The Ventriloquist sat against the wall.
A gun trembled in his hand — not with the calm steadiness of a killer, but with the helplessness of a prisoner waiting for the cell door to creak open.
At first glance, no one would ever believe that this frail, balding man in his late fifties was the infamous criminal mastermind whispered about in Gotham's underworld. His hunched shoulders and timid eyes made him look more like a frightened accountant than a threat.
Beside him, a group of hostages huddled together like quails in a storm. They were all employees of the Evidence Bureau. One security guard lay sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath, half his body soaked in blood.
He'd tried to fight back — but before he could even draw his weapon, the Ventriloquist had shot him through the hand.
"Oh, Mr. Sock…"
The old man murmured weakly. A white wool sock covered his left hand — a makeshift substitute for his lost puppet, Scarface.
"Was it really right to hurt him like that?" he whispered timidly to his own hand. "Look… he's bleeding."
"Enough, Mr. Ventriloquist. You're too soft."
The man's mouth didn't move, yet the words seemed to come from deep within his gut. His left hand moved, the sock's mouth opening and closing — like a talking snake made of wool. The sight was both pitiful and unnerving.
"You idiot!" the sock hissed. "Without hostages, how are we supposed to get Scarface back? You want to play the saint now? That cop asked for it! As long as they behave, I won't hurt them. Isn't that fair?"
"Shut up!" the old man cried softly, tears welling in his eyes. "Batman could burst in any moment!"
He began to sob quietly, not daring to defy the "voice" of Mr. Sock — even apologizing miserably to the wounded guard.
"I'm sorry…"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A loud knock thundered at the door.
The Ventriloquist instantly raised his gun toward the hostages. Mr. Sock's voice took over again, low and filled with manic hostility — like a wild beast defending its den.
"I warned you! If anyone comes in, I'll—"
"Knock knock," came a calm voice from the other side. "It's Batman."
Arnold Wesker froze. Every hair on his body stood on end. He knew that voice — it was Batman. But something felt… off.
Everyone in Gotham knew Batman never used the front door.
And he definitely didn't knock.
Mr. Sock's "head" whipped toward the sound, the puppet's mouth curling like a predator baring fangs. The old man crouched, ready to fire the second the door opened—
"Come on, open up," the voice purred from behind the door.
"Let Daddy Batman feed you the sweet milk of justice~."
"???"
The absurdity hit like a truck. The Ventriloquist froze, his brain momentarily blue-screening.
That moment of stunned confusion was all Chen Tao needed.
By the time he pushed the door open, the old man hadn't even pulled the trigger.
"You—Batman, you…" the Ventriloquist stammered, snapping back to reality. But the moment had already passed.
"Scarface!"
The wooden puppet was suddenly between them, blocking the gun. The Ventriloquist's finger twitched helplessly — as if glued in place.
"You bastard, let me go!"
And then another voice spoke — deeper, darker, filled with a cold venom that dripped into the air like ink.
If Mr. Sock was a deranged thug, this new voice was pure shadow — the darkest side of Arnold's fractured mind given form.
The timid old man vanished.
He rose to his feet, his back straightening, his chest swelling, muscles taut.
It was as if a demon had crawled inside his fragile frame.
His mouth stayed shut. The sock opened and closed, vibrating the air with a growl:
"Give Scarface back to us—"
"No. Don't do it. I've already spoken with Batman."
The Ventriloquist froze.
That voice… it came from Scarface.
Chen Tao's lips didn't move.
You think you're the only one who can throw his voice?
In his past life, he'd been an actor.
Imitating voices was child's play.
When they first faced each other, the Ventriloquist should have pulled the trigger instantly — but he hadn't.
That tiny hesitation had doomed him.
Now, it was Chen Tao's stage.
---
Mr. Sock sensed danger and screamed: "Shoot him!"
But Scarface's voice interrupted:
"Don't. I talked to Batman already. You're a good man, Arnold. All the bad things you've done — they were my fault."
"No, no! That's not me talking! Pull the trigger!"
"Yes! Listen to Scarface — shoot!"
"No! As Scarface, I order you to obey Batman!"
"STOP!"
Four voices clashed in a chaotic chorus — Chen Tao's ventriloquism against the real Ventriloquist's.
Their duel was psychological warfare, sound against sound.
That was the Ventriloquist's fatal weakness: his split personalities fed on confusion and paranoia.
Chen Tao used it against him, mimicking Scarface's tone and rhythm perfectly, alternating lines until the poor man couldn't tell which voice was real anymore.
---
As the argument spiraled into madness, Chen Tao unzipped a large duffel bag filled with hand puppets of every shape and color.
Arnold's eyes flickered toward them instinctively. "Wha… what are those?"
"Therapy," Chen Tao said.
Then he reached in with a sudden motion.
"Damn it!"
Arnold's gun jerked toward him — but too late.
Scarface's "voice" gave a conflicting command.
The result: paralysis.
By the time Arnold realized what had happened, Chen Tao already had the sock puppet in his own hand.
Weapon disarmed.
---
"No! Mr. Sock!!" the Ventriloquist screamed, lunging forward in horror.
Without his puppet, he was nothing — just a small, trembling man.
Chen Tao kicked him aside like trash. "You're safe now," he told the hostages. "Get out."
"Eee—ahhhh!!"
The hostages didn't need telling twice. They bolted, screaming and stumbling over each other. Even the wounded guard miraculously found the strength to run, clutching his bleeding hand and shrieking all the way out.
Chen Tao kept his face unreadable — cold, emotionless, the perfect Batman mask — until the hall was empty. Then he walked over to Arnold, lifted the pathetic sock… and tore it apart before his eyes.
"Nooooo!"
Arnold wailed like a man watching his family die.
He collapsed to his knees, clutching the shredded fabric.
"Mr. Sock! No! Take me with you! Don't leave me!"
But before he could continue sobbing, Chen Tao grabbed him by the collar and slapped him twice, hard.
"Enough! Look — what's this?"
"Scarface!"
Arnold reached out instinctively — and crack!
Chen Tao twisted the wooden puppet in half, then stomped on it until it splintered.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!"
"Get up!" Chen Tao barked, yanking him upright again. Two more slaps followed, snapping him out of his hysterical fit by force.
Then Chen Tao shoved him down on the bag of puppets.
"Stop clinging to the old ones. Try something new. There's dozens in there — take your pick."
Arnold sat dazed, eyes empty.
His world had collapsed.
His two "protector" personalities — Mr. Sock and Scarface — had been destroyed before his eyes.
And so, trembling, he reached into the bag.
His hand closed around a random puppet.
A moment later, a new voice began to whisper from deep inside his stomach…
---
Ventriloquist Syndrome — severe dissociative identity disorder — creates "protector" personalities meant to defend the fragile core self, Arnold Wesker.
But both of his protectors had just been violently erased.
That left him terrified and exposed.
In that vulnerable state, his mind instinctively sought something — anything — to protect him.
He would grab the nearest object, project a new personality into it, and create yet another "guardian," just as he once did with Mr. Sock.
But what happens when he's suddenly surrounded by dozens of puppets?