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Chapter 73: Gotham 1987 (1)

The faint morning breeze rustled the tree branches outside the window, and the orange light seeped through the thick curtains, illuminating the dim room.

A knock at the bedroom door roused Schiller from his slumber. He turned over as the butler outside announced, "Sir, Mr. Gordon called you ten minutes ago. I informed him that you would return his call after getting up."

Schiller, his voice slightly hoarse, responded slowly, "I see."

He sat up in bed, shaking off the remnants of sleep, and approached the window. With one hand, he drew back one side of the curtain, revealing a milkman on a bicycle at the doorstep, ringing the bell. Soon, someone emerged to collect the milk bottles from him.

This was Gotham, in the West District, and it was Schiller's new home in the city.

Although the faculty apartments at Gotham University were decent, he had felt the need to buy his own house here.

This part of Gotham was the old town area, distinct from the affluent southern district. It was established by a group of UK nobility during the European migration to America. Consequently, most of the buildings here were traditional English manors. However, due to the city's development plans and the superior geographical location in the south, the wealthy eventually moved there from the west.

Many of these old manors had been left abandoned, as the descendants of those nobles rarely chose to stay. Schiller had acquired one of the best-preserved and most tastefully decorated ones at an excellent price.

He didn't opt for a house in the southern affluent district, not because he couldn't afford it, but for a very practical reason—it was closer to Gotham University, his workplace.

To commute from the southern affluent district, he would have had to drive a considerable distance, traversing a significant portion of Gotham City.

What made it worse was that he would have to navigate through the congested downtown area, especially during rush hours.

Therefore, no matter how luxurious the villas in the south were, they were not within Schiller's choice range. He was not Bruce Wayne, who could simply take a helicopter if traffic was congested. He didn't want to spend most of his day on the road.

Choosing a classic manor in the West District had another advantage: it was less populated, relatively peaceful, and not bustling with activity early in the morning. On his days off, Schiller could enjoy a peaceful sleep.

Most importantly, this location was far from Wayne Manor, and even further from the mountain where Bruce planned to build the Batcave in the future. In case Batman encountered the Joker and the range of the attack extended, it wouldn't reach Schiller's place.

After a while, the butler entered, opened the curtains, and said, "Breakfast is ready, sir."

Schiller nodded, took the glasses case handed to him, put on his glasses, and glanced at his watch. "When did Gordon call?" he asked.

"About twenty-five minutes ago."

Schiller turned his gaze back to the window, then went downstairs to have breakfast.

Descending the wooden stairs, passing through a somewhat dim corridor, the dining room was at the far west end of the manor. As he entered, he found himself in a semi-circular dining room with tall arched windows. Deep green silk curtains hung on either side of the windows, and on the peachwood dining table, silverware sparkled in the faint morning light.

The morning sun streaming in through the arched windows cast intricate patterns of light and shadow on the table. Schiller picked up the freshly ironed newspaper from his right.

The printed ink on the newspaper was slightly smudged, with the topmost line reading, "January 25, 1987, Overcast with possible rain in the afternoon, Gotham Daily."

Schiller had breakfast while searching the newspaper for the information he needed. The fonts in the papers of this era were often quite small, and the ink easily blurred, so he had to use a magnifying glass.

After a while, the butler entered and said, "Mr. Gordon is here."

Schiller put down his magnifying glass and looked up. Gordon was dressed in a brown overcoat and wore a beret. He entered the dining room, still carrying a lingering chill. Seeing Schiller reading the newspaper, Gordon said, "Have you seen today's news? The Godfather is furious and won't allow Metropolis ships to dock at the eastern pier anymore."

"I was just reading that part," Schiller said with a slight push of his glasses. "I stayed up late writing my paper last night, so I missed your call this morning."

Gordon took off his overcoat while speaking, handing it to the butler. "It's not urgent. You know, my work has been slow lately. I just wanted to call and congratulate you on your new home. Oh, by the way, my gift is still in the car."

"No rush. Have you had breakfast? How about joining me for a meal?" Schiller suggested.

Gordon accepted the offer, taking a seat at the dining table. "I went to the precinct earlier this morning and had breakfast there. I've brought the materials you asked for," he said, placing a black briefcase on the table and retrieving some documents from it.

Schiller said, "Thank you. Even if you've already eaten, would you like a cup of hot milk?"

Gordon didn't refuse. He sat at the table and said, "At first, when you mentioned taking over Lord Bernard's manor, I was a bit surprised. After all, not many people these days appreciate these old-fashioned manors."

"Nowadays, the wealthy in Gotham prefer those modern vertical houses, preferably with a large garage to park their luxury cars."

Gordon looked around; the décor here was the epitome of English style, with silk curtains, knitted carpets, wooden furniture, and a stone fireplace in the corner, crackling with fire. Even from a distance, one could feel a warm atmosphere.

The dining room of the old manor wasn't particularly large, and the corridor was rather narrow. The walls still bore extremely vintage metal wall sconces, creating an atmosphere as if they had traveled back to the Victorian era.

Gordon withdrew his gaze and said, "But now, it seems this place suits you well."

"It's not that I have a particular fondness for English manors," Schiller replied. "It's just that if I bought a house in the south, it would be too far from my workplace at Gotham University. The terrible traffic in Gotham might cause me to miss all my morning classes."

Gordon picked up his cup and took a sip of milk. "Who isn't affected by it? Every time I go to the police station for work, I get stuck in that damn central roundabout. You know, I got the highest score in my driving class at the police training school!"

"This cursed place, everyone drives like maniacs, and they never think about the fact that slamming the accelerator to the floor when there are hundreds of cars moving simultaneously in a roundabout might lead to them getting blasted out by the airbags!"

Gordon expressed his frustration. "I could tell you were stuck in traffic earlier," Schiller chuckled.

"During my drive here, I saw at least ten potential F1 champions," Gordon said, sounding a bit dejected.

"Speaking of which, I heard you're getting married to your fiancée? Is she in Gotham now? When are you planning the wedding?" Schiller inquired.

Gordon cleared his throat and replied, "She's in the process of transferring her job. The handover at the company in Metropolis is quite troublesome. It will take at least a week. But it's good in a way. It gives me some time to buy the apartment I've set my eyes on and surprise her."

Schiller shook the newspaper in his hand, then spoke as he read, "Have you decided on what new wedding items you want? I have plenty of money now."

"Really? More than Wayne?" Gordon asked.

Schiller rolled his eyes and replied, "If I had more money than him, you wouldn't be seeing me here."

"To be honest, if I hadn't earned so much money, I wouldn't be thinking about getting engaged so soon. I might have been on vacation in Hawaii by now."

"I thought you worked year-round."

"Come on, I'd go crazy if I did that. I need a good body and a good mood to survive in this damn city for long."

Schiller took a cigar from the box on the table, cut it open, and handed it to Gordon. Gordon accepted it, and Schiller lit it with a match provided by a servant.

He took a drag from his own lit cigar and exhaled a puff of smoke, saying, "The Godfather has been in a bad mood lately. Some audacious folks are trying to cause trouble in his territory."

Gordon adjusted his posture, leaning comfortably on the armrest of his chair, and sighed, "Why did you ask me to investigate the population movement in Gotham? Is there something wrong with Metropolis? I heard those troublemakers who angered The Godfather came from Metropolis."

"If I told you this trouble followed me, would you be surprised?"

"Of course not," Gordon quickly denied.

"When I first met you, I had a feeling you were someone who could get into big trouble."

"Why?"

"You could call it a detective's intuition."

"Interesting. Can you elaborate?"

"I've seen a lot of criminals, and they are different...," Gordon straightened up, resting his wrists on the table, and continued, pletely different from each other. The dumb thieves and the real masterminds are worlds apart."

"I've never heard of a serial killer shouting at a judge, being disrespectful. They have a different air about them..."

"When you face Batman, I always feel like you two are looking in a mirror."

"Do you think I'm similar to him? Are you serious?"

"Some things are completely different, but in some ways, it's astonishingly similar."

Schiller looked at Gordon and said, "Keep this keen sense, and you'll become Gotham's savior."

Gordon tapped the ash of his cigar on the silver tray and said, "The Godfather is in a tough spot this time. Those who infiltrated seem to know what they're doing. They killed two of Falcone Family's bouncers. If The Godfather doesn't capture them quickly, he'll lose face in Gotham, which is worse than anything."

"Do you think the gangs will dare to challenge The Godfather so soon?" Schiller put down the newspaper and leaned back in his chair.

"It's hard to say. Don't underestimate them. Maroni is still alive, and he profited from the East District conflict. He might be planning to challenge The Godfather."

"He's asking for trouble." As the smoke from the cigar settled, Schiller extended his hand and flicked the cigar's ash with his fingertips, creating a fine dust that slowly drifted down.

"Not necessarily. The Godfather somehow crossed the line and had Victor, the former commissioner, killed. I heard he wanted to meddle at Arkham Hospital, but The Godfather kicked him out. Maroni can't stand that."

"The East District is restless. Maroni is eager to assert dominance over the forces he's absorbed. He needs a victory to consolidate the newly acquired power."

"If he dares to challenge The Godfather to establish dominance, Falcone will teach him a lesson." Schiller relaxed in his chair, tugging at his sweater's collar, looking quite at ease.

Gordon coughed a couple of times, and through the cigar's smoke, he squinted at the reflection on the silver tray. "Maroni is a formidable figure, and The Godfather is getting old."

"Do you favor him more?"

"No, I actually hope the old Godfather wins. As long as Falcone is around, Gotham won't descend into complete chaos. But once he's gone, who knows?"

Soon after, Gordon left. After all, he had work to attend to, and it was his peak season. Another month of hard work, and buying a villa wouldn't be a problem.

After Gordon's departure, Schiller leaned back in his chair, finishing the entire cigar. Smoke curled around his fingertips. He hadn't had such a relaxing moment in a long time.

In this crisis-ridden city, he couldn't even have a break for a single cigarette without ensured safety.

Before this, Schiller had never considered buying a house; he didn't need a home because he wasn't a Gotham native. He came from one of the world's safest and most orderly countries.

As the cigar burned, the cigarette smoke became several times richer than the fragrant cigarette, dispersing into various elusive abstract shapes, provoking countless associations. In that hallucinatory and sweet-smelling haze, Schiller began to reminisce.

He couldn't quite remember whether the emotion that surged within him when he first encountered a shooting incident in Chicago after leaving his homeland was shock or excitement. He only remembered that as the plane descended, his lifetime of memories, accompanied by weightlessness and oxygen deprivation, blurred into a fog.

As they wished, these memories dissipated with death, burying countless secrets forever. If there truly were gods in this world, Schiller thought, this great being capable of granting a second chance at life truly understood him.

Gotham was the sewer of the world's evil, and good people wouldn't be flushed into the sewer.

Schiller looked at the tip of the cigar between his fingertips, where the flame gradually extinguished. The cigarette smoke began to thin, and the patterns it had formed slowly dissipated.

He knew that the excitement that had filled his mind when he first regained consciousness and learned that this was Gotham City would ultimately destroy all his aspirations for a peaceful life. Or perhaps, his enjoyment of a mundane and ordinary daily life, filled with self-hypnosis, had been the delusion of a madman from beginning to end, until he saw Batman.

As the cigarette smoke drifted away, Schiller recalled the feeling when he first used his faint telepathic abilities to touch Batman's inner thoughts.

As Gordon had said, he felt like he was looking in a mirror.

So, he gave Batman the answer he wanted to hear, and almost eagerly, he put a period on the tedious life that had driven him to despair.

And now, he had finally become a citizen of Gotham, on the first birthday of his second life, in the winter of 1987.