That afternoon, just as the paper promised, Gotham began to weep.
Fine rain fell like static on a dead channel.
Schiller sat in the study. The patter at the window was the closest thing this city had to peace.
Books were stacked crookedly on his desk. Shadows danced under the wall lamp. The ink bottle glinted. Glasses caught the firelight. He wrote invitations in ornate script—fountain pen dragging slowly across thick paper.
Custom is universal: when you move, you invite people over.
Even if they're the only ones who don't think you're a monster.
Schiller planned a small dinner for Saturday. Three guests. Maybe four, if Gordon brought his fiancée.
Rain thickened. Damp air slipped through the cracks. In the lamplight, mist curled down like ghosts settling onto wood. Along the sill, droplets formed—tiny, trembling lenses reflecting the hearth's glow like scattered rubies.
Dusk came. A colder fog painted the glass white.
Schiller set down the pen. Rubbed his wrist. Looked up.
From here, Gotham didn't look different. Just quieter.
More somber.
But with a rare, hushed ease—like a city pretending, for once, to be civilized.
The '80s moved more slowly than later decades. No pings. No alerts. No existential dread delivered via text.
He wrote all afternoon. Only stopped when the butler said dinner was ready.
Afterward, he dressed. Took an umbrella. Stepped out.
The rain had stopped. Air hung cold and wet in his lungs.
Puddles lay like liquid mercury—catching streetlights, fracturing them into gold shards. Like forgotten autumn leaves. His heel broke the surface.
Light shattered. Gone.
Custom is custom: you visit your neighbors.
The West Side wasn't rich like the Heights. But anyone who could afford a manor here was someone.
And anyone who could maintain one?
Had secrets.
One street over stood an opera house. No troupes came anymore. Now it was a private club for old money with nothing better to do.
When Schiller reached the steps, the doormen stirred late—like extras who'd missed their cue. They pulled the doors open just as he arrived.
He removed his hat. Walked in.
Outside: cold, wet night.
Inside: warmth. His glasses fogged instantly.
He took them off. Approached the front desk. Tapped once with a knuckle.
The head usher blinked awake. Sat up too fast.
"Reservation, sir?"
"I bought the Viscount's manor," Schiller said. "Put every drink on my tab tonight. God bless everyone."
The usher's face lit like a Christmas tree.
"Ah! So it's you. We heard yesterday—the great house has a new master."
He beamed. "Only a man of such refined taste could appreciate such a grand estate. Your generosity does you credit."
"And when the members come out," Schiller added, "they'll all know I'm delightfully approachable."
He slid a roll of bills under the bell.
The usher kept talking. "Don't mind the exterior, sir. This is Gotham's oldest theater. Age takes its toll. But the service—the service will be unmatched…"
On his way out, Schiller paused. Turned.
The building stood weathered, time-worn, like a monument no one visited anymore. Once, famous troupes played here. Actors rose and fell like tides.
Now it hosts bridge games and brandy nights.
Its cracked façade told a better story than any play ever did.
Few cared to listen.
Back at the manor, late.
He still had work.
Bless this era: no phones screaming. No DMs. No email chains from Stark asking why Peter hadn't filed his interdimensional tax forms.
He could read. Think. Write.
Then—a soft sound behind him.
Schiller didn't turn.
"Gordon came. Bought a gift."
A pause.
"You? An uninvited bat?"
Wall sconce light split Batman's shadow into jagged layers.
"I'll bring something tomorrow," he said.
"Gordon's getting married," Schiller said. "You won't give him a gift? Even in that ridiculous costume? He is your partner."
"I don't have anything to give."
"Then why are you here?"
"To congratulate you on the house."
Schiller didn't look up.
"I assume you've already mapped every room. And if I'm not mistaken, you've obtained the architectural blueprints."
Batman said nothing.
Which meant yes.
He never hid that part of himself from Schiller—the compulsive surveillance, the distrust of walls, the need to know where every exit is before he enters.
"Did you see today's paper?" Schiller asked. "Iron Curtain news?"
"It's not relevant."
"It's the world, Bruce."
"Gotham won't get better or worse because of it."
Silence.
Only the scratch of a pen on paper.
Then:
"The men from Metropolis are here for you."
"Let them come." Schiller capped the pen. "Or do you think Gotham fears outsiders?"
Batman stayed quiet.
"My guess," Schiller said, "you argued with your butler."
No answer.
"So I'll tell you about a man I knew. Late at night, he drove too fast through empty streets. Why? Because he fought with his 'butler.'"
"What did they argue about?"
"Whether he was ready to continue the family bloodline."
Silence.
"I suspect Alfred took your injury hard," Schiller said. "But he won't stop you. So he swallows it. You saw it hurt him. You don't want to quit. You don't want him broken."
"And so," Schiller added, "your genius fails you. You take the car out at midnight."
He glanced toward the driveway.
"Let me guess. The new Batmobile's engine is still warm. Parked right outside. You haven't even turned it off."
Batman shifted slightly.
"Is mind-reading real?" he asked.
"Don't ask stupid questions."
"If it is… can you tell me what Alfred is thinking?"
"You're blunter than that other man. At least he had the decency to be conflicted by love and duty."
"Love," Batman said, like it tasted bad. "The most unfathomable thing. I offered him the answer. He refused."
His eyes dropped to Schiller's left hand.
"The ring. You're married? Your wife didn't come to Gotham?"
"Seems you don't want that answer either."
Schiller rubbed his temple.
"Go stay with Gordon. Stay here, and you'll only get answers you don't want."
"This is a good house," Batman said. "Thirty-six rooms. You sleep in the east master bedroom. Leaves thirty-five."
"I'm not giving you a key."
"I don't need one."
"And when you don't come home… and Alfred comes here?"
Schiller sighed.
"Why do I fear him more than I fear you?"
"Explain."
"It's hard to explain. But yes—I'm worried about facing your butler."
Seeing Batman unmoved, Schiller gave in.
"If you're staying, I need parental permission. Call him. I want to hear him say yes."
Batman said nothing.
"The phone's downstairs. Dial. Or leave."
Eventually, he relented.
Where Alfred was concerned, Batman was always a child.
Like Stark around Pepper.
Like a cat afraid of a broom.
Schiller didn't mind the guest.
Didn't mind Batman casing the place.
It was inevitable.
If not at 18, then at 28.
If not 28, then 38.
Nothing in Gotham escaped the bat.
Schiller wasn't Joker.
He had no patience for hide-and-seek.
Near midnight, he finished his paper.
Windows black.
Only puddles reflected distant lights.
The butler announced a call.
Schiller picked up the receiver.
Batman stood in the darkest corner of the drawing room—motionless. Listening.
"Yes… That's correct. No trouble. I understand—they're always like this. I've seen my share…"
A pause.
"I see. That is serious… I have a full emergency kit… Oh? You're a remarkably conscientious butler…"
Schiller glanced up.
For no reason, Batman's chest tightened.
Like a kid waiting to hear how mad Dad is.
"All right. Don't worry… Of course. Tomorrow morning? I will. Good night."
Batman opened his mouth. Closed it.
"Alfred says you're injured," Schiller said, checking the clock. "He's treated you. It's late. He wants you in bed by nine. You're three hours past."
He held out a key.
"Take it. Go upstairs."
"I don't need a key."
He vanished.
Schiller shook his head. Went up anyway.
He already knew who Batman was.
So no, Bruce did not sleep in the suit.
When Schiller knocked, Bruce answered in pajamas.
Stern, masked Batman is just a jawline.
This was the whole face.
And it showed everything.
When told Alfred wanted him for breakfast, Bruce looked like a man who'd been sentenced twice.
"Best go back," Schiller said. "If Alfred shows up here, I won't help you. Teachers always side with parents."
Bruce hesitated.
So Schiller pressed:
"If I see Alfred tomorrow, we will discuss your academic record. You passed—barely. Rank: bottom third. Six assignments missed. Half the rest under word count. I kept them all."
He smiled.
"If you don't want Alfred reading those brain-rotting essays—sleep now. Up early. Back to Wayne Manor."
He shut the door. Hard.
Bruce lay awake.
Replaying the week.
Thanks to Schiller's twisted industry chain, gang wars had exploded.
Cops got heavy weapons.
Gangs responded with heavier ones.
Escalation moved faster than upgrades.
His suit—built for knives and pistols—couldn't stop machine guns.
A few nights ago, a round grazed his shoulder.
Length of a palm.
If it had hit the center, half his lung would've been pulp.
He made it back unconscious.
Woke mid-surgery—again.
Anesthetics never held.
Through the haze, he saw Alfred sitting alone beside the lamp.
That look.
He couldn't name it.
But it tore something loose in his chest.
Alfred was older.
Dimmer.
Not just from years.
From loss.
And now—almost losing Bruce too.
He realized, finally, his parents' deaths hadn't just broken him.
They'd broken Alfred, too.
And every night he put on the suit, he risked breaking him again.
After surgery, Alfred said nothing.
Made breakfast.
Like after every nightmare.
Bruce barely ate.
Even Batman is human.
He left after two bites.
First stop: Gordon.
But Gordon was already leaving—for Schiller's house.
Bruce followed and watched from the shadows as they talked.
He saw Schiller sit alone.
Finish a cigar.
Smoke curling like a thought.
That version of Schiller was unfamiliar.
Relaxed. Cold. Sharp.
Not the professor.
Not entirely.
Maybe the professor was the mask.
Like Bruce's.
Two madmen in a mad city.
Playing roles.
Teacher. Student.
Both are pretending to care about attendance policies and due dates.
Not Pride and Prejudice.
More like An Actor Prepares.
In this rotting theater called Gotham, on a tiny stage named Gotham University, Act One opened awkwardly, absurdly.
The first teacher he met—a stern, rule-following man who seemed allergic to drama—sat him down for a pointless chat… and gave him exactly what he wanted.
And when the curtain fell, the actors met backstage.
Strip away the roles.
No coincidence.
Madmen find madmen.
Freaks attract freaks.
Like meets like.
Drowsiness came.
In the half-light, the pendulum clock boomed through his dreams.
Outside, wind whispered.
Fire crackled.
And in the winter of Gotham, 1987,
The only sounds were silence
and the slow burn of a life that refused to be ordinary.
📝 FOOTNOTE
[Note: The West Side Neighborhood Watch recently issued a statement: "We do not condone vigilantism, but if you must hang upside-down from our gargoyles to scare off looters, please use biodegradable rope. Also, no spandex near the antique rose gardens. Sincerely, the Estates Preservation Committee."]
___________________________________________
Somewhere in Metropolis, Clark Kent sneezes during a press conference.
Lois Lane asks if he's coming down with something.
"No," he says, rubbing his nose. "Just the feeling that somewhere, a billionaire in a rubber suit is being scolded by a man in cashmere for missing curfew."