"Are you going to the crime scene, Professor?" Natasha turned to look at Shiller. Although she wasn't very fond of calling him "Professor," everyone in this universe did, so she followed suit.
The reason she didn't like this title was quite simple. It's a very conservative and serious designation, at least in America. Usually, only when meeting a professor for the first time would one use such a title. Afterward, most students would choose to address the professor by their last name or first name, even in casual emails.
Such words with clear professional attributes have a kind of aloofness that keeps people at a distance, often not conducive to high-efficiency and friendly communication. And Natasha truly wanted to have a good conversation with Shiller, as he was obviously quite difficult to deal with.
Shiller nodded slightly, then Natasha saw him stand up, seemingly to get the car keys. Well, the female agent thought, even though they have almost identical faces, you can't let him easily get into a stranger's car he's only met a few times, especially considering she's a CIA agent.
Soon, Shiller walked to the door, taking an umbrella with him. Natasha followed him to the garage. It was unsurprising that there was a classic Bentley, its body reflective but not sharp, exuding the same elegance as Shiller himself. This man was covered in old-world labels from head to toe.
As Shiller sat in the driver's seat, Natasha took the passenger seat. As the car exited the garage, it started to rain again outside.
"This damn weather," Natasha couldn't help but complain, "Why is it always raining in this city? Have you ever seen it clear up?"
"Weather is usually a safe topic, but not in Gotham," Shiller began. "This city almost never sees the sun; it rains day and night all year round. The rain washes away many traces of homicides and brings more bacteria and viruses."
Shiller's voice was low and his speech slow. Natasha thought if he were a fee-charging psychiatrist, he would probably make a lot of money. Either because they could elongate the session with this operatic monologue, or he could directly make the patient fall asleep and hand them a hefty bill afterward.
"Were the previous cases also on rainy days?"
"No, I'm afraid there's no such pattern." Shiller turned the steering wheel and said, "Two of the cases happened when it wasn't raining. The police found quite a few traces around, but they all pointed to manipulated individuals, not the real culprit, the Eden Killer."
"Well, it seems catching him will indeed be difficult."
"Isn't this exactly what you wanted?" Shiller spoke in an utterly calm and bland tone. "You never planned to catch him. If the case is hard to solve, you won't appear useless."
Natasha's fingers paused, and she said, "I came here to catch the killer. Although I initially planned to quickly settle the situation, it was never definite, otherwise, I would have stormed into the TV station to catch someone. I've tried to consult Penguin Man and your opinions as thoroughly as possible, at least making an effort in that regard."
"To conceal your true intentions," Shiller tilted his head slightly. "The more diligent and proactive you seem, the better you hide your intention not to capture the Eden Killer. You don't need to refute this, after all, I don't intend to catch him either."
Natasha felt uncomfortable all over and said, "Can you speak in another way?"
"What?"
"Be less blunt," Natasha rubbed her arms and said, "Or maybe it's because the air conditioning is too low, why do I feel a bit cold?"
"You didn't start by asking if I have a Mind Reading Technique, which is quite professional of you, ma'am," Shiller said as he reached out to adjust the air conditioning temperature.
"I didn't ask because I already know the answer. Although Doctor Shiller always says he's a Magician and Mutant, or claims it's the Symbiont that gave him the ability, constantly telling us he has a Mind Reading Technique. But he's just trying to use this to get higher consultation fees and force us to fill out his psychological scales. But I know he doesn't possess it, you just have a unique talent."
"Do you want to see it?" Shiller turned his head and asked with a smile.
"Sorry, what?" Natasha was a little surprised.
"Do you want to witness this unique talent?"
"I think I'd rather not." Natasha shook her head quickly. But obviously, this Shiller is the exact opposite of the Doctor. The Doctor seemed to be someone who acts on a whim but actually listens seriously to friends and takes their advice; whereas the one she encountered now seems like someone who appears to listen, but actually does whatever they want.
"You're in a transition phase you think you're going through. You believe you'll enter a stable period like ordinary people do after 30, maintaining a certain state until old age. But recently, changes in your life have made you realize you might have a second '30,' which is not entirely good news for you. The complexity is giving you a headache."
"If I have to say what brings you back to this state of waiting for change that seems never to arrive, I'd say it's emotion. You have regained a part of your emotional life, and with too many objects of affection, it gets a bit messy, filled with unresolved emotions and desires that cannot be fulfilled."
"You want all these relationships to be simpler, to define them as 'a way for an adult to legally and indisputably fulfill desires.' In short, you'd rather talk about sex than love, almost to the point of self-hypnosis, as if trying to convince yourself."
"But I'm afraid it's not that simple. Tragically, none of the opposite sex around you are the kind of normal people who are blinded by lust and only attracted to your beauty. Admitting that they love your soul and not your appearance is difficult for you. And no matter how you offer them your beauty, the fact that they insist on forming soul connections with you leaves you in despair."
"It's like some absurd comedy. Most people blessed with beauty resent others only attracted to their looks and desperately wish someone would genuinely love their soul. You're the opposite; you'd rather trade beauty for a superficial fulfillment of desires than have a soulful connection. But why?"
"You have a deeper sense of unworthiness than most. It's not inferiority; it's self-sacrifice. You believe you have given your truest and noblest love to a great being, dying with its passing. So the remnants left over, even if wholeheartedly given to someone else, are far from enough, especially if they're planning to offer their truest and noblest love to you."
"You think it's unfair, so you refuse such an exchange, preferring to let the fulfillment of desires and emotional entanglements stay at a very shallow level. You constantly emphasize this to them, even in a frivolous way, like frequently mentioning sex and behaving like a libertine. But unfortunately, whether by coincidence or because they're smarter than you think, no one intends to give up, with even those who had accepted reality now having additional thoughts."
"You can't stop them from thinking that way, madam. These pursuers of yours are like Jesus, saviors who love saving the doomed. When they realize there's a tombstone in your heart, they want to rescue you from being the mourner beside it. The more significant that tombstone is to you, those saviors become more determined."
"Obviously, few people's inner tombstones are grander than the one in your heart. Anyone who delves slightly into your heart has felt the despair etched in you when the epitaph was carved, which is a distant memory for you but not for them. The moment they touch upon it almost shatters them, and with saintly saving desires and mercy, they simply can't give up on you."
"Sex, pheromones, physical desires—the flippancy and superficiality you display not only don't dissuade them, but they interpret it as your way to numb yourself. They seem like sincere helping hands to an addict, offering part of a cure yet trying to limit it to a safe dosage, constantly persuading and encouraging you to recover."
"But you can't. You reject them not because you're too busy grieving by the grave, but because the grave is too vast and heavy, becoming part of you. Solemnity, mourning, and despair are inseparable parts of your soul. How can they ask you to cut that part away? Comedy isn't tragedy's savior. Some people live by tragedy, and so you refuse them."
"But you ultimately have to solve this problem. You want to find someone who doesn't see these things or isn't interested in you to fend off these Jesuses who are after you. I guess, an agent?"
"Stop the car."
Shiller applied the brakes. Natasha pushed the car door open and got out. Raindrops fell on that dazzling red hair, illuminated by the alternating red and blue lights from the police car opposite, like a mist of blood rising from a shattered heart. The crime scene's police tape was right before her. Natasha slammed the car door shut with a "bang," then felt a shadow casting over her.
She turned to see Shiller holding an umbrella for her. Natasha turned and looked at him coldly, "Tell me you have mind reading techniques."
"I don't, ma'am."
Natasha pulled out her gun.
"Alright, I do." Shiller withdrew his gaze from the crime scene and turned to her, saying, "I'm a mutant, or maybe a magician, or it could be the symbiont that gave me this ability. I'm sorry for reading your privacy; I promise I won't tell."
Natasha cursed softly and then glared at him, "And don't tell the other you, especially the agent."
"I'm afraid that won't work. Your pursuers are skilled; if we want to block these advances, we might need to prepare properly."
"I will tell him myself."
"What's the difference if I tell him?"
Natasha was about to say "that way I lose the chance to confide in him and potentially take advantage," but quickly recalled Shiller's earlier speech about "acting frivolously," and felt her heart sink heavily.
"Because it would recall these statements from his memory. Your talent is like an unsecured gun; this kind of unsolicited analysis is extremely rude. If it were to spread through your neural network, I'd feel very offended." Natasha had to adopt a slightly more medieval speaking style, knowing that gentlemen care about politeness.
"As you wish, madam. I won't say anything." Shiller turned back to look at the crime scene again, his gaze carrying an inorganic coldness, as if he simply picked up a glass of champagne at a banquet, not just fired a bullet through a crimson heart.