"After leaving the chapel basement, both Gordon and Batman fell silent. That place had swallowed dozens of lives in a single month. Gotham was always dark, but when the darkness was laid bare so directly, only those with the strongest willpower could withstand the weight of it.
Emotions churned in both their hearts. This was Batman's first case, and the boundless evil he now faced made him realize—just as Schiller had warned—that perhaps he really wasn't ready. Raw strength alone might let him survive, but saving the city? That would take far more.
Rounding a corner, Batman spotted Schiller again. The professor stood on a second-floor balcony, black umbrella in hand, looking down at the spot where the beggar once huddled.
Batman felt absurdity twist into rage. This man—this killer of dozens—still dared to stand there, indifferent to life, unmoved by blood.
In Gordon's startled gaze, Batman leapt up the wall and landed on the balcony.
"Your judgment is coming, murderer."
"Have you found the evidence you were looking for?" Schiller asked.
"I have. Enough to condemn you."
Schiller laughed lightly. "So laughable. Still talking about judgment. Gotham PD should pin a medal on you—you'd make a model citizen, a perfect little cop." His tone grew sharper. "If only there'd been such a cop when your parents died, hm? Someone who found the evidence, judged the killer. Isn't that what you long for?"
"You don't trust the police or the courts, yet you still cling to evidence, still dream of justice through trial. Don't you see the contradiction? You want to prove me guilty under law, but your own actions—mask, weapon, vigilantism—are crimes. If I am to be judged, so will you. Aren't you just proving guilt with guilt?"
His voice rose and fell like a sermon. "You think yourself above it all, taking vengeance into your own hands. But in the end, you're still shackled, still a creature of this system. You talk of evidence. You talk of a trial. Until you cast those chains off, you'll never reach the justice you seek."
Then, more quietly, his eyes locked on Batman's:
"Bruce. The law is not justice. You are."
"Gotham's law couldn't save your parents—just as it couldn't save the dozens lost tonight. Keep clinging to that illusion, and you will never become the Batman."
Batman's hands shook. His grip on the batarang was so tight that veins bulged; his whole body trembled with fury. Schiller had struck deep, naming the contradiction Batman feared most. Gotham's law had failed. Yet he, the avenger, was still bound to it.
"You want me to enact my own justice?" Batman's voice cracked. He drew a pistol and levelled it at Schiller's forehead.
Of course, he had a gun. In Gotham, without one, survival itself was unlikely.
But Schiller remained calm. "You still haven't answered. What evidence?"
"The crate in the chapel basement," Batman said. "Dirt and pine needles, from the red pines only found on Gotham University's grounds. That was your mistake."
"And that proves what? That I'm the killer?" Schiller scoffed. "Your reasoning: I lurk suspiciously on Morrison Street. You find university pine leaves near the scene. I work at a university. Therefore I am the killer. How thorough."
His dismissive tone made Batman's rage peak. Finger tightening on the trigger—
"Stop! Drop the gun!" Gordon's shout cut the moment apart.
Schiller tossed a small USB drive at their feet. "Evidence, hm? Very conclusive. The killer must be tied to the university, and since I'm a professor, I fit. But tell me, Bruce—wasn't that your wish the night your parents died? To have someone shoot the killer on the spot. Case closed. Evidence conclusive."
"Don't you dare bring up my parents," Batman's voice wavered.
"You're blinded by parallels," Schiller said softly. "But you've missed the differences. No chemistry training. Too experienced to leave footprints. And more importantly…" He gestured to the drive. "My evidence is better than yours."
Batman's anger faltered. Sweat soaked his shirt despite the cold. Warily, he plugged the USB into his wrist computer. A projection flickered alive.
The footage showed a lanky figure in a plaid shirt crouched on an air-conditioning unit, inserting a hose through a window. Inside, the roomful of people collapsed one by one. The man slipped inside, then emerged dragging heavy cases, loading them on a cart. The bodies were gone.
Batman stiffened. He'd inspired this. Schiller had filmed Jonathan directly, hidden across the street, while the so-called scientist worked obliviously.
Gordon swore. "That explains it! All the missing lived in low-floor units—with balconies. Easy targets."
He glared at Batman. "And you—you nearly shot him! Do you realize you almost killed an innocent man?!"
Batman stared at the projection. The killer's frame was spindly, barely five-seven and sixty kilos at best. Nothing like Schiller's tall, broad build.
"Professor Crane's a pushover, isn't he?" Schiller's voice was mocking. "He doesn't fail students, smiles at everyone. Easy to believe he's harmless. While I grade hard, demand tests, and threaten half the class with failing. Of course, I'm the murderer."
"Enough…" Batman's voice trembled.
The memory of the beggar returned—the soiled wall, the shame flooding him. And Gordon's scorn burned worse.
"I don't care what feud you two have," Gordon snapped. "But you—" he jabbed a finger at Batman—"almost killed a good man. If you've got personal grudges, settle them elsewhere. Don't obstruct police work. Gotham's cops are drowning already."
He held out a hand. "Hand over the USB. Professor, come with me—we'll need your statement."
Batman hesitated, then silently surrendered the drive. His grand "first case" felt like a farce. The man he'd branded a killer had delivered the key evidence instead.
As Gordon led Schiller away, Batman lingered in the rain. "…I'm sorry, professor," he whispered.
Schiller froze mid-step. Had he heard right? Did Batman just apologise?
He turned, incredulous. The Dark Knight stood cloaked in shadow, a single beam of light on his mask. Lips pressed tight, voice low but clear.
Batman had apologised.
But Batman never apologised. He was Batman. Batman was always right.
Schiller thought of the comics: the paranoia, the contingency plans against allies, the relentless distrust. Editors had woven that darkness into him, making him unforgettable. And Schiller had let it color his own bias.
He expected this Batman to be the same: cold, calculating, never wrong. Never sorry. But the truth was different.
Schiller realised then—he wasn't simply a teacher guiding a reckless student. He was also guilty of prejudice. Batman had his arrogance; Schiller had his bias.
And tonight, both learned a lesson.
Batman now knew he was fallible. That arrogance and bias could blind him, lead him to nearly murder an innocent man. The scar on Schiller's neck from the earlier batarang would never fade—and Batman knew it.
That guilt seared into him. If justice relied only on his judgment, then a single mistake could damn him forever. If he killed in anger, he would be worse than the man who shot his parents.
So he made a vow. From this night on, no matter the crime, no matter the monster, he would never kill.
Because Batman could not risk Gotham's hope crumbling under his guilt.
Ironically, it was Schiller's meddling that planted the seed. Schiller had just filled in one of Batman's most famous rules: the vow never to kill.
Later, Schiller would curse himself a thousand times, wishing Batman would snap a villain's neck just once, stop them from escaping Arkham again and again.
But all of it began tonight. And it was his own damn fault."