"Hello? Put me through to the Don, please."
"Good afternoon, Godfather. I'd like to discuss a business arrangement…"
In the dim office of Arkham Asylum, Schiller set down the phone. He tugged at the coiled cord, blew dust off the receiver, then poured himself a drink—amber liquid into a chipped glass.
He picked up the rotary handset again, dialed slowly, deliberately.
"Brandt? You made it to Hawaii? Good. Don't worry. Enjoy your vacation. I've got this covered."
A moment later, Bruce walked in, dropping a stack of files on the desk.
"Shift's over," Schiller said, raising his glass. "Care for a drink?"
"No. Thanks"
"You look like hell."
"I haven't slept in fifty hours."
"Of course. That giant bat-signal of yours has been flashing all week. Now even the pigeons know there's a Batman."
Bruce hesitated. Then sighed. "Actually… pour me one. Thanks."
Schiller studied him. "What could possibly make Batman drink?"
"I think I made a mistake," Bruce said. "Bats don't light beacons. They shouldn't."
Before Schiller could respond, he continued:
"I installed six signal towers across Gotham. In four days, they lit up twenty-five times. Nineteen were pranks."
"I added authentication protocols. After that, twelve real calls came through."
He swallowed hard.
"All from mob bosses. Asking me to intervene in their wars."
"I refused. They retaliated—vandalism, sabotage. I upgraded security. Then… the homeless started using them. The next day, three were dead.
Killed by gangs for 'stealing' help that wasn't meant for them."
He pressed a hand to his face. Drank. Grimaced.
"If this city won't let the helpless be saved… maybe I was naive to think I could change it."
He looked down.
"I should've known… no bat would ever light a beacon."
Schiller leaned back. "Then stop. Rest for a few days. Burning yourself out solving one crisis after another—it's a loop. It doesn't help. It just makes you slower when the next one hits."
Bruce exhaled. "Fine. I'll sleep. Tomorrow, I'll be here on time. Copying files. Answering phones. Whatever."
And he was.
The next morning, Schiller sat with coffee steaming beside him. Bruce brewed an Americano, opened a journal article, and tried to disappear into academia.
Then a nurse knocked.
"Doctor, André in Room 5 won't stop yelling. He says he wants more morphine or he'll sue us."
Without looking up:
"Give it to him. Charge triple street price. If he keeps screaming, make it five times."
Bruce nearly choked on his coffee.
"Byrd on the third floor wants painkillers. Kept everyone up last night."
"Tell him the dealer fell off the railing yesterday. Headfirst. No inventory."
"And Room Six…" Schiller flipped a chart. "…Hall? Gall? Whoever's connected. Let him send someone in. We keep seventy percent."
The nurse left.
Before Bruce could speak, the phone rang.
Schiller answered without breaking eye contact with his file.
"Whiskey cut off? Yes, the last bottle's mine. Who claimed to run a bar? Fourth floor, Room One? Tell him to run a line from his place. And if he sends watered-down swill, I'll write him a permanent psych hold order."
Hang up. Dial again.
"No hitmen inside. Ever. Entry pass: $100K. Inpatient gate: $50K. Add $30K per floor above three for wear and tear. Buy the full package, I'll throw in a patrol schedule."
Another call.
"EEG machine broken? Does Five-Two belong to East Side's Old Band? He donates a new one, takes his man home. I'll have a clean discharge note ready."
Phone rings.
"No deal? Tell him the twins' south offered half a million—non-exclusive. Refuse, and he gets zero from the hospital liquor trade."
Another ring.
"No. Security's under Falcone now. If he wants to storm the place, tell him the Don says hello."
Finally, silence.
Bruce seized the pause. "Professor… isn't this—"
Phone rings.
Schiller answers:
"How many tomorrow? No. Not that little vulture. Worthless. Worse than his father. Send him to Blackgate. We don't take junk."
Pause.
"He took over the empire? Fine. Second floor, Room Seven. Diagnosis letter? Separate fee."
Another pause.
"Push the other three to next month. A judge can fake food poisoning. Fifth floor's full."
Longer pause.
"A cop? Corrupt, got caught? We treat mental illness. Not stupidity. Tell him to go beg his old boss."
One more.
"Who? No. He's in custody? Then have the police return the evidence. Talk to Bullock. He'll understand."
Silence.
Schiller hangs up. Looks up.
Bruce stares. His expression is complex — shock, yes, but also recognition. Like a man realizing the monster isn't under the bed.
It's running the house.
"Don't look at me like that," Schiller says. "The hospital runs smoothly, doesn't it?"
"But—"
"I made a deal with Falcone. He uses the Black Glove to provoke high-value gangs. The commissioner arrests them. I sign the psych evals. Once they're in? Whoever pays more gets access."
Bruce stares.
Schiller spreads his hands.
"What? Did you think I was some noble idealist? Like Harvey Dent?"
A beat.
"What gave you that idea?"
—
For days, Bruce watches.
Schiller doesn't join Gotham's game.
He rewrites the rules.
He doesn't adapt.
He ascends.
And the results? Undeniable.
The gangs bleed money.
Arkham stabilizes.
Staff walk safely.
Even inmates behave.
Bruce does rounds. One mob boss thanks him. Another offers a cigar. A third whispers, "Tell Doc we can get Cuban tobacco through the docks. Just say the word."
One evening, Schiller stands in a ward beside a woman who has lost both legs.
"Not bad," he says, calm. "Medication's working. Mania will fade soon."
She lies still. Numb. Unresponsive.
He speaks anyway.
"Cases are piling up. But don't worry. Your treatment's almost done."
He turns.
Batman stands behind him.
Dark. Still. A shadow with a voice.
"How did she end up here?" Batman asks.
"They fixed her body," Schiller says. "Saw her through amputation. But she has congenital psychiatric issues. She was admitted afterward."
He studies Bruce. The cowl hides the face, but not the tension.
"You seem surprised," Schiller says. "Did you really think I only dealt with gangsters? What gave you that impression?"
Batman says nothing.
Schiller adjusts the bed and pulls the blanket up.
Then, without turning:
"Are you disappointed? In this ungrateful city? In people who can't be saved—and won't let anyone else be saved either?"
Batman's voice is low. Hollow.
"Do you think the bat-signal was a mistake?"
Schiller pauses.
Then:
"Don't despair. A black sun is still a sun. Bats don't light beacons. But in the dark… the light they kindle is still light."
A cold, fluorescent glow washes over the white sheets. Schiller smooths the corner of the blanket.
Outside, Gotham flickers — weak, distant, dying.
He turns toward the window.
Moonlight stretches his shadow long behind him.
Batman looks up.
On the wall, on the ceiling — a vast silhouette: pointed ears, wings spread, a bat carved from darkness.
Bats don't light beacons.
He has no lamp for himself.
No one has ever lit a light for him.
But now, this bat chooses to learn.
To kindle a flame in the endless night.
To burn — however faintly — for a city beyond saving.
Batman looks out at the scattered lights below.
So few. So dim.
If this absurd city never sees another sunrise…
Then at least, on the eve of its end,
There will be this.
A light that serves no purpose.
A light that changes nothing.
A light that burns relentlessly.
A light… kindled by a bat.