Gordon unbuttoned the top button of his collar, rolled his neck to relax his shoulders, and turned to look out the window at Gotham’s dark, rainy night—still as cold and damp as ever.
His colleagues greeted each other as they clocked out and left the precinct.
One of them said to Gordon, “Hey, man, you shouldn’t have taken that troublesome case.
Dozens of missing persons?
I’m afraid you’ll be digging through files until midnight again tonight.”
Gordon smiled helplessly and said, “Like you said, dozens of people have gone missing.
I have to take it seriously.”
After his colleagues left, Gordon brewed himself a cup of strong coffee.
He planned to fight through the night.
The missing persons cases in the Mawson District were highly suspicious.
In previous disappearances, no matter how covertly they were carried out, the bodies of some victims would eventually be found.
But out of the forty-six people missing from the Mawson District, not a single body had appeared on the streets of Gotham.
This was highly unusual.
Gotham had never been a city of law.
Gangs here were as thick as flies on a carcass.
No experienced mobster would waste effort disposing of a corpse; they would simply toss it down from a high-rise.
Even though they knew this wouldn’t fool the police, the police meant nothing in Gotham anyway.
Among the dozens of people missing from the Mawson District, there were all kinds of professions.
There was almost no common pattern among them, except that they were all permanent residents of the Mawson District.
At this time, Gordon was still very young.
He was just a low-ranking lieutenant in the police department, still a long way from commissioner.
This hot potato of a case, which no one else wanted to touch, had ultimately been taken over by the justice-minded Gordon.
Even though he knew it would highly likely be a thankless job, he still intended to give it his all and seek justice for those victims.
Just as he was staying up to organize the files and felt incredibly exhausted, he suddenly sensed movement behind him.
He spun around, and a massive shadow loomed over him.
Gordon immediately reached for his waist, but his handgun wasn’t there.
The man standing opposite him wore a black skin-tight suit with two pointed ears on his head and a black cape draped over his shoulders.
He was tall, blocking out almost all the overhead light.
Gordon said cautiously, “Who are you?
Why are you in the police station?”
“You can think of me as a vigilante.
I am investigating the disappearances in the Mawson District.
I noticed you went there today, and yesterday too.
You must be the detective in charge of this case.
I want the files on these missing persons.”
Just as Gordon was about to refuse, the man spoke again: “Of course, I also have some clues I can exchange with you, or we could crack this case together.”
A vigilante?
Gordon thought.
This was preposterous.
It was impossible for someone like that to exist in Gotham City, or else it wouldn’t be called the City of Sin.
Gordon’s first meeting with Batman was not pleasant.
The two confronted each other in the police station for a long time.
Apparently, the newly arrived Batman had not yet mastered the art of leaving before the conversation was finished.
He lingered with Gordon for quite a while until he finally grew impatient.
Batman realized he was truly unlucky.
Gotham City had countless derelict officers, yet he had happened upon the most diligent one.
Gordon was even willing to defend those files with his life.
Batman did not want to hurt him, so he had no better options.
Although he had ultimately saved the beggar, he had clearly reflected on his actions.
He began to be less overly ambitious and started with the simplest things.
This was the starting point of his superhero journey: the Mawson District.
Aside from the Gutter Gang, things were not peaceful here either.
The missing persons cases in the Mawson District had reached a very dangerous number.
The permanent population here was only a few hundred, yet more than forty had gone missing.
Batman was determined to use this case as the starting point of his debut.
And, of course, he had a suspect.
A university professor who didn’t sleep at night, sneaking into a district controlled by Gotham gangs, appearing without rhyme and vanishing without reason—could there be anyone more suspicious than him?
It wasn’t that Batman hadn’t thought of directly confronting Schiller.
But he knew he would likely struggle to best the professor in a battle of words.
His two previous clashes with Schiller had both ended in defeat.
He felt he had to secure sufficient evidence before bringing him to justice.
Tonight, Batman went to the Mawson District again.
He had been unable to get the missing persons files from Gordon, so he slipped into the home of one of the missing victims, hoping to find other clues inside the house.
Just as he climbed out of the window, he spotted Schiller’s figure once more.
Beneath a streetlight not far down the road, Schiller stood holding a black umbrella, gazing at the opposite wall.
Batman saw him.
He noticed Schiller was staring at the spot where the beggar used to stay.
However, there was no beggar there now.
Batman had sent him to Gotham’s best hospital and covered all his medical expenses.
Although both of the beggar’s feet had been amputated, he had at least survived.
Because the beggar had leaned against that wall for years, a dark stain had been left there.
Rainwater had formed a small puddle where he used to sit, reflecting the dim, yellow light of the streetlamp.
Meanwhile, Schiller stood across the street, staring at the puddle, his thoughts unknown.
The young Batman ultimately failed to contain himself.
He dropped down, appearing in front of Schiller.
“Good evening, Batman.
I remember you called yourself that last time, so I shall call you that as well.”
Batman’s eyes behind the cowl stared intently at him.
He said, “Don’t play games with me.
You know why I’m here.”
“You’re here to play the savior.
I know.
For instance, you rescued a poor beggar.”
“Are you behind the missing persons cases in the Mawson District?” Batman asked.
Schiller shook his head.
Batman said, “You are the only outsider here, and you have no motive to appear in this place.”
Schiller said, “Clearly, you already have an answer in your heart.
Why ask me?
You are always good at turning things you have already decided on into questions to ask others.”
“If you get an answer that pleases you, you are naturally satisfied.
But if you don’t get the answer you want, you will become furious.”
“If I say I am not the killer, you will feel furious.
But your anger does not stem from your sense of justice; it’s simply because I didn’t give you the answer you wanted.”
“You think you can predict everything, don’t you?” Schiller asked.
“I said, don’t play games with me.
You are the only suspect here…”
Before Schiller could finish speaking, a Batarang whizzed past the side of his neck.
He seemed to have underestimated his opponent slightly. Get faster updates on g.com.
Whether it was the current Batman or the Batman of the future, though they didn’t kill, they frequently beat criminals to a pulp and did not hesitate to break their legs before sending them to the hospital.
However, it was clear that this young Batman was still missing a step in his routine.
When Schiller remained silent for a moment, another Batarang flew past, grazing his neck.
This time, Schiller did not use his Spider-Sense to tilt his head out of the way; instead, he watched Batman quietly.
That Batarang left a cut on the side of his neck, and fresh blood seeped out.
Just then, a rapid succession of footsteps suddenly echoed from the end of the alley, and a voice shouted, “Stop!”
Batman turned to look at the end of the alley.
Under the streetlight, Gordon was aiming his handgun at the two of them.
“Hello, Detective Gordon,” Schiller said.
Detective Gordon held his gun up and walked over slowly.
He said, “Put your weapons down.
Don’t move.”
Schiller spread his hands, indicating he had no weapon.
Batman, on the other hand, tucked away the Batarang gripped in his hand.
As Gordon drew closer, he realized that Schiller’s neck was bleeding, the blood trickling down his shoulder and even soaking his shirt.
Schiller said, “Batman, you made a mistake.
You said I am the only suspect, but this detective clearly doesn’t think so.”
“Aside from me, you are another person who has no motive to be here.”
“I came to investigate the missing persons cases,” Batman said.
“So did I,” Schiller said.
“But clearly, you are no more noble than I am, because neither of us is a police officer.
I believe only Detective Gordon here has the legal authority to do this right now.”
“I will find the evidence,” Batman said.
“If you need evidence too, then what’s the difference between you and the police?” Schiller asked suddenly.
Batman was momentarily left speechless.
He had thought Schiller would ask him for evidence.
Batman also knew that even though Schiller had appeared in a place he shouldn’t have, this couldn’t be used as evidence to prove he had actually committed a crime.
Thus, he had made up his mind to find clues to prove Schiller was the killer.
But Schiller’s question hit the nail on the head.
Batman thought to himself that he had always believed the police were utterly useless because they had to go by the book and demand evidence for everything.
Even if a murder occurred right in front of them, if they didn’t see the killer themselves, they wouldn’t arrest the prime suspect.
That was how it had been when his parents died.
No police officer had given a proper explanation, and no one had been brought to justice.
His parents were dead, yet no one had paid the price.
He thought: *If I need evidence too, why didn’t I just join the Gotham City Police Department and become a cop?*
*But if I don’t need evidence and just arrest whoever I please, then what’s the difference between me and a criminal?*
Batman regretted it.
He shouldn’t have stepped forward to speak with Schiller.
Every conversation with Schiller shook him deeply.
This kind of psychological and ideological shaking was the most terrifying.
Every time he met Schiller, Batman had to return and ponder deeply for at least two or three days to understand the question raised, find his own answer, and reinforce his conviction before he could go out and operate again.
He felt this was no different from taking a college class.
The teacher posed a question, the student thought about it on their own and wrote an essay, and at the next meeting, in addition to checking the homework, new questions would be waiting for him—one question after another, as if there would never be an end.
Meanwhile, Schiller was also complaining in his heart.
This Jonathan was really something.
After Schiller stole most of the fear gas, it hadn’t slowed down his research at all.
Instead, it had made him even more crazed, kidnapping test subjects left and right, leaving Schiller unable to sleep at night because he had to clean up this mess.