Gordon undid a button at the collar of his shirt, twisted his neck to relax his shoulders, and then turned to look out at the pitch-black rainy night in Gotham, still cold and damp as ever. His colleagues were exchanging greetings as they left the police station after work. One of them said to Gordon, “Hey, man, you really shouldn’t have taken that tricky case — dozens of disappearances? You’re probably going to be sifting through files until midnight again tonight.”

Gordon smiled wryly and replied, “You said it, dozens of disappearances; I have to pay attention.” After all his colleagues left, Gordon made himself a strong cup of coffee, planning to work through the night. The disappearances in the Mosenge District were very peculiar; in previous cases of disappearance, even if they were done discreetly, some of the deceased victims' bodies would still be found. Yet among the 46 people missing from Mosenge Street, not a single body had turned up on the streets of Gotham, which was highly abnormal.

Gotham has never been a city that upholds the law; the gangs here are as numerous as the stars, and no seasoned gang member would bother with the trouble of disposing of bodies. They would simply throw the bodies down from a building, knowing it wouldn’t fool the police, but the police are powerless in Gotham. Among the dozens of missing persons from the Mosenge District, there were people from all professions, and they had almost no common patterns; the only commonality was that they were all residents of the Mosenge District.

At this time, Gordon was still young; he was just a minor officer in the police department, far from being chief. This case, which no one wanted to take on, this hot potato, was ultimately taken up by the justice-minded Gordon, even though he knew it was likely to be a thankless job. Nevertheless, he intended to do his best to seek justice for the victims.

As he stayed up late organizing files and was already exhausted, he suddenly sensed movement behind him. When he turned around, a large shadow loomed over him, and Gordon immediately reached for his waist, but his gun wasn’t there. The person facing him was dressed in a tight black suit, with two pointed ears on his head and a black cape draped over him. He was tall enough to nearly block out all the light from above. Gordon cautiously asked, “Who are you? Why are you in the police station?”

“You can consider me a vigilante. I’m investigating the disappearances in the Mosenge District. I noticed you went there today and yesterday as well; you should be the detective in charge of this case, and I hope to obtain the files on the missing persons.”

Just as Gordon was about to refuse, the figure spoke again: “Of course, I also have some clues I can exchange with you, or I could work with you to solve this case.” A vigilante? Gordon thought. This is absurd; there can’t be such a person in Gotham City; otherwise, it wouldn’t be called the city of crime.

Gordon’s first encounter with Batman was not pleasant. They faced off in the police station for a long time. Clearly, the newly arrived Batman hadn’t grasped the essence of leaving before a conversation was finished; he and Gordon stalled for a long time until he finally became impatient. Batman found himself quite unlucky; there were countless negligent police officers in Gotham, yet he happened to encounter the most serious one. Gordon was even determined to protect those files with his life. Batman didn’t want to harm him, so he had no better solution.

After cleaning up the Sewers Gang, Batman was deeply shaken by the experience with the beggar. Although he eventually saved the beggar, it was evident that he reflected on his actions and began to focus less on grand ambitions and more on simple beginnings. This was the starting point of his superhero journey: the Mosenge District. Besides the Sewers Gang, it was also not peaceful here; the number of disappearances in the Mosenge District had reached a very dangerous figure. With only a few hundred permanent residents, over forty people had gone missing, and Batman was determined to treat this case as the starting point of his debut.

And of course, he had suspects to consider. A university professor sneaking around the gang-infested streets of Gotham in the middle of the night, appearing and disappearing for no reason — who could be more suspicious than that? Batman had thought about directly confronting Schiller, but he knew he would have a hard time besting the professor in conversation. He had lost to Schiller in their two previous encounters and felt he needed to gather sufficient evidence before bringing him to justice.

One day, Batman returned to the Mosenge District. Unable to obtain the missing persons files from Gordon, he decided to sneak into the home of one of the missing persons to find some other clues. Just as he climbed through the window, he spotted Schiller's figure under a streetlight not far below, holding a black umbrella and looking at the wall across from him. Batman noticed Schiller was staring at the spot where the former beggar had stayed, but the beggar was no longer there. Batman had taken the beggar to Gotham’s best hospital, covering all his medical expenses. Although the beggar had lost both legs, at least he was alive.

Because the beggar had leaned against that wall for years, a dark stain had formed there, with rainwater pooling in the spot where he used to sit, reflecting the dim yellow light from the streetlamp. Schiller stood across the street, gazing at that puddle, lost in thought. The young Batman ultimately couldn’t contain his impatience and jumped down, appearing in front of Schiller.

“Good evening, Batman. I remember you calling yourself that last time, so I’ll call you that as well.” Batman’s eyes, hidden beneath his mask, fixed intently on Schiller as he said, “Don’t beat around the bush with me; you know why I’m here.”

“You’re here to be a savior, I know, like when you saved that poor beggar.”

“Were the disappearances in the Mosenge District your doing?” Batman asked.

Schiller shook his head, and Batman replied, “You are the only outsider here, and you have no reason to be here.”

Schiller said, “Clearly, you already have an answer in your mind; why still ask me? You have a knack for turning things you are sure of into questions to ask others.”

“If you get an answer you’re satisfied with, you’ll be pleased, but if you don’t get the answer you want, you’ll become very angry.”

“If I say I’m not the murderer, you would feel angry, but your anger doesn’t stem from a sense of justice; it only arises because I didn’t give you the answer you wanted.”

“You think you can foresee everything, right?” Schiller asked.

“I said, don’t beat around the bush with me. You are the only one with suspicion here…” Before Schiller could respond, he noticed a bat-shaped projectile flying past his neck. He seemed to have underestimated the situation. Whether it was Batman now or later, although they don’t kill, they often beat up criminals without hesitation, even breaking their legs before sending them to the hospital.

However, it was evident that this young Batman was still missing a step. Schiller was silent for a moment before another bat-shaped projectile flew past, grazing his neck. This time, Schiller didn’t use his spider sense to dodge; he simply stared at Batman quietly. The projectile left a cut on his neck, and blood began to flow down his shoulder, soaking his shirt. Suddenly, a series of hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the alley, and a voice shouted, “Stop!”

Batman turned to look toward the end of the alley; under the streetlight, Gordon was aiming his gun at the two of them. “Hello, Detective Gordon,” Schiller said. Detective Gordon approached slowly, gun drawn, saying, “Put down your weapons and don’t move.”

Schiller raised his hands to show he had no weapon, while Batman tucked the bat-shaped projectile he was holding away. As Gordon got closer, he noticed the blood flowing down Schiller’s neck, staining his shirt.

Schiller said, “Batman, you made a mistake. You said I’m the only one with suspicion, but clearly, this detective doesn’t think so.”

“Besides me, the only one with no motive to be here is you.”

“I’m here to investigate the missing persons case,” Batman said.

“Well, so am I,” Schiller replied, “but clearly, you’re not any nobler than I am, because we’re not police officers. I believe only Detective Gordon here has the authority to do so.”

“I will find evidence,” Batman asserted.

“If you also need evidence, how are you any different from the police?” Schiller suddenly asked.

Batman was momentarily speechless. He had assumed Schiller would ask him for evidence; he also knew that although Schiller was in a place he shouldn’t be, that couldn’t serve as evidence of his guilt. So he was determined to find clues to prove that Schiller was the murderer.

But Schiller’s question hit the mark. Batman thought that he had always regarded the police as utterly useless because they always insisted on evidence. Even if a murder took place right in front of them, they wouldn’t arrest the most suspicious person unless they saw the killer.

That was how it was when his parents died; not a single police officer provided the necessary explanation, nor was anyone brought to justice. His parents died, yet no one paid the price. He wondered, if he needed evidence too, why didn’t he just become a police officer at the Gotham Police Department?

But if he didn’t need evidence and could arrest anyone at will, how was he any different from a criminal? Batman regretted it; he shouldn’t have approached Schiller to talk. Every conversation with Schiller made him waver, and this kind of psychological and conscious wavering was the most terrifying.

After every encounter with Schiller, Batman would have to return to think deeply for at least two or three days, to reflect on the question he posed, find his own answer, strengthen his confidence, and then be able to go out and act again. He felt it was no different from attending a university lecture, where the teacher posed a question, and the students thought for themselves, later writing it into a paper. The next time they met, besides checking the assignments, there would be new questions waiting for him, one question after another, as if there was no end.

And Schiller was also secretly complaining to himself that this Jonathan was quite capable. After Schiller stole most of the fear toxin, it not only didn’t slow down his research speed but also drove him to crazily kidnap test subjects, leaving Schiller unable to sleep at night, having to clean up this mess.