In Gotham City, on a dusky but warm morning, Schiller set down his coffee cup and immediately heard the familiar clicking of Anna's high heels. A moment later, she entered, golden hair swaying, face darkened with irritation.
"The slackers at the freshman reporting office decided to take a day off," she grumbled. "So guess what—you get a day off too."
"Come here, at least have this coffee," Schiller offered.
"You'll never get me with that!" Anna snapped before striding off.
Schiller chuckled, happily took another sip from his cup, and stepped outside. The gloomy skies of Gotham stretched over him, heavy and shadowed as always. This marked only his fifth day in the city.
In his previous life, Schiller had been a psychologist. After a plane crash, he somehow found himself here in Gotham—a city notorious for its crime and chaos. Fortunately, he wasn't a hero or a villain, just a university professor. A stable, quiet life was enough for him.
As he strolled toward the office, a familiar sound rang in his mind—ding dong.
"Peter Parker has sent a chat request."
"What's up, Peter?" Schiller replied inwardly.
Excited words immediately filled his head.
"Hey! I'm starting my internship at Oscorp tomorrow! Can you believe it? It's such a rare chance for me! And Gwen… well… she's going too. We'll be together! Talking about genome helices, big machines—it'll be awesome!"
Schiller sighed silently. No girl wants to geek out over gene helices, you little spider. Wake up.
Since arriving here, Schiller had gained a strange "Chat System," which allowed him to communicate with Marvel characters. Peter was the first he unlocked, and for the last four days, the boy talked nonstop about Gwen—how he liked her, how he wanted to ask her out but didn't dare. Schiller, half mentor and half babysitter, offered occasional encouragement.
Soon, the reporting hall came into view, and Schiller sat down to register the new students. His task was simple—write down their names and dorm assignments.
"Next!" Schiller called without looking up.
A boy stepped forward and sat down.
"Name?"
"Bruce Wayne."
Schiller paused. He scribbled "Room 306, Building 2, Boys' Dorm" on the form, then froze. Slowly, he looked up. Blue eyes, black hair, handsome face—it was unmistakable.
"Wayne?"
"Indeed. Bruce Wayne."
Schiller quickly shoved the paper into his hands. "Room 306, Building 2. Next!"
Bruce blinked, surprised by his brusque tone. "Which department are you a professor in?"
"Psychology," Schiller said flatly. "Don't take my class, boy."
Bruce narrowed his eyes, intrigued. Most people either clung to him or fawned over his family name. But this professor? He seemed not only indifferent… but annoyed. That was new.
Schiller, on the other hand, wanted to curse. Batman, in college?! Is that why there's been no Bat-Signal these days? Why on earth did I end up a teacher at the exact same time Batman starts school?!
He had no desire to meddle in Gotham's chaos. He only wanted a paycheck and a peaceful life. No Joker broadcasts, no rooftop fights, no Bat-media headlines. Just a calm existence. Yet fate clearly had other plans.
Eventually, Bruce left, silent but thoughtful. Schiller finished his duties and prepared to head home, only to realize he'd left his keys in the office. On his way back, he ran into a tall, thin professor.
"Hey, Jonathan, here to pick something up too?"
Jonathan nodded. "And you forgot your keys again?"
"Yeah. Anna rushed me this morning. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
As they passed each other, Schiller felt a chill run down his spine. Jonathan… Jonathan Crane.
The future Scarecrow.
While Jonathan left calmly, Schiller's heart pounded. Crane hadn't yet become the villain Gotham feared. For now, he was only a respected academic in psychology. But Schiller knew exactly who—and what—he would become.
The stage curtain of Gotham is about to rise, Schiller thought grimly. And I'm just a helpless scholar. No powers, no combat skills. Just pure theory. The reality gnawed at him—here, even nameless thugs with a gun could kill him without effort.
The very next morning, those anxieties turned into reality. Sitting in his campus psychology clinic with a fresh cup of coffee, Schiller heard a knock on the door.
"Professor Schiller, may I come in?"
He almost groaned aloud. A psychology clinic in Gotham? I only sit here to slack off—all paid vacation! Which idiot actually came for counseling?
But when the door opened, he nearly spat his coffee out.
Bruce Wayne stood there.
Schiller could only force out, "Please, have a seat. Do you have any issues you'd like to discuss?"
Bruce smiled. "Do I need a problem to talk? Can't I just come in for a chat?" His casual arrogance was undeniable.
Suppressing the urge to throw him out, Schiller adjusted his glasses. "This clinic is for psychology counseling. If you don't have a question, you may leave."
Even with such a dull, perfunctory reply, Bruce leaned forward with interest. "Alright then, here's a question. What do you think is the meaning of life?"
Schiller froze. Of all people, Batman is asking me this? He won't leave me alone if I answer wrong.
He quickly pulled up the Chat System in his mind. He still had one random connection left. Frantically, he typed:
A brat swearing vengeance on criminals after losing both parents is now asking me about the meaning of life. I just want him gone! How do I answer? Urgent!
A reply soon came:
"As a teacher, you should treat this unfortunate child with patience and counsel him from two perspectives…"
Schiller nearly collapsed. What kind of sainted answer is this?! This is Batman! If I tell him to cheer up, I'll be buried before long.
Then he noticed the name: Charles Xavier. Professor X. No wonder.
Curiously, Schiller tapped Charles' avatar. A message popped up:
"The first chat allows you to copy one low-level ability. Would you like to proceed?"
"Yes."
"Telepathy (low-level) acquired."
Suddenly, waves of emotions flooded Schiller's mind—disorganized feelings, whispers, echoes. He couldn't read thoughts directly, but he could now sense emotional turmoil.
Focusing on Bruce, Schiller noticed his confusion was only a mask. Beneath it burned hatred and obsession. This was not the carefree young master of the Wayne family. This was the boy already drowning in vengeance, trying to distract himself with the role of "Bruce Wayne, student."
Bruce, sensing Schiller's piercing gray eyes on him, shifted uncomfortably. His instincts screamed that this professor could see right through him.
At last, Schiller said calmly, "Maybe you've been waiting for this answer. If it means you'll stop bothering me after, I'll give it to you."
Bruce leaned forward. "And what is it?"
Schiller locked eyes with him. "The meaning of life… is revenge."
Bruce's expression darkened instantly, his face cold as Gotham's skies.
Unmoved, Schiller pushed up his glasses and asked flatly, "Are you satisfied, Mr. Wayne?"
P.S. In this chapter, we wanted to capture Schiller's helpless humor as he finds himself pushed into Gotham's stage against his will—caught between Peter's teenage romance, Bruce's obsession with vengeance, and even early glimpses of Gotham's future rogues. It's half comedy, half dread, setting up the clash between an ordinary man and the extraordinary figures fated to define Gotham.