"I shouldn't have saved him if I had known."
The death of Chato was indeed a great pity for him personally. Because Hong Fei had deliberately adopted a close-quarters stance from the very beginning, combining body control, iron armor interception, and other aspects to create a high-speed reaction suppression, Chato was always interrupted before he could erupt with fire, with Hong Fei destroying the eruption process under the pretext of inflicting greater pain on his body.
In layman's terms: spell interruption. As a result, Chato never had the opportunity to unleash his true combat power, let alone demonstrate his true potential.
Fusion Card: Spirit of Vengeance - Chato Santana. "Create and meticulously control ordinary fire and even Hellfire."
Ordinary fire also has extreme temperatures, while Hellfire is equivalent to leaping the ability directly to the level of high-tier magic. This Spirit of Vengeance is similar to the Spirit of Vengeance of Marvel's Ghost Rider, but the most intuitive difference between them is: the DC version of the Spirit of Vengeance does not have the function of soul judgment.
By killing Chato, what Hong Fei increased was not energy, but physical fitness. The judgment of good and evil by his own ability, as always, leaned towards "judging by deeds, not by heart."
If one were to judge by the heart, then looking around, a large swath of people would be bad in their psychology and thoughts. This corresponds to what Chato did before he was imprisoned. He was a street gang member, a gangster for many years, so he had basically done everything a gangster does. Therefore, even though he had turned over a new leaf and did not want to do bad things anymore, after his past conduct was judged by the law, there was no time or opportunity left for him to do good deeds.
In addition, before being locked into Belle Reve Prison, Chato had stayed in an ordinary prison, but because his tattoos were too ostentatious, he was targeted and even beaten by other prisoners. One time he suddenly erupted, and the violent fire directly burned the dozens of people surrounding him into ashes. This was the direct reason that led to him being locked into Belle Reve Prison.
Hong Fei did not deny that Chato had begun to turn toward the light, just as he himself would never truly deny in his heart that he was a bad person. However, Chato's past was indeed stained with bad records. Judging from his performance before his death, he indeed, as Hong Fei said, hoped that he could start over as a good person in his next life.
A good person is usually more terrifying than an ordinary bad person after turning evil. The determination and faith of a bad person after awakening are also absolutely very firm. One can only say: what a pity.
Heading to the airport, three hours later, landing in Gotham. This is a strange city. Walking out of the airport lobby, Hong Fei psychologically felt as if he had already smelled the ubiquitous scent of gunpowder smoke. Words like guns, violence, crime, and the like would not seem out of place on this land. The people living in this city are far stronger than the people of Marvel's New York.
Taking a taxi to his destination, Hong Fei did not forget to observe left and right along the way. During the day, the environment here is not much different from other cities; office workers are still bustling about. Only when passing by certain dark alley corners can one see some people in groups of three or five, or curled up alone, doing certain indescribable acts.
He saw the Gotham Police, who were far more relaxed than the New York Police. They didn't need to pace around patrolling; they just gathered in twos and threes around the police car chatting and joking, not paying much attention to passing pedestrians. They might not have wanted to. They might not have dared to. More likely, they'd already woven themselves into Gotham's underground networks, making it pointless to monitor potential criminal activity.
Even Master Hong would get a headache looking at this city. Restoring Gotham to its publicly known "normal" would demand more time and effort than anyone had the stomach for. At street level, criminals and gangs lurked everywhere—office workers by day, doctors, nurses, security guards, cops, all of them capable of transforming into killers after dark.
Like that Batman. Rich man in daylight, hero by night. And at the top? Corporations, the police department, city council—what looked like government on the surface was really the Court of Owls pulling strings. Batman loved calling Gotham his city. But right now? Gotham belonged to the owls. Nocturnal creatures, both of them.
Owls and bats had tangled histories anyway. Gotham's nights had been carved up between owls, bats, criminals, and victims. Strangely enough, the daytime here was terrifyingly normal—like a mentally ill serial killer, against all expectations, flashing you a "gentle" smile right before grabbing the murder weapon.
"If Gotham could talk," Hong Fei muttered, "it'd beg me for a nuke. Or demand I put it out of its misery, no matter how."
His right hand absently scratched at his left arm again—then froze. He looked down. Not the first time this had happened. Rolling up his sleeve revealed unbroken skin, just longer body hair than usual. The itch came from beneath, like something trying to push its way out. It reminded him of losing teeth as a kid—that maddening urge to poke at his gums with his tongue, even jam his fingers in to press down and trade pain for relief, consequences be damned.
Frowning, he glanced around and pinched his arm experimentally. The cabbie's voice snapped him back to the present.
"We're here."
Hong Fei turned. The driver's stare was oddly intent. He paid, stepped onto the curb, and stared up at the skyscrapers looming on either side. For a moment, he felt like he'd tumbled into a gaping abyss. That sensation never hit him anywhere else. Maybe this was Gotham's charm.
Inside the building, he took the elevator up. Dr. Harleen Quinzel's studio was his destination. Pausing by the glass door, Hong Fei adjusted his new suit, ran fingers through his hair, and tapped his hidden earpiece.
"Sir, I'm in position."
Arthur's voice steadied him.
He knocked.
"Come in."
The sensor door slid open. A woody fragrance curled into his nostrils—autumnal, out of place in spring. The studio was sparse, half-packed for a move. Dr. Quinzel, white coat and all, knelt on the floor sealing a cardboard box with tape.
Hearing footsteps, she turned her head back. There was a faint smile welcoming the visitor in her eyes, but her expression seemed not to have caught up, remaining calm and waveless. Two seconds later, she seemed to have discovered her problem as well, so she put down the tape in her hand and stood up, raising her hand to adjust her black-rimmed glasses, and only then squeezed out a few smiles.
The sharp click of high heels echoed through the room as she stepped forward, extending her hand from three meters away.
"Hello, welcome. Are you Mr. Hong?"
Her voice was crisp, professional.
"Yes, that's me."
Hong Fei nodded, meeting her halfway. Their hands clasped briefly, eyes locking for a split second before parting.
Harleen turned, spreading her arms in a gesture of apology.
"Sorry about the emptiness. I'm moving out soon, so things are a bit bare."
She paused, her tone shifting to reassurance.
"But counseling isn't the same as a hospital. I can guarantee the quality of my service won't suffer."
Hong Fei's gaze flicked to her figure, lingering on the high heels. He nodded.
"I believe you."
Curiosity edged his voice.
"Moving out? Where to?"
"Arkham Asylum," Harleen replied. "Though I'll occasionally be at Blackgate too. I've read your file. You're from Gotham, so you know those places."
"I do."
Arkham Asylum was infamous for housing deranged super-criminals, while Blackgate Prison held gang bosses who were anything but ordinary. Neither was a pleasant destination.
Harleen gestured toward the inner room.
"Shall we?"
The woody scent grew richer as they stepped inside. The floor, walls, and ceiling were adorned with wood-grain textures, creating a natural aesthetic. Yet the overpowering fragrance evoked the bleakness of late autumn. Something felt off—not with Hong Fei, but with Harleen herself.
Hong Fei settled into the single sofa, waiting quietly. Harleen returned moments later, drying her hands.
"Mr. Hong, sorry for the wait. We can start now."
"Sure."
She sat across from him, legs neatly crossed, his file resting on her lap.
"You've been receiving treatment for insomnia, correct?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"A year."
"Do you recall when it started?"
The exchange was straightforward. Guided by Arthur, Hong Fei navigated the questions flawlessly. Harleen's professionalism shone through her questioning, listening, and guidance. Meanwhile, Hong Fei followed Arthur's instructions, crafting micro-expressions and gestures to deceive her observations.
As the session progressed, Hong Fei studied Harleen closely. The more he observed, the more convinced he became—Arthur was right. Something was wrong with her.
After a long silence, Harleen looked up, her eyes widening with astonishment. Before Hong Fei could speak, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled.
"Mr. Hong, why don't we try a different approach?"
"Alright."
She stood, adjusting the sofa to a reclining position.
"Give me a moment."
She left the room briefly.
"Arthur, were there any issues with my answers?" Hong Fei murmured.
"None, sir. Your responses align perfectly with Dr. Harleen's current research focus—specifically, 'lack of empathy.'"
"You're not worried she'll call the police?"
"Dr. Harleen is professional. She won't disclose your mental state to anyone."
"Still, are you sure this is safe? Compared to the Joker, I'm nowhere near that level, right?"
"Sir, that's not exactly—" The lights snapped off, leaving only a soft, warm glow.
Harleen's voice cut through the dimness.
"Mr. Hong, can you adapt?"
Hong Fei squinted.
"I can."
She returned, sitting at the head of the sofa. Her fingers gently pressed against his temples, moving with deliberate slowness.