Chapter 819: The Red Hood (10)

A truck sped through the rainy night, water spraying like a waterfall from its tires, the rumble of wheels crushing puddles louder than distant thunder.

All the children gripped whatever they could, crammed tightly together like sardines on a production line, their faces filled with terror.

Jason clutched the headrest with one hand and shouted: "You're insane! Bruce! You're insane! You broke the rules, and you probably injured a gang member—they'll kill us!"

"You've learned nothing!" Jason raised his voice. "You can leave here easily, but these people can't—and neither can I..."

"You think if you just take off your mask, no one will dare touch you, right? Or even if you reveal your identity, no one will dare harm us—they'll treat us politely and send us on our way..."

Jason closed his eyes, his voice trembling: "But in Gotham, we can't survive on pity. You pity us, you want to save these children—but in the end, it saves no one..."

Bruce drove in silence, saying nothing. Jason looked at his face, but all he saw was the fleeting glow of streetlights sliding across Bruce's mask—like Gotham's sunset.

Bruce raced down the street, driving the truck farther out, just as Jason predicted: the storm had come too suddenly, and many children had been driven from their hideouts, huddling shivering by the roadside.

The truck stopped again, more children were pulled aboard. They stared blankly at the terrified faces already inside, but soon they too fell into panic, for the truck barreled straight through the gang checkpoints along this street.

The thunder rumbled continuously; the truck moved like lightning through Gotham's alleys, gathering the stars fallen from the sky, stuffing them into cans, and driving toward an unknown destination.

The wind and rain grew fiercer; the heel of a leather shoe tapped lightly against the corridor floor, lost in the rain.

Schiller pushed open a hospital room door. Behind him, Brand frowned—the scene inside was grim.

Seven or eight children huddled in the corner. Vomit stained every bed. Bloodstains marked the floor. All stared wide-eyed at the newcomers, their gazes hollow, devoid of any living spirit.

"Is this the job Wayne paid us so much to do?" Brand stood at the threshold, incredulous. "How did he turn these children into this? What exactly did he do?"

"Not him. Gotham itself." Schiller stood in the center of the room, as if he saw no children, smelled no foul odor.

Brand remained silent at the door. Long moments passed before he spoke: "This city is hell. A living hell."

"I thought you already knew. You've been here long enough, haven't you?" Schiller wrote medical notes beneath the ceiling lamp. Brand stepped slowly inside. "Yes. But I've never gone deep into this city. I don't have your skills—I can only hide in this hospital."

"You don't lack the skill, Brand. You just refuse to use it." Schiller set down his pen and glanced at the children. "Today, we'll conduct initial diagnoses and draft treatment plans. Wayne didn't pay that fortune for nothing."

"Then why aren't we working with other doctors?" Brand asked, puzzled. "Shouldn't the consultation be in three days?"

"Do you really think you can rely on them? They understand this place even less than you do." Schiller glanced out the window. "The storm's getting worse, isn't it?"

Brand sighed and walked slowly to a spot two meters away from the children.

He realized every movement of his was tracked by their eyes. He felt like a predator had locked onto him—but he dismissed it as illusion, for these were malnourished children.

"Their stress responses are severe. They've been traumatized repeatedly. Can they still express needs?" Brand knelt, bringing his gaze level with theirs.

"I brought you here to examine their brain activity from a pathological perspective—see if there's neurological damage. Behavioral and cognitive issues are my domain..." Schiller said.

Brand stood, nodded. "Alright. I'll call the nurses, get the hospital to prepare meds. Let's hope we don't need too much sedative—it'll harm their health."

A few minutes later, two nurses rolled in a cart. All the children began screaming.

The head nurse turned to Brand. "This is how it's been. We've tried medication before, but they fight so violently—we couldn't be rough. Mr. Wayne gave strict orders..."

But Brand had far more experience than an ordinary head nurse. "Ignore them. Don't look in their eyes. Don't try to communicate. Pretend you see nothing, hear nothing."

"Treat them as objects, not people." Brand looked at the nurse. "Don't think this is inhumane. When patients display aggression, they've likely lost rationality. Excessive attention only heightens their mental activity, making them more agitated."

Brand didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, grabbed a child's arm, and dragged him onto the bed. The child screamed wildly, trying to bite Brand's wrist. Brand held his arm down firmly on the mattress and signaled to a nurse, who stepped forward to administer the injection.

The other children scattered, but the door was locked—none could escape. They were all caught, restrained, and sedated.

The head nurse's face twisted with pity. When it was over, she whispered: "My daughter is about their age... It's just..."

"Don't feel guilty, ma'am. We controlled our force—no physical harm was done. Dosages were strictly regulated. Calming them now helps us examine them properly. This is the necessary path to their recovery." Brand reassured her.

"Of course. I know that." The nurse quickly regained composure. "I'll notify them to clean this room first, then bring in the equipment. After the exam, order attendants to wash their bodies..."

After the nurses left, Schiller looked at Brand. "Sometimes, I'm surprised by your professionalism and decisiveness."

Brand showed no pleasure at the compliment. He shook his head. "Tell me—what exactly happened here?"

"These are children Wayne pulled from the slums. You've never been there, so you don't know. In the slums, there are specialized beggar children—some 'parents' take in weak or disabled infants, train them to beg."

"A while back, Gotham's child gangs were unified. These children were rescued. Wayne, in his generosity, wanted to treat them, so he sent them here."

Brand shook his head. "Though I focus on pathology, I know this isn't wise. Not only might the change in environment trigger them further—no matter how noble his intentions, he must first listen to the needs of those he helps, not impose his own ideas."

"At that time, Wayne wasn't good at listening." Schiller looked at Brand. "But their extreme reactions stem from one fact: they lived under Gotham's law."

"Gotham's law? This damn city has laws?!" Brand drew a sharp breath.

"Of course. Any society has rules. But Gotham's laws aren't written. So they seem nonexistent." Schiller shook his head.

"Among Gotham's gangs, the rule is simple: stay in your place, do only what your position allows. Only then do you gain protection. Step outside, and what you gain will never match what's taken from you."

Brand thought for a moment. It mirrored the rule of law he knew.

In normal society, if people violate norms and act beyond their role, they might gain benefits—but those gains are dwarfed by the freedom lost to imprisonment.

In Gotham's underbelly, this rule was enforced without exception. Children had to remain weak, stay in their territory, pose no threat—only then could they survive in the cracks.

If they possessed resources not theirs, they had to surrender them. Break the rule, and they might die.

Schiller sighed again, looking at the children on the beds. "This is especially true for beggar children. From childhood, they're taught: everything you gain must be handed over—or you'll be beaten to death."

"They've been conditioned to believe nothing they earn belongs to them. Take even a little more, and you risk death. Now, they've been given too much."

"Bruce Wayne didn't break the old rules. He didn't dismantle this law. He didn't retrain them with a new order. He simply removed them from that environment and dumped a pile of things on them."

"People raised in such conditions see this pile as a death sentence. No one escapes the fear of death."

"Their crying, screaming, resistance—they're not protesting lack. They're resisting excess."

"This won't save Gotham." Brand spoke. "Unless this order is utterly destroyed, everyone emerging from such an environment will go mad from this fear."

"Bruce's intent may have been good—he thought saving one was better than nothing." Schiller concluded. "But his action is like pulling a sick fish from its pond."

"The fish is suffering, nearly dead. He feels pity, wants to cure it. But he must consider: without water, the fish dies faster."

"And when all the fish in the pond are sick, what he must do first is change the water."