Knives tapped plates. Wine fizzed like it had something to say.
Gordon raised his glass first.
"To the new homeowner."
Bruce, Harvey, Schiller, Victor—glasses up.
Clink.
Schiller sipped. Red wine, sharp as a rumor. It burned going down, then warmed his chest like betrayal disguised as comfort.
Firelight danced on the crystal—like flames trapped behind glass.
"You should've bought a house years ago," Harvey said. "No one should live in faculty housing past tenure. No coffee machine. I stayed two nights, and my spine hasn't forgiven me."
"I thought it was fine," Victor said. "Gotham University's facilities are decent. Not this good," he added, glancing around, "but functional."
"Room for you anytime," Schiller said, lifting his glass.
Bruce carved into his steak. "You should save rooms for all of us. I kept space for each of you at Wayne Manor."
"That's more than enough," Schiller said.
"God bless me if I ever afford a place like this," Gordon said, chewing sausage. "But if I do, you're all getting guest suites."
"How's the savings?" Harvey asked.
"Down a bit," Gordon wiped his mouth. "But still moving. Falcone's quiet. The others are twitchy. Feels like calm before a storm."
"When you're close," Schiller said, tapping fork to knife, "let me know."
"Oh?"
"I could help pick. I read every real estate report in Gotham before buying. Even the ones about abandoned subway tunnels."
Gordon grinned. "Perfect. I'm torn between Pelican Gardens and Jasmine Tail Alley. Leaning toward Jasmine. But if we have a kid…" He gestured vaguely. "No nursery."
Harvey leaned in. "What about Ninth Avenue? Be my neighbor."
"Too far," Gordon said. "And isn't it all bachelors there? Like you?"
Schiller let out a quiet pfft.
Gordon blinked. "What?"
"You've been busy," Schiller said. "Didn't hear the news."
"What news?"
He looked at Harvey. "Wait—he's not single anymore, is he?"
Victor smiled. "You two made it official? You'd better keep it low-key on campus. Half the women want him. Half the men want her."
"Last week," Harvey said, shrugging. "Seemed like time."
Bruce stared. "Damn. Fast work. I thought you were just another professor who dated his syllabus."
Schiller tapped his fork against the plate again.
"I hope that wasn't aimed at me. You think you're here because you got a 69 on the final?"
Laughter rolled through the room. Fire crackled. Silverware flashed—reflections overlapping, glowing like a halo around the table.
After dinner, they moved to the couches.
Harvey, half-drunk, slumped back.
"So what is this? Our last bachelor night? Gordon's getting married. We should enjoy it while we can…"
"I'm leaving," Victor said, already in coat and hat.
"Take the bag by the door," Schiller said. "Two bottles of Cuban rum and a box of cigars."
Victor peeked inside. "Spoiling me. Why?"
"I remember you said it was your anniversary."
"Oh." Bruce sat up. "We didn't know! Professor Fries, I'll send a gift tomorrow."
"No need," Victor said. "Just… thanks for not treating it like a funeral."
He meant it.
Most people reacted to "my wife is frozen in a cryo-pod" with stunned silence or awkward pats.
At best: She's in a better place.
At worst: When are you moving on?
But these friends?
They remembered her birthday.
Asked how she was doing.
Talked about her like she was just in the next room.
It didn't fix anything.
But it made the waiting feel less like madness.
After Victor left, Gordon followed.
Bruce lounged on the couch, eyes closed.
"See? Everyone's busy. Only us—the useless ones—get to stay drunk all night."
"Only you," Schiller said. "I have edits. Harvey has court filings. You're the only man in history whose wealth is inversely proportional to brain activity."
Bruce waved a hand. Drunk silence.
Harvey pulled on his coat. "I'll get him home before he dies of boredom."
"His phone's in his pocket," Schiller said. "Call Alfred. Helicopter. No driving."
"In Gotham, drunk driving's barely a misdemeanor," Bruce mumbled. "I can still do 120…"
"Sure, champ," Harvey said, hauling him up. "Tell the judge you're training for Le Mans."
When they were gone, Schiller walked to the phone. Dialed.
Lights clicked off one by one.
The manor went dark.
Gotham swallowed it whole.
—
The next morning, Principal Smith stood in his office, arms crossed.
"Professor Rodriguez is hospitalized? …Fine. Send someone from the department to visit. On behalf of the university."
That afternoon, Schiller lay in a private suite at Gotham Central Hospital.
Anna handed him flowers.
"Oh, thank you. Truly—"
Gordon burst in.
Saw Anna. Paused.
She left.
He scanned the room—single occupancy, marble accents, minibar.
Schiller sat up. Pale? Maybe. Sweating? No. Hurt? Didn't look like it.
"You got attacked last night," Gordon said. "If I hadn't left early—"
Schiller smiled.
Like a man who'd planned the weather.
"You're smiling?" Gordon snapped. "You knew those Metropolis guys were coming. You let them hit you? Where? Organs? Spine? Did they take a kidney?"
He paced.
"And where was Ba... Bruce? If he'd stayed—"
"He'd be in therapy," Schiller said. "Alfred would've disowned him."
Gordon narrowed his eyes. "Are you even hurt?"
He checked his watch.
"We left after midnight. It's 7:15. You heal that fast now? Did they invent instant surgery?"
Schiller waved.
Then threw back the covers.
Stood.
Stretched.
Yawned.
Gordon froze.
"No scars. No limp. You're fine."
He pointed. "You faked it."
"I'm touched," Schiller said. "Twenty minutes from the precinct to here. Did you install a jet engine on that truck?"
"I aced EVOC," Gordon muttered.
"That's the point?"
Gordon threw his hands up. "Why fake being hurt? Finally sick of students?"
"Not really. Well. A little."
Schiller poured water. "But no."
"How'd you think I found out?" Gordon said. "The station was in chaos this morning. Arkham's shut down. No chief physician. Grown cops were crying. One tried to file a missing persons report on the system."
Schiller nodded. "It's not just the police mourning."
Gordon frowned.
"The mob won't sit on their hands. They built businesses around that hospital."
"Exactly. You're saving for an apartment. They're fighting over empires."
"So why fake injury? What's the play?"
Schiller tilted his head.
"I'm hurt. Arkham's closed. Their golden goose is dead. So—why am I hurt?"
Gordon stopped.
Then:
"Wait. You're blaming the Metropolis crew."
He started pacing. "You want the mobs to go after them. Make them think they caused the shutdown. And once the dons decide they're responsible—"
"They'll dig them out," Schiller said. "Burn them down."
Gordon exhaled.
"It makes sense. They've invested too much to walk away. This is the final bake. They won't stop. They'll find out who's to blame. Cops know. Dons will know."
"But what if they don't come for the outsiders?" Gordon pressed. "What if they just replace you?"
"They could," Schiller said. "But they don't know the system is mine."
A pause.
"Falcone does."
He smiled.
"That's all that matters."
📝 FOOTNOTE
[Note: The Gotham Central Hospital PR team has issued a statement: "While we appreciate the increased foot traffic from concerned citizens, please refrain from bringing bouquets larger than 18 inches. Also, no proposals in Room 312—it's reserved for fake patients with real schemes."]
___________________
Le Mans = the 24 Hours of Le Mans, one of the world's most famous endurance car races in France. Drivers there are professionals trained to handle extreme speeds for long periods.
_______________________
Years later, in the quiet of his Star City office, Oliver Queen scrolled through an archived dossier.
Subject: Schiller, R. — Status: Healthy, Hospitalized.
He lingered on the line for a long ten seconds, the weight of hindsight pressing in. Then, with a dry shake of his head, he closed the file and dismissed it to digital trash.
"Even I wouldn't fake an injury that hard," he muttered, half to himself, half to the ghosts of old cases.