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When Gordon came to his senses, the room was dark except for a small lamp. Schiller dozed in a chair beside the bed; at the slightest rustle, he awoke, removed his glasses, and said, "I told you you'd come around on my watch."
Gordon couldn't speak while wearing the respirator. Schiller added, "You're in bad shape. I'm sorry. We fought for you for twenty-odd hours to keep you here, and whether you'll fully recover is still unclear."
Gordon knew that voice—the kind that made panic sit down and behave.
He blinked. That was all he could manage.
Schiller yawned. "Remember to thank your partner. He arrived in time. Saved your life."
A pause. Then: "I'm sorry, too. The people hunting you were likely after me to begin with."
Gordon shifted his head slightly. He knew hired killers weren't personal. If Maroni hadn't used these men, he'd have found others.
The door opened. Harvey stepped in. "He's awake?"
Schiller nodded and stood. "Your turn. I am going to get some rest."
As he left, Schiller glanced back. The detective—usually wired with restless energy—looked hollow. Body broken. Mind frayed. The kind of exhaustion that didn't heal overnight.
The hospital corridor was pitch black. Only the echo of Schiller's leather soles broke the silence.
Outside, a sedan waited at the curb. A broad-shouldered man in a suit opened the rear door. Schiller slid inside. "Put on some jazz."
A light, upbeat swing filled the car, cutting through the weight like a warm knife. City lights flickered past the windows.
He closed his eyes. Drifted off.
The driver wasn't expecting that. This professor, he thought, is built differently.
By the time they arrived, Schiller's drowsiness had deepened. He climbed a wooden staircase into the room.
Falcone sat behind a large desk, immaculate in a tailored suit. Evans stood behind him, dressed in formal wear—like a shadow learning to wear a tie.
Schiller took the chair opposite. Traced a small cross on his chest. "Good evening, Godfather."
Falcone gestured. The big man brought out a box of cigars. Schiller started to decline, but Falcone said, "I'm told, you like cigars. So do I. Come, share one."
Schiller leaned back, fatigue plain on his face, and accepted. Evans stepped forward and lit it for him.
"I've never seen you in formal wear," Schiller said, glancing at Evans. "At a ball, you'll have girls queueing around the block."
Evans gave a modest smile. Stepped back.
"You've changed," Falcone said. He took a shallow draw from his cigar and let the smoke clear before speaking. "I knew you weren't Gotham when we first met. You're getting close now. That's good."
"When you treat this place as hostile," Schiller said, "everyone becomes an enemy. When you call it home, you find your kind."
"Maybe because everyone is a criminal in waiting," Schiller added.
"What surprises me," Falcone said, "is that you haven't asked why I haven't dealt with Maroni."
"Maroni isn't necessary," Schiller said, voice low.
Falcone almost smiled. "You never stop surprising me. I've met many men, many geniuses. They wear humility like armor. Their respect? Fear of my guns."
"And yet," Schiller said, "the fear you command isn't from bullets."
"You've shown me what psychology can do," Falcone said, letting the cigar burn. "You always seem to give me the answer I want."
"I want Evans to learn its core," Falcone went on. "But he doesn't have the gift."
"His grades are acceptable," Schiller said, tapping ash. "Works hard. Good student."
"And that's all, isn't it?"
Schiller didn't react to the shadow that crossed Evans' face. "That's a blessing, Godfather. Study psychology to the end, and you only get two outcomes: madness or death."
Falcone studied him. "You don't seem to have chosen either."
"Maybe I chose both."
The sweet, heavy smoke pulled at his eyelids. The world blurred into a white haze.
"I know Evans is far from it," Falcone said softly. "He's like his mother. Not entirely good. Not entirely bad. That's the dangerous kind."
"What do you want him to be?" Schiller asked. Then, before Falcone could answer, "Or do you want him to be Godfather?"
Silence.
It held an answer. One he wouldn't say aloud.
Is being a godfather a good thing?
After decades in the seat, Falcone still couldn't say yes.
"How's the cop?" he finally asked.
"He's badly injured. It'll be a long road," Schiller said.
"Even if he sides with Maroni. I wouldn't fault him," Falcone said. "Men like that have no other choices. Join or die. The fact that he held out this long? Astonishing."
"Not to be rude, but he's not standing for you."
"Then what? Why refuse Maroni if he doesn't fear me?"
"Because Maroni told him to stop arresting criminals."
"So?"
"He's a cop. He believes cops arrest criminals. That's the job."
"A naive idea," Falcone mused. "In this city, it's almost absurd. Good men don't live long—especially in Gotham."
"Which is why I'll be the longest-lived tutor you've ever hired."
Falcone closed his eyes. After a long breath: "Evans. Kill Maroni. Yourself."
Evans tightened his jaw. "Yes, Father."
"The Metropolis people," Falcone said, "I'll handle them."
"No need," Schiller said.
"What are you planning?"
"I've been doing well financially. A high-end mercenary just agreed to take my offer."
"I'll cover the cost," Falcone said.
"Under your name. God bless Gotham."
Yes, Falcone was old.
And he loved his son.
He'd never shown anyone this level of deference. In his prime, he didn't have to. No one dared ask.
Now, inviting Schiller here, speaking like this—it meant something.
Sleep pulled harder. Falcone saw him sag, eyelids fluttering shut.
He exhaled. "Take your teacher home, Evans."
Evans nodded. Falcone stood and looked out the window.
The night was calm. From the estate, he could see the coast—the lighthouse pulsing a thin, steady beam.
Forty years gone. Friends and enemies alike were buried. His era ended with Gotham's last golden age.
Only the lighthouse remained. Watching. Waiting. Like him.
Evans stood behind him. In the lamplight, his father's silhouette was straight as a blade. The suit fell exactly as it always did.
Falcone crushed out the cigar. "I hope he really is the longest-lived tutor."
—
On the East Side docks, the sea mirrored the lighthouse beam. Waves rolled like schools of gilded fish.
A freighter slipped into the dark.
Blood slicked the deck. Crewmen's bodies dropped into the cold Atlantic.
At the prow, a hulking man spat. "Lost men. Made no money. Total loss."
"Could've been worse," another said. "We're alive."
Before they cleared the harbor, a deep bell rang from the city. Seven strokes. The sound cracked the night.
The man scowled. "Who rings bells at midnight?"
"Who knows? Maybe they're saying goodbye."
A soft thump above.
Then—a black-and-gold figure landed on the mast, balanced like a king claiming his throne.
"I'll see you off, all right," he said.
"Deathstroke."
📝 FOOTNOTE
The Gotham Maritime Commission has issued a new advisory: "All freighters must now carry at least one 'dramatic exit fog machine.'" "Moreover, if you hear a deep bell toll seven times at night, do not look up. Seriously. Just sail faster."
Alfred folds a newspaper.
Looks at a photo of Bruce, age fifteen.
Murmurs:
"One day, sir, you'll learn.
The most dangerous man in any room…
Is the one who already knows how the story ends."