and status were identical. Bruce could observe Schiller more carefully.

He noticed the professor had peculiar habits—for example, every time he set down his glass, he placed it with perfect precision on the exact same spot, no deviation. The octagonal glass always faced him from the same side.

Schiller would deliberately stare at the glass after placing it, confirming its position was correct.

Also, many of Schiller's movements weren't fluid—they were stiff. Bruce noticed his gaze didn't land naturally. Following his eyes, he realized Schiller was counting floor tiles.

Bruce recalled past memories—he realized Schiller had done this before.

He had always differed subtly from ordinary people—not in his ability to turn into mist or read minds, but in routine, instinctive actions, where his behavior diverged from the norm.

It wasn't quite OCD—he showed no pathological compulsions. It felt more like a natural, ingrained habit.

At that moment, Bruce remembered: Victor had once told him Schiller was an autistic patient—a renowned scholar-type autistic.

Savant syndrome: a rare neurological condition where patients display extraordinary talent in specific areas, yet suffer cognitive impairments in others.

If Schiller had cognitive impairments in certain areas… Bruce didn't need to guess which ones. Simply put: anything involving people.