Schiller didn't even have to roll over to know where he was when he woke up. The smell of rust in the air, the eternally overcast sky outside the window—yep. Back in "good old wholesome" Gotham City.
And time hadn't budged an inch.
The calendar on his nightstand confirmed it: the morning after he'd jumped to Marvel-land, Gotham's clock had been on pause. Only when he returned did it start ticking again.
Schiller sighed. For a moment, he couldn't decide which was worse: Gotham, or New York—the cosmic crossroads of Marvel insanity.
Honestly? New York was comfortable, but Gotham was "home." At least for now, as it wasn't playing cosmic mode. He had zero tools for dealing with purple-chinned grape tyrants.
He pulled on the day's uniform—shirt, vest, tie, jacket. Gotham University required professors to wear formal attire. Sometimes he swapped the suit styles, sometimes added a trench coat.
September was merciful. Mild air off the coast, not yet freezing.
The moment he stepped in, though, his day soured. Standing there, like fate's bad joke, was Bruce Wayne.
Schiller immediately turned heel.
"Professor! Wait!" Bruce jogged after him, calling, "I have some questions—psychology questions! Please, just a moment!"
Damn it. There were other faculty around; Schiller couldn't blow him off without raising eyebrows. He forced a smile. "Fine, fine, I'm not deaf, Mr. Wayne. Let's talk in the counseling office."
Inside, Bruce didn't sit. Instead, he brewed coffee himself, set the steaming mug in front of Schiller, and recited:
"Schiller Andel Rodríguez. World-renowned criminal psychologist. Four doctorates in related fields. Consulted on the Gotham City Butcher Case, the Crimson-Gloved Murders in Washington DC, the Seaside Dismemberment… And most recently, left midway through the Metropolis deputy mayor trial four months ago, then accepted a professorship at Gotham University."
He stared at Schiller with an unblinking gaze. "Professor Schiller—why did you come to Gotham?"
Schiller nearly choked. Good god. The original owner's résumé reads like a straight ticket to Arkham. Joker would think you're overqualified.
One grisly case would be terrifying enough. But a list of them? No wonder Bruce's eyes were like storm clouds.
Keeping his face blank, Schiller sipped his coffee. "Gotham's a fine place."
"Oh? The city with the highest crime rate in America?"
"That's not the point."
Bruce arched a brow.
"Metropolis doesn't look dangerous to you, does it? But I can tell you, it is. More dangerous than you think."
Bruce frowned.
"I've made enemies," Schiller continued calmly. "Too many. Only Gotham is… safe."
"Safe?"
"Only criminals can deal with criminals."
That line made Bruce still. Only criminals can deal with criminals. The words reverberated in his head.
But before he could press, Schiller leaned back. "Enough. Let's change the subject."
And then, for a heartbeat, Bruce's mask slipped. He wasn't the arrogant playboy anymore. He was Batman—or rather, the man who would be Batman: a genius obsessive, balanced on the razor-thin line between hero and lunatic.
"If you want more from me," Schiller said, voice quiet, "you'll have to pay a price."
"What do you want?" Bruce asked.
"Something you can't give yet."
"Then someday."
"Someday, certainly."
Bruce's face reset, unreadable. Then: "Professor… pity. There's a little something extra in your coffee. A nanovirus of my own design—"
"Bruce." Schiller didn't even flinch. "Dishonesty won't get you further. That trick may work for candy. Not here."
Bruce narrowed his eyes. "So I walk away empty-handed?"
"Not necessarily. Show me effort. Ace the final exam. Prove you want to learn. Then come back."
"I won't waste time," Bruce muttered.
"You're not a teacher yet, Bruce. You're still a student."
"I've studied everything the world has to offer. Hundreds of combat skills. Criminology. Counter-surveillance—"
"Except Gotham," Schiller cut in. "You haven't learned Gotham yet."
Bruce went silent. And in that silence, Schiller saw it clearly. Bruce wasn't yet the Dark Knight. He had the hunger for vengeance, the lust for justice, the shadow inside him—but he didn't understand Gotham. Not yet.
Batman would become the man with no weaknesses, the mortal who outwitted gods. But only after donning the Mask, after surrendering himself to Gotham's darkness. Right now? Bruce still had cracks.
And Schiller, perversely, felt relieved. If he'd faced the real Batman, the shadow-wreathed terror of Gotham nights, none of his tricks would've mattered. Batman wasn't Superman. He wasn't a "hero." He was an outlaw, pure and simple.
After Bruce left, Schiller stood by the window a long while. Batman was coming. Sooner than anyone thought.
⸻
The next day was the first freshman lecture. Schiller's campaign to keep Bruce out of psychology had failed. The kid sat right there in his classroom, a quiet reminder that Gotham life was about to get messy.
Stranger still, Bruce limped in on an injured leg.
Wealthiest heir in Gotham, and he still manages to get himself beaten up? What the hell did you do, kid?
After class, Schiller ignored Bruce's obvious "we should talk" look. He packed up at record speed and slipped into the student sea. He had other plans tonight.
Because Gotham by night wasn't just dangerous. It was hell itself.
He was tailing Jonathan Crane.
Crane had been twisted since adolescence. Even before becoming Scarecrow, he'd started experimenting with fear toxin.
Schiller wasn't here to stop him. He wanted a sample for self-defense. In a city like this, chemistry beats fists every time.
That night, Gotham drowned in black rain. The air reeked of oil. Schiller, in a long coat, black umbrella overhead, tracked Crane's stash beneath an abandoned church. If he waited for Crane to leave, he could slip inside.
Suddenly, his heart jolted. A flash of vision—projectiles slicing through the rain. Instinct flared. He snapped his umbrella open—
Clang!
Two batarangs clattered harmlessly off the fabric. Spider-Sense had saved his life.
Lowering the umbrella, Schiller's face was cold, nothing like his mild professor façade. He'd nearly died.
At the alley's end, a figure in crude bat-armor froze. His experimental batarangs, his ambush—both neutralized, as if his target had known beforehand.
The umbrella lowered. The man revealed was unmistakable. Schiller.
But not the Schiller Bruce knew. This one radiated something darker, something close to the resume Bruce had read—a man addicted to the abyss of criminal minds.
Schiller exhaled. "You realize what would've happened if I hadn't blocked that?"
"The batarang would've stopped thirty centimeters from your face," Batman rasped through a voice modulator.
The suit was raw, unfinished—no cape, no belt. His weapons are clumsy. Gotham is on "hard mode," and Bruce is still a rookie.
"Careful, Mister Bat," Schiller said. "Unlike your mansion rooftops, Morris District has no safety rails. Another slip, and your ribs won't recover."
"…How did you know?" Batman asked.
"You're a rookie. Your painkillers are premium stuff. Not slum trash. And—" Schiller's eyes flicked to his jawline. "Nobody in this district keeps their shave that neat."
Batman stiffened. "…Who are you?"
Schiller popped the umbrella open again. "Go home, rich boy. Not every question gets answered. I'm not your tutorial NPC."
He walked off into the rain.
Batman stood, silent, before limping into another alley. There, a beggar shivered in the downpour. Bruce peeled off a wad of bills, pressed them into her hands.
Then—footsteps behind him. A voice like ice.
"That's why I said you don't understand Gotham, Bruce."
He spun. Schiller stood at the corner, eyes gleaming. He walked over, handed his umbrella to the beggar. She opened it, shielding herself from the rain. Then, trembling, she handed the cash back to Batman.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because this is Water Gutter turf. If they learn she had that kind of money, her body will be in the sewers tomorrow."
Bruce blinked. "That kind of money? Thirty-seven dollars?"
"Yes." Schiller's gaze slid to the endless black street. "That's Gotham."
He turned, disappearing into the storm.
"Welcome to Gotham."