A cool morning breeze tapped the branches outside. Orange light seeped through heavy curtains, spilling across the floor like syrup.
Knock on the bedroom door.
"Sir," the butler said, "Mr. Gordon called about ten minutes ago. I told him you'd return his call when you were up."
"…Got it." Schiller's voice was rough, half-buried in sheets.
He sat up. Shook off sleep. Walked to the window. One hand pulled back the curtain.
Outside, a milkman rang his bell. A houseman stepped out, took the tin.
This was West Gotham—a manor house, Schiller's new home.
The university apartments had been fine. But it was time to buy.
This part of the city was old. Built by British nobles during the first waves of Atlantic migration. Stone walls. Oak floors. Lawns are frozen under frost.
Most families had vanished. Their descendants moved south. Left these houses hollow.
Schiller bought one of the best-kept—for a price so low it felt like theft.
He hadn't chosen the southern Heights—not because he couldn't afford them, but because he wasn't Bruce Wayne.
When traffic stalled, Bruce could hop in a chopper and fly over it.
Schiller would rather die than spend half his life idling in a car.
West Side had perks: quiet. Fewer neighbors. No early-morning engine roars.
And—critically—it was miles from Wayne Manor.
Even farther from the mountain where Bruce would one day dig a cave.
If Joker ever blew up the county, Schiller wouldn't be in the blast radius.
A while later, the butler returned. Drew the curtains.
"Breakfast is ready, sir."
Schiller nodded. Took his glasses. Checked his watch.
"When did Gordon call?"
"Twenty-five minutes ago."
Schiller glanced out at the gray winter light. Then went downstairs.
Wooden steps. Shadowed hall. At the end—the dining room.
Semicircular. Tall arched windows. Dark-green silk drapes. Peachwood table. Silverware glinting under the weak sun.
Window panes cast a grid on the tablecloth. Plates sat in the squares like coins in a vault.
He picked up the newspaper. Ink bled slightly. The headline read:
GOTHAM DAILY
JANUARY 25, 1987 — OVERCAST, RAIN IN THE AFTERNOON
He ate while scanning the tiny columns, magnifier in hand.
Footsteps.
"Mr. Gordon is here."
Schiller set down the lens.
Gordon entered—brown trench coat, beret, cold still clinging to his shoulders.
Saw the paper. Said, "You see the news? Falcone's furious. Banned Metropolis ships from the east docks."
"I'm reading it now," Schiller said, adjusting his glasses. "I was up late writing. Missed your call."
Gordon took off his coat. Handed it to the butler.
"Nothing urgent. Work's slow. Mostly called to say congrats on the move."
He grinned. "Oh—and your gift's still in the car."
"No rush. Eat something. Sit."
"Already ate at the precinct." He dropped a black briefcase on the table and flipped it open. "But I brought what you asked for."
Slid a file across.
"Thanks." Schiller poured him a cup of hot milk. "Drink anyway."
Gordon didn't refuse.
He looked around. Silk curtains. Wool rugs. Stone fireplace crackling. Brass sconces. Narrow halls.
It felt like stepping into 1890.
"It suits you," he said.
"I thought you'd go for a villa. Something modern. Big garage. Room for a Lambo."
"It's not a fetish for English manors," Schiller said. "If I lived in the Heights, I'd miss every morning class. Gotham traffic would eat me alive."
Gordon sipped. "Tell me about it. Every shift, I get pinned at the central roundabout by guys who think flooring the gas in a circle of 100 cars is a test of airbag durability."
He scowled.
"I aced EVOC training. What good does it do?"
"Judging by your mood," Schiller said, "you were stuck awhile."
"I counted at least ten future F1 champions on the way over."
He shook his head.
"And our new commissioner pulled all the traffic cops for patrol duty. My unit got a bunch of rookies who think a badge is a hall pass."
"Put them back in orange vests," Schiller said. "Still, the rank-and-file are eating better. Credit the new boss."
Gordon rubbed his hands near the fire, energized.
"Speaking of eating better—I'm close to buying a condo by the precinct."
"You've saved that much?"
"Almost. Last week I made eighty grand. Next week won't be that high, but with a little more cash purchase."
"How?" Schiller looked up. "We barely had five cases. Fifty K max."
Gordon raised a brow.
"You're not local. In Gotham, everyone pays protection—even cops."
He leaned in.
"I run the field unit. My officers kick me fifteen percent."
"So you collect like a capo?" Schiller said, amused.
"You don't get it. If I don't take it, they panic. Here, taking money means I'll lead them tomorrow. No take? Means the job might vanish."
"I heard you're getting married. Is your fiancée in Gotham yet?"
"She's transferring from Metropolis. Corporate paperwork's a nightmare. Another week. Fine by me—I can lock in the condo. Give her a surprise."
Schiller shook out the paper.
"What do you want as a wedding gift? I'm rich now."
"Richer than Wayne?"
"If I were richer than Wayne," Schiller said dryly, "you wouldn't find me in this house."
Gordon laughed.
"If I hadn't made this much, I'd be in Hawaii instead of proposing."
"I thought you were married to the job."
"Not if I want to stay sane. You need a working body and a decent mood to survive this town."
Schiller opened a cedar box. Clipped a cigar. Handed it over.
The butler struck a match. Gordon lit up.
Schiller lit his own. Let the smoke curl.
"The Don's in a bad mood," Schiller said. "Some brave souls are testing his turf."
Gordon shifted, settling deeper.
"Why'd you want transient data? Metropolis sends you trouble? I hear that's where the crew messing with Falcone came from."
"If I told you the trouble followed me," Schiller said, "would you be surprised?"
"Not even a little." Gordon didn't blink. "First time I met you, I knew you were born to attract big trouble."
"Why?"
"Detective's instinct." He leaned forward. "I've seen all kinds of criminals. Petty thieves and real predators? Different species. The real ones don't scream in court. They carry a quiet. When you're with Batman…"
He paused.
"It's like watching a man talk to a mirror."
"You think I'm like him?"
"In some ways, no. In others…"
Gordon exhaled smoke.
"Uncanny."
"Keep that edge," Schiller said. "You'll be Gotham's savior."
Gordon tapped ash into the silver tray.
"The Don's in trouble. This crew has chops. Killed two Falcone bartenders. If he doesn't catch them fast, losing face will hurt worse than anything."
"The other families won't push him over it," Schiller said.
"Don't bet. Maroni's not dead. Made a fortune in the East Side mess. Might feel cocky enough to test the Don."
"He's looking to die." Schiller flicked ash. It fell like snow.
"Falcone will teach him manners."
"Maybe. But Falcone had him have old Commissioner Victor killed. Maroni tried to muscle into Arkham—got kicked out. He won't swallow that."
"East Side's jumpy. He needs a win to solidify his new crew."
"If he uses the Don as target practice," Schiller said, loosening his collar,
"he'll learn respect the hard way."
Gordon coughed. Looked at the silver tray's reflection through the smoke.
"Maroni's dangerous. And Falcone's old."
"You backing him?"
"The Don," Gordon said. "As long as he stands, Gotham doesn't spiral. Without him? Who knows?"
He left soon after. Busy season. Another month like this, and a house wouldn't be out of reach.
When the door closed, Schiller finished his cigar.
Smoke curled around his fingers.
It had been a long time since he'd let his mind idle like this.
In this city, peace lasted no longer than a match flame.
Until now, he'd never wanted a home.
He wasn't from Gotham.
He came from a country where order was law. Where nothing happened.
But cigar smoke—thicker, sweeter than cigarettes—rose in shifting shapes. Invited memory.
He couldn't recall, thinking back to Chicago, whether his first reaction to gunfire was shock…
…or excitement.
Only this: when the plane fell, when weightlessness and thin air pulled his life into focus, his years blurred like fog. Secrets dissolved with death.
If there is a God, Schiller thought, one who gives a man a second life—
That God knew him well.
Gotham is the world's sewer.
The good don't wash down here.
He watched the ember die. Smoke thinned. Shapes unraveled.
He'd known, the moment he woke in this body and learned he was in Gotham, that the thrill flooding his skull would burn away any hope of quiet.
Perhaps the dream of a dull, ordinary life had always been a lie—told by a man too skilled at lying to himself.
Until he saw Batman.
He remembered the first brush of his faint telepathy against the Bat's mind.
Gordon was right.
It was like looking into a mirror.
So he gave Batman the answer Batman most wanted to hear.
And almost eagerly, he put a period at the end of a life too dull to bear.
Now he was a Gothamite at last.
Winter, 1987.
On the first birthday of his second life.
📝 FOOTNOTE
[Note: In Gotham, "quiet neighborhood" is a contradiction in terms. Also, milkmen are the only people allowed to honk before 7 a.m. Violators are fed to the gargoyle colony behind City Hall.]