Winter break at Gotham University.
Faculty housing stayed open. Labs hummed on. Most students scattered—locals returned home, others vanished into the city's underbelly.
But Schiller had nowhere to go.
His office was his only address in Gotham. No vacation homes. No family calls. Just papers to write, a tenure track to salvage.
Psychology final grades had been… grim.
Which meant his evaluation would be too.
So he'd spend the break publishing his way out of academic purgatory.
Most Gotham University students were slackers, sure. But they never really left. The city clung to them like tar.
Bruce Wayne, however, hadn't slacked.
He used the break to launch the psychology club—officially.
Unofficially? It was covered. His grades were average, barely noticeable.
But he needed to learn from Schiller.
And if money could buy access?
Then the club had unlimited funding.
This morning, Bruce stood outside Schiller's office, folder in hand.
Before he could knock, voices bled through the door.
"Have you considered a frontal lobotomy?"
Schiller's tone: calm, reasonable.
"Not humane? Is letting him run naked through the ER more humane? Mrs. Adela still refusing restraints? Fine. I'll send over a few enforcers from Mary Street. Dress them as nurses. One roundhouse kick later—she'll wear pajamas for a week."
A pause. Then:
"Novman still refusing meds? I saw his file—he owes money to the Falcone crew. Give their boss a call. Tell him to say hello. Suddenly, Novman will love pills."
"And the drunks? Forget them. Alcohol will diagnose them soon enough."
Another pause.
"Someone selling vodka with the prescription refills? Douglas used to work for Gotham Liquor Co. Have him write his old boss a letter from me. Say the Godfather isn't amused. 'Are the patients not crazy enough?'"
"The Elk Street inheritance case? Let them stab each other. We treat lunatics here. Not scheming broke people."
A beat.
"Tomorrow, I'm bringing my students. Just hold on one more day."
Then, slower:
"No, don't worry. One's the son of Gotham's crime lord. The other…"
The door swung open.
Schiller turned.
Bruce stood frozen in the doorway.
"…is the richest man in the world," Schiller finished.
Bruce seriously considered turning around and walking away.
This wasn't a psychology professor.
This was a man who outsourced therapy to street thugs.
Schiller hung up. Noticed Bruce's expression.
"Come in," he said. "I've got an internship for you. Consider it a reward for running that club without burning the building down."
Bruce stepped inside. Swallowed.
"Your therapeutic approach… differs from what I expected."
"What did you expect?" Schiller asked. "Me lecturing patients about Freud? Assigning them journal prompts?"
"…At least it wouldn't involve calling mob bosses to motivate compliance."
Schiller shook his head.
"Criminal psychology is applied psychology. And in applied psychology, the application matters. Not the theory."
"In Metropolis, maybe I'd talk. Hold group sessions. Light candles. Play soft jazz."
He paused.
"This is Gotham. Half of Arkham's 'patients' are failed gangsters dumped here after losing a war."
"And the other half?"
"Alcoholics with brain damage. Junkies who hallucinate in HD. And a few guys hiding from hitmen."
"So… no actual mental illness?"
Schiller tapped his pen on the desk.
"In a city that's already a giant asylum… why build a smaller one?"
Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it.
After a moment, he nodded.
Schiller continued:
"And even if I cured them? Made them happy, kind, functional?"
He leaned forward.
"They'd leave Arkham on Monday. Be dead by Wednesday."
Bruce hesitated. Then:
"How's Jonathan?"
"You'll see tomorrow."
Bruce sat. Took a breath.
"I've thought about your suggestion. I need a base. A fortress. Surveillance hub, lab, armory, prison—all in one."
"I'm also setting up a citywide monitoring system. And… Lennie gave me an idea. I should have a symbol. Something people recognize. Something they turn to."
Schiller didn't blink.
"You've decided?"
"A bat. Obviously."
"I know it's a bat."
Schiller's voice dropped.
"I mean—have you really decided? To fight this city until one of you breaks?"
He tapped the pen again.
"You can walk away now. Batman is still just a weird vigilante. But once you claim Gotham—if you let people depend on you—you won't get to quit."
"One day, they'll take you for granted. They'll call you for petty theft, custody disputes, and missing cats. You'll become part of the machinery. And when you try to leave?"
He shrugged.
"It won't let you."
Bruce said, quietly:
"I think I'm ready. What I doubt… is whether I can do it."
Schiller stood. Began stacking files.
"You can. And you'll do more than that."
"Why are you so sure about me?"
Schiller paused at the door.
"Because you're Batman."
Then he left.
—
The next day, Schiller and Bruce drove toward Arkham.
Evans was supposed to join them—but Falcone's empire had issues. His son was delayed. So it was just the two of them.
Taking Batman to Arkham for an internship sounded like a joke.
But this wasn't later Arkham—the carnival of super-villains.
These were early days.
No Joker. No Scarecrow. No Poison Ivy.
Just a crumbling asylum filled with:
Mob rejects
Drunkards
Cowards hiding from bullets
And a few guys who just liked the three meals and free meds
The chief physician, Brandt, was Schiller's old classmate—only two months ahead of him at med school.
Now? He looked ten years older.
Schiller recalled Brandt's last update as he drove.
They hadn't gone 200 meters before traffic swallowed them whole.
Half an hour for a straight shot.
Schiller had thought New York was bad.
Gotham's rush hour was Darwinian.
Here, traffic rules were folklore.
Red lights? Decorative.
Stop signs? Footrests.
Lane discipline? A myth told to tourists.
Schiller usually walked. This was his first real drive in Gotham.
They reached a roundabout.
Cars flowed. Schiller didn't move.
More cars passed. Still nothing.
A full rotation. Schiller sat like a statue.
Bruce cleared his throat.
"Professor… when are you planning to go?"
"I'm following the signals. Can't you tell?"
"But…" Bruce chose his words carefully. "You do know how Gotham traffic works, right?"
"Of course. I read the Metropolis Driver's Manual yesterday."
"That's for Metropolis. Gotham doesn't have a driver's manual."
"Exactly," Schiller muttered.
Then, he slammed the gas and yanked the wheel hard.
"That's why it's like this!"
Bruce winced. Covered his ears. Inched toward the door.
Five minutes later, they abandoned the car.
Climbed the tallest nearby building.
Boarded a Wayne Enterprises helicopter.
Arkham loomed ahead—cracked stone, barred windows, ivy like veins.
Brandt greeted them at the gate.
Round face. Once cheerful. Now hollow-eyed.
He hugged Schiller. Shook Bruce's hand.
"You're early. Thought you'd be stuck till afternoon."
"We left at dawn."
"Then you must've flown," Brandt said.
He lowered his voice.
"Your advice saved me. I no longer feel like a doctor. I feel like a judge sentencing men to madness."
"How are the patients?" Schiller asked.
"Patients?" Brandt snorted.
"The ones who drink whiskey after meds and smoke a pack in one sitting? They're thriving. Held a betting pool last night—on when I'll finally snap."
Schiller patted his shoulder.
"Welcome to Gotham."
Brandt forced a smile.
"If I had any other option, I wouldn't be here."
"Neither would I."
"No," Brandt said. "We're not the same. I came to hide from enemies."
He glanced at Bruce.
"You came because you didn't want to be found."
He stopped. Too much said.
"All right," Schiller said. "Let's get to work."
Inside, Brandt led them to his office—the only room not covered in graffiti or broken glass.
"The new commissioner sends dozens here for psych evals. Some even reserve beds before trial."
"Too many. Too messy. Doctors and nurses are overwhelmed."
He grimaced.
"Last week: 18 broken windows. Over a dozen assassins from rival gangs broke in. Four dead—including a guard. And don't get me started on the guys smuggling in weed and moonshine."
Schiller nodded.
"Looks bad. But it's fine. I've got the whole winter break."
Bruce didn't speak.
He just stood there.
And felt a chill crawl up his spine.