[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-83":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Mental Mentor in Marvel",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2322651,4544,"Chapter 83","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-83",83,"\u003Cp>Gotham’s rainy night. Gotham’s rain was always fine and endless, carrying a bone-chilling cold; the raindrops, illuminated by streetlights, formed a gray, hazy net, and each droplet that struck the ground splashed a tiny spray.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The sound of an engine rose from the end of a dark alley, accompanied by faint splashes; the subtle rumble of tires over uneven pavement grew closer, and when the blinding headlights appeared at the back door of the police station, Gordon knew he was in trouble.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A stretched luxury car pulled up before Gordon. He saw the glint of a rifle barrel reflected in the window glass, and in the rearview mirror, a man nodded at him. No one spoke; the entire scene was as silent as Gotham’s night.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon took a deep breath, reached out to touch the pistol at his waist. Though it had just been fitted with new components, it gave him no sense of security. In this city, police could not rely on their guns for any law enforcement authority—not even for self-preservation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A man in a black suit stepped out and opened the car door for Gordon. Gordon glanced at his watch: 9:12 p.m. He would miss dinner with Barbara again.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>In the end, Gordon got into the car. As it started moving, he looked out the window: neon signs of shops flashed past, leaving trails of red-and-blue light. Raindrops struck the glass, blurring the glow into indistinct halos.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon said: “Who am I meeting?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“You’ll know when you see him,” replied the man in the front passenger seat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As the car bumped along a rough stretch of road, the headlights flickered across different buildings, then turned sharply into an alley Gordon had never seen. He knew this was the East End—and at its most dangerous edge.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He got out. The man in black led him to the entrance of a mansion. Two men stood before the gate, each holding a gun. One stepped forward. Gordon placed his hands, interlocked, above his forehead. The man took his pistol, searched him thoroughly, confirmed no other weapons, then motioned for him to enter.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The mansion was lavishly decorated, brightly lit inside, yet nearly empty. Gordon ascended to the second floor. As the guide opened the door, Gordon saw a broad, imposing back. He knew: Sal Maroni, the East End’s new boss.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni turned. He was not handsome; his face looked brutal. His mouth always curled sharply downward, while his eyes always tilted upward with a sinister glint.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He spun his ring and said: “Chief, please sit. I apologize for summoning you tonight.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I don’t know what’s happened to gangsters these days—you all act so polite, like you’re more police than I am.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon’s reply was rude. He did not sit as Maroni suggested, but stood rigidly.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni’s expression shifted, but he seemed unfazed by the insult. He said: “I asked you here to discuss a business proposition. You know—the kind gangs usually make.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I don’t do business with gangs.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Oh?” Maroni laughed. “That’s a novel stance. I’ve heard some of you say my offer isn’t high enough—but I’ve never heard anyone say they won’t cooperate with a gang at all.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“That’s the truth. I don’t cooperate with any gang.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Then why are you involved in the Godfather’s business? Your field team hasn’t been short of profits from his private prison pipeline, has it?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“I’m just doing my job as a police officer. Fighting crime is a cop’s duty,” Gordon said.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He spoke truthfully. Even though he knew the criminals he arrested only boosted the Godfather’s revenue, his actions were genuinely about apprehending criminals. If this brought him profit, fine. If not, he would persist—because before this arrangement, he had done exactly this, and he was the only one who did.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My offer is simple: you do nothing. Just delay. Find every possible excuse to keep your field team from going out.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni spread his hands. “How simple! All you do is nothing. And I’ll pay you handsomely for it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon said: “I can see you’re imitating the Godfather. I’ve never met Underboss Falcone, but I know Gotham has countless poor imitations—pretending to be refined and gentle, speaking in affected tones, even mimicking his Italian accent.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“But it doesn’t work, Mr. Maroni. You’re not Falcone. Gotham won’t have a second Falcone—not now. Right now, Gotham belongs to the Godfather, not to you.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni’s face darkened completely. Gordon had struck his deepest wound: he truly was imitating Falcone—or as Gordon said, too many in Gotham were imitating this Godfather.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even though many hadn’t finished middle school, they still tried to mimic Falcone, twisting simple phrases into convoluted, grammatically complex sentences with overly elegant diction.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They wore suits, tied ties, pinned flowers to their chests, held pens instead of guns—just like the Godfather.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Falcone was Gotham’s benchmark. His charisma was so overwhelming that every gang boss imitated him. Maroni was one of them.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When you come to Gotham, you’re stunned: gangs don’t send thugs to kidnap you. Instead, a black luxury car arrives silently at your door on a rainy night, then you’re ushered into a lavishly furnished room, seated behind a black desk, dressed in formal attire, speaking with polite courtesy.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>They look less like gangsters and more like old-fashioned aristocrats—all because of Falcone’s influence.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Cheating Kangxi”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This filled Maroni with shame. Unlike others, he believed he had never bowed to the Godfather’s power. He thought he was destined to overthrow Falcone—yet he had to admit he was imitating him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>And he imitated poorly. Maroni simply wasn’t suited for a suit. He lacked the Godfather’s refined elegance. Even a perfectly tailored suit couldn’t hide his savagery.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Falcone represented Gotham’s most glorious gang era. Every gesture of his bore the marks of that turbulent age. The aura forged in those golden years—the sense of absolute control—fascinated Maroni.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He harbored bitter envy toward the Godfather, wanting to replace him. Yet, like everyone else in Gotham, he also held genuine respect for him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon watched Maroni’s silence and said: “You know, before I even entered this house, I knew you weren’t the Godfather. Even though you used his favorite car model and his usual method of summoning people.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>\"Is that so? Why?\" Ma Luoni asked.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“If the Godfather had summoned me tonight, I wouldn’t have been searched or disarmed. The Godfather doesn’t care whether I carry weapons when I meet him—he’s far more confident than you.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni’s facade was nearly shattered. Every word Gordon spoke pierced him. They were all truths.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Falcone summoned anyone for a talk, he never took their weapons—even if the man was a mass murderer. Falcone would sit behind his desk, less than two meters away, unarmed, and disarm them with words alone.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Maroni dared not.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>How could he let a seasoned veteran cop approach him within two meters, armed? He had no confidence. He had to guard against Gordon suddenly attacking him. He didn’t even understand why Falcone dared do it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Why was the Godfather so certain no one would dare raise a hand against him? Maroni never understood. In his view, one mistake, one misstep, and all his efforts would vanish in gunfire. He would never give anyone that chance.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He believed his caution was right—but it didn’t stop him from feeling the shame of defeat before the battle. He spoke low to Gordon: “Do you think your actions are wise? Provoking me repeatedly on my own turf?!”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Are you dropping the pretense now?” Gordon asked. “Just now, your language was no different from a street thug’s. You used no complex words—because you realized I saw through you, so there was no point pretending anymore?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Maroni waved his hand. Behind him, a click echoed through the room—the sound of a shotgun being chambered. A man in a black suit behind him leveled a shotgun directly at Gordon.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gordon shook his head. “This is the difference between you and the Godfather. You called me here to discuss business—but there’s never been a rule that says if a deal fails, you kill the other man. You’re still playing gangster games: if I refuse, you point a gun at me and force me to agree.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“So why bother sending a car and a man to bring me here? Why not just hire a gang of kidnappers like the other East End gangs? Drag me to a basement, punch me twice, then point a gun at my head and ask if I’ll agree—if I say no, shoot my arm.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Enough,” Maroni said. He took a deep breath, waved his hand. The man behind him lowered his gun. “You’re clever. I know you don’t want me to lose to Falcone.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Your cleverness saved your life, Chief Gordon. Tonight, I’ll let you leave. This isn’t me imitating anyone—it’s me granting you mercy, giving you time to think. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>When Gordon stepped out of the mansion, his shirt was soaked through with cold sweat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Only he knew how close he had come to death. Had he not repeatedly provoked Maroni with references to Falcone, stirring his resentment, he might never have left the mansion alive.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Gotham’s cold wind blew against him. Fine raindrops struck his face. He walked slowly back, thinking: he hadn’t been wrong. Maroni was nothing compared to Falcone—he had lost his temper.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If Falcone had summoned him tonight, even if Gordon’s little tricks had angered the Godfather, Falcone still would have sent a car to take him home.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Thinking this, Gordon looked up at Gotham’s night sky. Raindrops fell into his eyes. He wiped his face, then thought: this trouble was far from over.\u003C\u002Fp>",1613,"2026-06-20T16:39:12.484Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","4b491f1aee07e8f132f047bcfe3a3ccd72594c2f613174dd07ef2c420e0fcb62","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-84","my-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-chapter-82",1000,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-mental-mentor-in-marvel-cover.jpg"]