The changes at Arkham didn't go unnoticed.
Every gang in Gotham—big, small, or barely breathing—eyed that asylum like a slab of meat.
Some wanted it for themselves.
But every plan against Schiller unraveled the second he turned their own webs against them.
Compared to Schiller, the gangs Bruce once feared looked downright dumb.
Their first idea? Assassination.
Classic. Predictable.
Even the smallest crew could scrape together a shooter or two.
But Schiller's deal with Falcone had opened a golden tap.
The old Don wasn't just making money.
He was building a dynasty.
He was aging. Tired.
But if this system held, his son Evans wouldn't inherit a crumbling empire.
He'd inherit a machine.
So Arkham became Fort Knox.
Schiller? The crown jewel.
Falcone hired elite security—men who didn't ask questions, just watched, waited, and shot.
Schiller's value wasn't just in profit.
It was in order.
Falcone saw it: this professor wasn't just playing the game.
He was rewriting the rules.
And whoever claimed the new table first would sit at the head.
The biggest snake in the grass was now guarding the rat.
Smaller snakes backed off.
Falcone had ruled the underworld for decades.
His body might be failing, but his shadow still choked the city.
Gangs were already weak.
None dared challenge him directly.
Fine. Can't kill Schiller?
Then remove him.
Replace him with one of their own.
Not everyone thought long-term.
Most only saw the numbers:
2% cut per psych hold
Control over smuggling routes
Power to silence rivals with a phone call
Sit in that chair, and your influence exploded overnight.
They couldn't take meat from the tiger's mouth.
But they could nibble at the edges.
And Gotham always had talent.
Soon, they found their pawn: President Smith.
Smith was unlucky.
Tried to balance Schiller by hiring Victor Fries.
Instead, Fries and Schiller bonded instantly.
Now they were inseparable.
Another plan is dead.
He barely caught his breath before the gangs came knocking.
Smith was an outsider.
No muscle. No allies.
In Gotham, that meant you were furniture until someone put a gun to your back.
He learned fast.
Refused a gang's offer?
Got shot walking home.
Not killed—just reminded.
Lying in the hospital, staring at cold-eyed enforcers, he got it:
If you have a gun, make sure you have more bullets.
If you don't, shut up and obey.
As GU president, he had power.
Administrative authority.
He could recall Schiller for "university business."
If Schiller refused? That was insubordination.
Perfect excuse.
He expected resistance.
Hoped for it.
That's when he'd pounce.
But Schiller?
Came back the next day.
Polite. Punctual. Flawless.
No fault to find.
Tasks were trivial—filing, archiving.
But Schiller did them while running Arkham remotely.
Smith had always been a voyeur.
Spied on Schiller's classes through campus cameras.
Now, he turned the lenses on the archives.
And what he heard made his blood freeze.
Day after day, Schiller took calls.
Names dropped like pebbles:
The Twins
The Loco Gang
The Cutters
Maroni
Hyena
The Captain
Twelve major families.
All checking in.
All are calling him.
Conversations laced with code:
"The shipment from the docks is delayed."
"The greenhouses need more fertilizer."
"Judge Wallace skipped dinner again."
Worst part?
They talked about controlling cops, judges, juries—like discussing the weather.
Then, one afternoon, Schiller said, calm as sea:
"If this mayor won't fix the traffic, replace him.
Half the blame is his. If he can't answer for it…
Then at least he has a life to answer with."
Smith nearly fainted.
He sat there, sweating, heart pounding.
And it got worse.
Schiller started mentioning things no outsider should know:
Falcone's early smuggling routes
Hidden plantations in the Narrows
Offshore accounts under fake names
Sheldon's mind snapped into overdrive.
When reality breaks, the brain rebuilds it.
He pieced it together:
Why Schiller dared to expel Bruce with zero fear
How he walked away from crime scenes unscathed
Why, even Falcone listened to him like a priest
Conclusion?
Schiller wasn't just a professor.
He was Gotham's architect.
Pulling strings. Controlling all twelve families.
The true source of the chaos.
Was he one man? A syndicate?
Who did he serve? What did he want?
Each question scared him more.
Yes, professors in Gotham had ties to gangs.
Cousins. Side gigs. Consulting.
Normal.
But no professor spoke to all the kings.
No professor stood beside Falcone like an equal.
The proof?
Schiller's tone.
Never nervous.
Never deferential.
Always calm.
Always in control.
Like the gangs weren't bosses.
They were employees.
Smith realized—he hadn't invited a storm.
He'd brought a black hole into his office.
Schiller had power over Gotham's deadliest men.
Yet he stayed in a cramped faculty apartment.
Why?
Why not live in the Heights?
Buy a mansion?
Disappear into luxury?
Only one answer:
There was something here he wanted.
Something Smith couldn't see.
Yes.
Schiller was a madman.
Gangs weren't people.
They were wolves.
Blood-soaked.
Hungry.
To work with one was dangerous.
To work with all of them?
Suicide.
But Schiller didn't just work with them.
He managed them.
Like pruning a garden of venomous plants.
Smith, fresh from learning how ruthless the wolves were, thought Schiller insane.
It was like cutting one live wire from a nest of hundreds.
One wrong move—gone.
And he regretted everything.
Why bring Schiller back?
Why not let him rot in Arkham?
It was like throwing a bomb out the window—then chasing it down the street to carry it back inside.
Now, he prayed.
Prayed Schiller's games wouldn't blow up.
Prayed, if they did, the blast wouldn't reach the university.
Prayed, most of all, it wouldn't reach him.
Still, Smith had some cunning left.
He knew he had to act.
Next morning, Schiller arrived at the archives—ready to "work" while running Arkham from afar.
He stepped in.
Stopped.
The half-finished files from yesterday?
Gone.
Everything filed.
Neat.
Complete.
What the hell?
A phantom secretary?
Well, if the job was done, no reason to stay.
Coffee in hand, Schiller headed downstairs.
Ran into Smith.
Schiller raised his cup. "Morning."
Smith glared.
Dark circles.
Pale skin.
Didn't speak.
Pushed past.
Strange.
Schiller was used to the cold shoulder.
Ever since trying to expel Bruce, the man hadn't given him a kind look.
But today?
Today, Smith looked like he had been haunted.
And Schiller, sipping his coffee, thought:
Interesting.