Chapter 1169: Professor (32) _1

When the frigid mist clung to the even more frosty glass, it coalesced into tiny droplets. Strings of these droplets, linked together and slid down from the top of the window frame. They were akin to a gentle pearl necklace, yet they were also like a monster in the dark, extending its talons from above.

The accumulated droplets left a trail on the glass, making it even clearer. Looking through these trails, a figure, paler than the fog itself, could be seen leaning on a chair.

Despite seeming neither emaciated nor frail, the figure had an abnormal pallor. Extending fingers nearly devoid of all colour, he stroked his cheek, straightened his back, and grasped the armrests of the chair.

His grey-eyed pupils were contracted to the point of being minuscule when he opened his eyes. The rest of his eyes seemed like a lifeless desert, looking extremely desolate.

When he focused his gaze on something, his attention felt abnormally intense, yet somewhat disconnected.

A hesitant knock echoed "thunk, thunk, thunk." The knocker lacked confidence, and the final knock was nearly inaudible.

No one could blame the one standing outside, Merkel. Just moments ago, Shiller had stepped back into the garden, used a gardening shovel to dig up the fertilizer once buried in the soil, laid the intact parts out, and sifted through each piece with the shovel. He was as picky as a customer in a marketplace.

Merkel could tell that Shiller had not found what he was looking for. Therefore, he felt that knocking at this moment wasn't a wise choice.

However, as a butler, it was his responsibility to notify his master of his upcoming schedule. Merkel hardened his resolve, knocked on the door, and prayed that whoever turned Shiller into this didn't implicate him as well.

"Come in," Shiller's voice seemed somewhat low but not angry, portraying an excess of calm that only made Merkel's heart pound all the more in anxiety.

It felt like walking alone in a forest and hearing a sudden, albeit faint, sound. The omnipresent fear was not too intense but unceasing.

Merkel took a deep breath, trying to remember what he had learned in his emotion management class, and mustered the courage to turn the door handle.

He smoothly and quickly opened the door, closed it, and turned on the light. Still, when he was inside the room, he had completely forgotten what he was supposed to say.

"What exactly are you afraid of?" Shiller's voice drifted from the somewhat dark office desk. "I know that you're going to tell me that a group of people, before I even host a banquet to invite them, are inviting me to a feast. It's both unreasonable and annoying."

Merkel remained silent, saying nothing, as his instinct told him that the other side was not up for small talk. Merkel could not detect a hint of the usual annoyance in the other's voice, which made his words oddly incompatible.

"It's a bit dark in here, sir. Would you like me to turn on the light?" Merkel stood by the wall switch, wishing for a deeper darkness to envelop him.

"No, I don't want the lights on." Shiller's response was permeated with a sense of seriousness that Merkel had never heard before. Hearing the professor answer his question so directly was not a welcome occurrence.

Merkel had long noticed that there were multiple Shillers, but having never met others, he didn't know whether the Shiller who had hired him was good or bad.

But now, he knew. His career, every choice he made, had substantially depleted his luck.

"Come here, let me remember your face," Shiller said to Merkel. "I have face blindness, so I'm not usually able to distinguish each person by his or her facial features."

Merkel took only a step forward and said, "It's alright, sir. You don't have to remember the face of any butler. We will always be here waiting."

"I quite appreciate your attitude. So you don't have to hold back that bad news, waiting for an opportunity to speak." Shiller said, lightly tapping his pen against the desk.

Merkel only felt more nervous. His throat trembled slightly. Instinctively, his hand reached out to the light switch. It was as if controlling when the light would turn on could provide him with some sense of safety.

"The Falcone Family has sent out an invitation asking you to attend the house banquet held by the Godfather at the Falcone Manor tonight. The invitation specifically stated that weapons are not allowed," he finally said, gritting his teeth. Shiller nodded, stood up from his chair, and stuffed one hand into his suit pocket, saying, "Isn't it a silly question that every scholar who mingles in high society hears? Isn't it a bit insecure to not allow a weak man to bring a gun?"

Summoning his courage, Merkel replied, "The regulation is not intended for you alone. Of course, you can choose to not follow it. Really, it's more of a courtesy, a no-weapons warning. It's pointless in Gotham."

"Turn on the light," said Shiller.

With a click, the switch was flipped on. As the light illuminated the room, Merkel saw eyes resembling a desert, eyes that contracted even more due to the sudden brightness.

"You don't have to worry. Unlike him, I have plenty of patience for these social etiquette and rituals. I comprehend the rules within, relish the honor high society brings, and understand the price one has to pay to enjoy such respect," Shiller spoke the longest and most complicated sentence since he opened his mouth, but that did nothing to relieve Merkel's anxiety.

In times past, Merkel often felt the urge to have Shiller explain certain things to him, because explanations always have a way of putting one at ease. It feels as though the other person is completely invested in the conversation, taking you seriously, engaging with you in a focused manner. It leaves you with the impression that "this conversation will definitely be smooth."

But this time, Shiller's explanations only served to tighten the knot of worry in Merkel's heart. Something deep down told him that engaging in jovial conversation with the current Shiller was anything but a good thing.

"I recall we still have two good bottles of red wine in the liquor cabinet," Shiller stepped out from behind his desk, walking towards the door as he spoke, "I'll change my clothes; in the meantime, could you help me get the wine ready and bring the car around? Thank you."

Once Shiller left, Merkel felt as if he might faint, propping himself up against the wall. The chill that ran down his spine when his back made contact with the cool surface was his cold sweat, about to freeze solid.

Once the wine was ready, Merkel saw Shiller emerge from his room, not in his usual choice of black suit, but sporting a deep brown checked one and a black turtleneck instead, sans glasses.

This was the first time that Merkel had ever seen Shiller's gray eyes clearly, but he still felt that it was not a good thing.

Those eyes held some kind of strange charm, making you feel truly seen and understood, even more so than you understood yourself, when they looked at you.

Standing by the manor's second-floor window, Merkel watched as Shiller, bags in tow, made his way out the door.

Before he could get in the car, the headlights suddenly flared on—so bright, they made his pupil contract until he looked almost blind.

As the lights turned on, Shiller noticed a figure sitting in the driver's seat. Nonetheless, he walked to the side of the car, opened the back door, and took a seat, requesting, "To Falcone Manor."

The engine started up, its rumble making the wine in the bottle tremble. The figure in the driver's seat glanced at Shiller through the rear-view mirror.

"Who are you?" asked Shiller.

"I'm your driver," came the silhouette's response.

"Got a thing for drivers, do you?" Shiller leaned over to adjust the wine bottle on the seat next to him making sure the bag side was flush against the seat back. Then, sitting upright, he fully leaned back into his own seat and looked into the rear-view mirror.

"Professor, I regret that our first encounter is under these circumstances. But I'm actually here to tell you that you needn't attend the upcoming feast. It'll be terribly boring. It's as simple as steering the car in another direction, and voilà—three extra hours in your life," the figure remarked.

"Is that why you're here—to drive? And if I refuse to alter my course, what then?" Shiller's eyes were locked onto the mirror, intent on keeping the figure in front of him in his line of sight.

"Of course, I wouldn't resort to violence. That's distasteful. I must tell you, however, that this is not a feast—it's a bloody execution. The ones they once fed will inevitably become their killers."

"You've come here, sitting in my car, trying to persuade me to change course. But there's no need for you to beat around the bush with a psychologist. You're here to make sure that I get to the feast, and more importantly, that I'll be in high spirits to watch your performance."

Without even a blink, Shiller tossed a look into the mirror while the man in the front seat shook his head ever so slightly. His cheek fat moved as if it was trembling from the car's vibrations. "What happened to your eyes?" He asked the reflection of Shiller in the mirror.

"I don't have the best eyesight, and I also suffer from a severe case of prosopagnosia, or face blindness—a disorder that prevents me from recognizing faces. So after you park and leave the car, I wouldn't be able to remember what you look like," Shiller explained, "So you don't need to wear a mask. I wouldn't recognize you at the feast."

The hands on the steering wheel tightened their grip. "Mind if I say something? I'm a bit disappointed. You don't seem very interested in discussing what will happen at the feast, nor do you seem as meticulous, acerbic, or aggressive as you do in your writing," the figure continued.

"Or is it because...you aren't the ruthless serial killer you portray in your work? You're neither cold-blooded nor cruel—seemingly mad on the surface but have never actually crossed any lines. Are you friends with the hypocritical Batman rather than his enemy?"

"Astute observation," said Shiller, "That was true for a long period in the past."

"I seemed mad but never harmed the innocent, appeared to suffer from a severe mental disorder but remained logical, seemed to be Batman's enemy but endeavored to save him all the same. Do you know why?"

Receiving no response, Shiller continued: "It's because Batman at the time was boring. There was no point in opposing him if he didn't grow."

"From what I gathered, he changed?" questioned the person in the front seat in a relaxed tone.

"We both have changed significantly." Shiller's fingertips lightly brushed the top of the wine cork. "He experienced growth, and I benefitted from not having to keep a close eye on him as if he were a baby any longer."

Shiller paused deliberately, dropping his eyelids to hide his gaze. Lowering volume to a whisper, like a hissing snake, he said,

"So... I can now, do the things I enjoy."