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In the afternoon, just as the weather forecast in the newspaper had predicted, Gotham was enveloped in a gentle rain.

Schiller sat in the study at Manor, and the sound of rain outside the window acted as the perfect lullaby.

Amidst the cluttered desk, stacks of books created undulating shadows in the light of the wall lamp. The glint of ink bottles and Schiller's eyeglasses reflected brightly in the dimly lit room. He held a pen and wrote elegant, ornate English script on an invitation.

Customs around the world were quite similar; when you moved to a new place, it was customary to invite friends and family over. Schiller planned to invite his few friends in Gotham for a dinner gathering over the weekend.

As the rain outside intensified, moist air seeped in through the window cracks. In the soft light, tiny water droplets could be seen gently falling onto the desktop. Soon, the part of the desk near the windowsill accumulated numerous tiny water droplets, reflecting the glow of the fireplace like red gemstones.

As daylight gradually faded, the mist, colder than daytime, caused frost to form on the glass panes. Schiller put down his pen and rubbed his wrist, then looked up.

From this vantage point, Gotham appeared unchanged, but the rain made it even gloomier and quieter, almost offering a rare tranquility.

Regardless, the 1980s Gotham was always much slower-paced than the later information societies. Schiller spent the entire afternoon writing letters and only left the study when a butler reminded him that it was dinnertime.

After finishing dinner, Schiller dressed, picked up his umbrella, and left the house. By this time, the rain that had lasted the entire afternoon had stopped, leaving behind the chilly and damp air that permeated the city.

Puddles on the ground acted like mirrors in the darkness, reflecting the light from street lamps as golden fragments, like the leaves Autumn had failed to take with it. As Schiller's shoes touched the water, the shimmering light disappeared into the gentle ripples and splashes.

Just like any other custom when moving, it was essential to visit the neighbors.

The security here was reasonably good because anyone who could afford and maintain a Manor like this was either wealthy or prosperous. While it couldn't compare to the affluent neighborhoods in the South, the old city still had a slow-paced, old-fashioned charm.

A street away from Schiller's Manor, there was an opera house. Although it seldom hosted theater troupes, it had become a club for the residents.

Schiller reached the theater's entrance, where the attendants weren't as professional. They waited until he reached the doorsteps before opening the door. Schiller removed his hat and entered.

Despite the cold rainy night outside, the theater was warm. Schiller's glasses fogged up, and he removed them as he approached the front desk, tapping it lightly.

The supervisor, who had been dozing off, blinked when he saw Schiller and quickly straightened up. He asked, "Do you have a reservation?"

"I am the new owner of the Viscount Manor, and all the expenses for drinks here tonight will be charged to my account. May God bless everyone."

The supervisor immediately became enthusiastic. "Oh, it's you! I just received the news yesterday that the largest Viscount Manor has a new owner. Your taste is truly exceptional. Only a man of your generosity is deserving of such a luxurious Manor."

"Don't worry; by the time everyone comes out later, they'll know you're a friendly gentleman."

Listening to the supervisor's effusive praise, Schiller discreetly placed a roll of dollar bills under the bell. The supervisor continued, "You need not worry about the appearance of this building. After all, this is Gotham's oldest theater. Some wear and tear are expected. But our service will always be top-notch..."

As Schiller descended the theater's steps, he glanced back at the possibly oldest theater in Gotham, now marked by the passage of time. Many years ago, it had welcomed famous theater troupes and countless actors had performed here. But now, it lay deserted, its weathered façade serving as a monument to Gotham's history, bearing the marks of wind, frost, and rain. Perhaps it had a more intriguing story than the fictional dramas, but not many were willing to watch it again.

When Schiller returned to Manor, it was already quite late, but there was something he hadn't finished from last night.

Thanks to this relatively slow-paced era, Schiller didn't need to constantly guard against text messages or phone calls. He had ample time to leisurely read books, seek knowledge from physical materials, and then transcribe them onto paper with a pen.

Suddenly, there was a faint sound behind him. Without turning around, Schiller said, "Gordon came to visit, and he at least brought a gift. What about you? The uninvited bat?"

Batman's shadow cast multiple silhouettes on the wall under the sconces. He replied, "I'll deliver it during the daytime."

"Gordon is getting married soon. Aren't you planning to give him a gift in your peculiar costume? After all, he's your partner."

"I have no gift to offer," Batman's tone was always low and calm, inducing drowsiness in the quiet room of the deep night.

"So, what brings you here?"

"To wish you well in your new home."

"I guess you scoured every room in this Manor earlier than I did. If I'm not mistaken, you might have even acquired the building's blueprints through some means."

Batman remained silent. He seemed to acknowledge that he didn't shy away from displaying his overly cautious and distrustful nature in front of Schiller.

"Did you read the newspaper today? Did you see the news about the Iron Curtain?"

"That's not relevant to me."

"It's a global event."

"Gotham won't change for the better or worse because of it."

Then, both fell silent. Only the sound of Schiller's pen scratching against the paper echoed in the quiet room of the late night. After a while, Batman spoke, "The people who came from Metropolis are probably here to pursue you."

"Let them come. Or do you think the people of Gotham are afraid of those from Metropolis?"

Batman remained silent.

"I guess you had an argument with your butler, didn't you?"

Batman didn't reply, but Schiller continued, "There was once a person who came out for a midnight drive because he had argued with his beloved 'butler.'"

"Why did they argue?"

"Because that person couldn't decide whether or not to marry his butler."

Batman fell silent once more.

"I guess your butler must be feeling heartbroken over your injuries, but he doesn't want to hinder you from pursuing your passion. So, he keeps his emotions to himself."

"But you've noticed that he seems sad, and you don't want to give up your career or make him sad."

"Your extraordinary intelligence and logical reasoning don't work at this moment, so you resort to midnight drives."

"Let me guess, your new Batmobile is probably parked at my doorstep, and the overheated engine hasn't cooled down yet."

"Is there really such a thing as telepathy in this world?"

"Don't ask such silly questions."

"If it exists, can you tell me what Alfred is thinking?"

"You are much more straightforward than that person, but yes, besides family, love troubles him."

"Love... It's the most perplexing thing. I offered to tell him the answer, but he refused."

Batman's gaze fell on the ring on Schiller's ring finger as he asked, "Are you married? Is your wife not with you in Gotham?"

"It seems you're not very interested in that answer either."

Schiller said, "Let's go. You'd better find Gordon to host you. Staying here, you'll only get answers you don't want to hear."

Batman said, "This Manor is indeed magnificent, with a total of 36 rooms. You sleep in the east wing master bedroom upstairs, leaving 35 other rooms."

"I won't be giving you a key."

"I don't need a key."

Schiller pressed his finger against his forehead and said, "But you stay out all night. What should I do if your butler comes to me?"

"Why do you seem more afraid of him than me?"

"It's hard to explain, but I am genuinely worried about your butler coming to me."

Seeing that Batman was relentless, Schiller reluctantly said, "Alright, if you want to stay here overnight, I need your guardian's approval. Go call him now. I must hear his consent before allowing you to stay."

Batman hesitated, then conceded. When it came to matters concerning his butler, he always acted like a child, much like Stark did when dealing with Pepper.

Schiller didn't mind Batman staying here, and he didn't really mind Batman thoroughly checking his new home. After all, sooner or later, it was bound to happen. 18-year-old Batman might not check, but when he turned 28 or 38, he would inevitably investigate. Nothing in Gotham could escape the vigilant eyes of the Bat. Schiller wasn't the Joker; he didn't have the time to play hide and seek with Batman every day.

A while later, Schiller finished writing his paper. It was now deep into the night, and the window outside was pitch black, with only puddles formed by the rain reflecting distant lights.

Soon, the butler informed him that the telephone was ringing. Schiller picked up the receiver, and Batman was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, listening to him speak on the phone.

"Yes, correct... No trouble at all. Yes, I know they're always like this. I've seen plenty before..."

"Really? That sounds quite serious... I have a professional first aid kit here... Oh, I see. You're a responsible butler."

"I don't think there's any relationship..." Schiller glanced at Batman for some reason. Batman felt his heart suddenly pounding, as if he were a student nervously trying to deduce his parents' anger levels from the teacher's vague words after being called to the principal's office.

"Alright, please rest assured... No problem. So, tomorrow morning, is it? I suppose so... Very well... Goodbye."

Schiller saw Batman about to ask something but decided against it.

Schiller said, "Your butler mentioned that you're injured, but he should have treated you already."

Afterward, he glanced at the grandfather clock nearby and said, "It's already too late now. Your butler said you should have been in bed by nine, and it's already been over three hours late. Take your keys and go upstairs quickly."

"I don't need the keys."

With these parting words, Batman disappeared, and Schiller shook his head before heading upstairs.

Schiller had always known Batman's true identity, so Batman didn't sleep in his bat suit. When Schiller knocked on his bedroom door, Bruce was in his pajamas.

Normally, in his serious Batman persona, one could only see his chin, but now, Bruce's demeanor was entirely different from usual. This was a fully exposed Batman.

But it didn't matter; when Schiller reminded him that Alfred hoped he'd be back for breakfast tomorrow morning, a conflicted and complicated expression appeared on Bruce's face.

"I advise you to go back. If he comes knocking on your door, I won't help you. You should know that teachers will always stand on the same side as parents."

Seeing that Bruce still seemed reluctant, Schiller had to threaten him further, saying, "If I do meet Alfred tomorrow, I'll have to talk to him about your academic performance. Although you barely passed the last exams, your ranking is in the lower middle, and more importantly, you missed six assignments this semester, and half of them were not long enough."

"I've kept all the assignments you turned in. If you don't want your butler to see your incomprehensible essays and useless academic rubbish that only pollutes others' minds, you'd better go to bed now and wake up early tomorrow to return to Wayne Manor."

Without waiting for Bruce to say anything, Schiller slammed the door to his room shut.

That night, Bruce lay in bed, reflecting on recent events.

Thanks to Schiller's ingenious industry connections, there had been many shootouts in the gangs recently, making Batman's work increasingly difficult.

During the daytime, he was busy with investigations at the hospital, trying to unravel the complex relationships between the gangs. At night, he had to monitor the scenes of various shootouts to prevent them from getting out of hand and causing too much damage.

The police had acquired heavy weaponry, which made them stronger, but it didn't mean the gangs had no means of counterattack. With the police using heavy firepower, the gangs naturally sought to resist with even more powerful weapons. This led to an escalation of the conflict, and Batman found himself involved in more intense gunfights before he could upgrade his equipment.

This resulted in his bat armor, originally designed for handguns and cold weapons, being unable to withstand the damage from machine gun bullets and grenades.

A few nights ago, Batman had been hit by a machine gun bullet. This kind of injury was far more severe than what handgun bullets could inflict. Machine gun bullets were as long as a palm, and luckily, Batman had only been grazed on the shoulder. If that bullet had hit him squarely, it could have caused much more serious damage.

But it had still been a significant injury, arguably the worst he had suffered during his time as Batman.

When he returned to Wayne Manor, he was barely conscious. It was his extraordinary willpower that had allowed him to make it back to Wayne Manor in the first place.

Bruce had long known that he wasn't very sensitive to certain painkillers and anesthetics. He often woke up during anesthesia. This time was no different. In the middle of the surgery, he was half-dreaming, half-awake and saw Alfred sitting alone beside the operating table.

It was difficult for him to describe the expression he saw on Alfred's face at that moment. It caused his heart, which had rarely raced in many years, to clench.

He suddenly realized that Alfred had changed. He had aged significantly, and compared to when his parents were still alive, he seemed much more resigned.

Bruce also realized that his parents' death had not only affected him but Alfred as well. Perhaps, when Alfred realized that he was about to endure a similar ordeal again, he aged even more.

Bruce lay in bed, and as he drifted into sleep, he couldn't help but think about Alfred's expression.

What saddened him even more was that when he woke up from surgery, Alfred didn't say anything. He didn't try to stop Bruce from doing anything. He simply prepared breakfast as he always did, as if it were any other morning when Bruce had woken up from a nightmare.

Sitting at the dining table, Bruce could hardly eat. He was Batman, but he was still human. It was rare for someone to maintain their composure and appetite in the face of such emotional turmoil.

So he took a few bites hastily, almost as if he were fleeing, and left Wayne Manor.

In reality, his first destination was Gordon's place, but he happened to arrive just as Gordon was leaving for Schiller's house.

He followed Gordon all the way, even observing their entire conversation in the restaurant from outside the window.

He also saw Schiller sitting alone, smoking an entire cigar.

The professor seemed unfamiliar, and Bruce had never seen Schiller like this before. While Schiller had often appeared serious at school, this was entirely different.

It was as if he were a different person, a stranger.

Bruce thought that perhaps the Schiller he had known before was just a façade, much like himself.

In this mad city, two lunatics played their respective roles, assuming ordinary societal identities and appearing as teachers and students troubled by everyday routines.

Perhaps this wasn't a book of "Pride and Prejudice" but rather a book of "The Actor's Self-Training."

In this corroded, rotten, and decadent theater called Gotham, on the stage of Gotham University, the first act of this absurd drama seemed peculiar and comical.

On Batman's first day of school, he encountered a stern and old-fashioned teacher who seemed like he wanted nothing to do with trouble. In an inexplicable counseling session, this teacher gave him the answer he most desired.

And after the curtains fell on one scene after another, the two actors themselves finally met behind the scenes.

Putting aside their societal roles, the composition of these absurd dramas wasn't a coincidence. Madmen always attracted madmen, and oddities often encountered oddities. It was simply a manifestation of like attracting like.

Bruce lay in bed, drowsiness washing over him. In his half-dream state, he heard the muffled ticking of the clock downstairs in the Manor, permeating his dreams.

Apart from that, on this cold night in Gotham in 1987, all that could be heard were the almost imperceptible sound of the wind and the incessant crackling of the fireplace.

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