"Compared to Schiller, Jonathan looked almost saintly. Thin to the point of frailty, his arms and legs like sticks, a mop of unruly curls hanging over a pair of oversized black-rimmed glasses, with dark rings always under his eyes—he had the look of a shut-in who lived on instant noodles and no sunlight.
At Gotham University, Jonathan was the archetypal "good guy professor." Everyone knew his classes were easy, his grading lenient, and his lectures barely supervised. Skip a day, show up late, and all he'd do was push his glasses up and gesture silently toward an empty seat. No lectures, no scolding.
He was the kind of harmless bookworm students forgot about as they left the classroom.
On the other hand, Schiller looked like he had a VIP pass to Arkham Asylum.
Dark hair, grey eyes, always in black or charcoal coats and scarves, never a hint of color in his wardrobe. Gotham's endless rain meant he was rarely seen without his black umbrella. Put it all together, and he looked less like a psychology professor and more like the final villain waiting for his curtain call.
And unlike Jonathan, Schiller was merciless in class. Sharp lectures, brutal surprise quizzes, and a promise that at least thirty per cent of the class would fail. Students hated him.
Until someone leaked his résumé.
It spread like wildfire: multiple serial cases, horrifying murders, and investigations that made headlines across the country.
That flipped everything. Rumours sprouted overnight—some said he was the true killer behind the cases, others whispered he carried a curse, and wherever he went, death followed. A few creative souls even invented a tragic revenge backstory to explain his bloody career.
Within a week, Schiller had gone from "worst professor on campus" to "urban legend." In the cafeteria, the line always parted around him like he was radioactive. His classroom went dead silent. Homework was flawless and punctual. He was now the bogeyman of Gotham University, and the students obeyed him like sheep.
Meanwhile, Bruce still shadowed him constantly. Even by daylight, Schiller could feel his presence, confirmed by spider-sense. The boy tried again and again to plant bugs in his office, classroom, and even his dorm. Each time, caught. Each time, foiled.
It annoyed Schiller—but it also gave him an idea.
Clearly, young Batman wasn't letting go. And worse, Bruce had started working with Gordon. Together, they were closing in.
One night, Jonathan left campus early. Too early. Normally, he only crept out at dead of night. This time, he slipped away before midnight, clutching his bag like a thief.
Schiller sighed, grabbed his coat and umbrella, and followed.
He didn't want to play saviour. He wasn't out here to redeem Gotham. But if Jonathan kept going at this pace, Morrison District would be empty within a month, and Batman's origin story would collapse before it even began. Scarecrow was destined for Arkham anyway—might as well move the timeline forward.
And, Schiller admitted, he wanted to rattle Bruce. Teach the boy a lesson. Better he stumble now, while Joker was still just another circus clown, than later, when the cost of failure would be catastrophic.
Jonathan's trail wasn't hard to follow. He lacked training, lacked caution, and every move left crumbs behind.
Sure enough, Bruce and Gordon tracked him, too. Their hunt led them into the basement of a crumbling chapel, where they found Jonathan's "laboratory."
It was pathetic. More a sweatshop than a lab—dark, cramped, and reeking of chemicals.
Bruce studied a drainage pipe running along the wall, his expression grim.
"I think I know where the missing people went."
Gordon raised his gun, stepped closer. "I don't want to know. But for the record, I'll need to file the truth."
"Aqua regia," Bruce muttered. "Dissolves metal. And flesh."
"Stop." Gordon held up a hand. "That's enough detail."
They moved through the room. Then Gordon crouched, spotting something under a broken crate.
Leaves. Shredded, damp, clinging with mud.
"Red pine," Bruce said immediately. "See the needles?"
"Red pine?" Gordon frowned. "There's no pine in Gotham. Not with this climate."
"There is one place," Bruce said slowly. "The university. Its main walkway is lined with them. Imported."
Gordon examined the mud-stained fragments. "The rain worked against him. Got on his boots, left a trail here. He didn't bother to clean it off. Whoever this is, they came straight from the university."
"Which means the killer is a student."
"…Or a professor," Bruce said.
Gordon's eyes narrowed. "The man you threatened?"
"I didn't threaten him."
"You slashed his throat with a throwing knife." Gordon's voice was dry. "He bled all over his shirt. That scar will stay."
Bruce's jaw tightened.
"You're sympathising with a criminal?"
"He isn't a criminal. Not until he's tried."
"Trial…" Bruce scoffed.
Gordon didn't argue. Gotham's justice system was a joke, and both of them knew it. But still, he pressed: "An unarmed man, cut down with weapons you designed. That was intimidation, no matter how you frame it."
"Unarmed…" Bruce faltered.
The truth hit him. Schiller had no training, no combat skills, nothing to match Bruce physically. He could flatten the man with one punch. And yet, for days now, Bruce had been tangled in his web, powerless.
He remembered a saying he'd once heard on his travels: Words cut deeper than fists.
For the first time, he believed it.
Still, he clenched his jaw. The evidence pointed one way, and one way only. To Gotham University. To the professor.
Maybe it was time to put the mad doctor in a cell."