Gotham’s Evening Bell (Part 2)

In a pitch-black alley, the faint gleam of moving armor tangled with an even deeper, thicker fog.

In an instant, the gray mist condensed into a human figure at the end of the alley. The scraping of armor ceased, replaced by heavy footsteps splashing through puddles that had not yet dried, each soft sound like a death warrant.

"Deathstroke?"

"That is indeed your deathstroke."

The moment the words fell, a flash of steel cut through the darkness. Schiller vanished from where he stood and reappeared behind the figure.

"Who hired you?"

"You don’t need to know that."

"Looks like you’re very confident in your professional standards."

Schiller flashed away again, dodging two darts. Then, facing Deathstroke, he said:

"You shouldn’t kill me."

"I can kill anyone, as long as someone can afford the price."

Schiller held out a hand, and a flame sprang to life in his palm.

"Whoever your employer is, he’s paying you the wrong price."

Deathstroke was silent for less than a second before turning and walking away.

"Indeed. Goodbye."

"How do you deal with an employer who deceives you?"

"Depends."

"Kill him. I’ll pay."

"You don’t have that much money."

"The richest man in the world will settle the bill."

"Goodbye."

Schiller watched the armored figure disappear at the end of Gotham’s streets within a few breaths. He thought that his enemies truly had some skill if they could hire Deathstroke to kill him.

The repeated flashes had drained quite a bit of Schiller’s strength. No car could enter an alley this deep, so he decided to walk back slowly and call for a ride once he reached the cathedral.

He turned out of an alley onto the main street, then looked back and noticed some movement at the far end of it.

At that moment, Batman stood in an incredibly dilapidated, dark, cramped room.

The conditions here were terrible. Batman had never entered a room so unbearable in his life.

It was on the third floor. The windows had all been nailed shut, every outer layer of the walls had peeled away, and the room was unbearably damp. The floor was made of slick stone tiles. None of the furniture was where it belonged, and every other space was piled with all kinds of trash.

When the owner of the room saw Batman, this unexpected visitor, he froze for a moment. Then he lowered his head to look at his feet, muttered something indistinct, and turned away with a stoop. He picked up a salt shaker and tried to hand it to Batman.

Batman took the salt shaker. It was empty, with nothing inside. Then the man waved a hand, seemingly telling him to leave.

He was a shriveled, hunched old man with very dark skin and eyes deeply sunken into their sockets. He limped as he walked and constantly muttered curses under his breath.

Apparently, a downstairs neighbor had heard the commotion. He poked his head out from the bottom of the stairs and said, "What do you want with that old man? Who are you to him?"

"What happened to him?"

"What else could’ve happened? Can’t you tell? He has dementia. He doesn’t recognize anyone now. Even if you know him, he doesn’t know you."

From his angle, the neighbor couldn’t see Batman clearly, only a vague silhouette. He said, "The old man can’t pay rent. Every time the landlord comes, he gives him that salt shaker. Maybe salt shakers were worth something in his day, but there’s been nothing in it for ages."

"But he’s lucky, I guess. His landlord seems to have died at the hands of the mob. This attic isn’t worth much, and killing him would mean having to dispose of the body, so he’s survived until now."

"Whoever you are, don’t bother with him. Every day, he can only eat a little garbage tossed down from upstairs. But the people above him moved out a few days ago. He probably won’t live much longer."

With that, there was a bang from downstairs as the neighbor shut his door.

Batman held the salt shaker and watched the hunched old man sit down in a chair, silently staring at the tabletop. A thread of drool ran from the corner of his mouth.

He saw Louis’s hands. They were extremely rough, nearly every knuckle twisted from years of carrying heavy objects. The veins stood out clearly on his dry palms.

"Are you Louis?"

There was no answer but Batman’s own voice.

"Do you remember Thomas Wayne? Do you remember Martha?"

Batman could feel his voice trembling.

An extreme fury rose from Batman’s chest, and the salt shaker creaked in his grip.

His enemy did not remember any of the innocent people he had harmed. He had simply forgotten all his crimes.

This was not punishment for him. On the contrary, it allowed him to escape the condemnation of his own conscience, Batman thought.

Again and again, he questioned Louis:

"Why don’t you remember anything?! Do you really not remember the name Wayne?! What about Edward? Falcone?!"

The instant Batman spoke Falcone’s name, the aged Louis suddenly let out a strange scream. His mouth gaped wide, and his long-unused jaw cracked and popped.

Trembling all over, he fell from his chair and kept screaming, throwing everything he could grab at Batman. Tears, mucus, and saliva streamed down his face together.

Batman saw endless terror on his face.

Batman thought Falcone had not lied to him. When he killed Rafe back then, he truly had terrified many people.

Louis was one of them.

Schiller walked into the middle of the back alley and looked up. At this hour, only one room on the third floor still had its light on, and inside stood a black shadow with pointed ears.

He waited beneath the building for a while and saw Batman emerge. Batman was somewhat surprised to see Schiller, but his mind was sluggish at the moment.

Schiller looked Batman over and saw that he was uninjured, with no signs that he had fought anyone.

Then his gaze fell on the salt shaker in Batman’s hand.

Schiller did not know what it was, but Batman, clearly burdened by complicated emotions, needed someone to talk to. Before Schiller could even ask, Batman told him the entire story.

They talked as they walked. By the time they passed the cathedral entrance, dawn was close. Batman gripped the salt shaker and said:

"He doesn’t remember any of it."

When Batman said this, he was no longer angry. His tone carried a complicated sense of melancholy.

"You said he still remembered one person."

"Yes. He still remembers Falcone. Why doesn’t he remember Wayne, but remembers Falcone…"

Schiller sighed and looked into the distance. Then he said, "Because of fear. Fear is the deepest wound carved into the human soul, and the hardest to erase."

"He forgot everything, but remembered fear alone. Is that it?" Batman said.

It was the darkest hour before dawn. The dense blackness seemed to swallow everything, and all the buildings were shrouded in shadow, their outlines impossible to make out.

Soon, the thing that jolted Batman from his thoughts was the heavy tolling of Gotham Cathedral’s bells. The muffled chimes carried far, their waves as pervasive as the darkness. Even in the darkest, blackest alleys, one could feel their trembling.

Batman thought, Fear. Fear.

If he could no longer carry out his true revenge against the people and events of that era, if the murderer he had pursued with all his strength, the target of his vengeance, had completely forgotten everything, leaving all the fury and hatred in his heart with nowhere to land—

Then at least he had reminded Batman of one thing: sometimes, what was more terrifying than death was inescapable fear.

In that case, Batman thought, he would become a Dark Knight who brought endless fear to every criminal in Gotham.

Many years ago, when his parents died, bats heavy with shadow had crossed the sky. Many years later, he would finally bring the fear of bats to every criminal in this city.

Just like Gotham’s Evening Bell, which seeped into every street and every dark corner.