"It was one of those Gotham mornings—neither clear nor warm. A chilly wind slipped through the cracks in the window, carrying damp mist onto the balcony, where beads of condensation formed and glittered faintly in the lamplight.
Schiller sat at his office desk, grading a stack of student papers. A file slid across from the desk beside him. He set down the assignment in his hands and glanced at the document.
"Campus alcohol ban? Which little genius decided to dig themselves this hole?" Schiller asked.
His colleague Anna, standing at the water dispenser with her arms on her hips, replied, "Obviously, our brilliant new principal. And I don't mean brilliant as in smart—I mean brilliant as in delusional."
Before Schiller could ask further, Mrs. Murphy, the principal's plump assistant, waddled in and tapped on the door.
"Professor Schiller, the principal would like to see you."
Schiller rose, but Mrs. Murphy came closer, patted his arm, and whispered, "Watch yourself—he's a real handful."
The new principal had only arrived a few days earlier. His name was Sheldon Smith, a Democrat-leaning white man who once ran the administration at Princeton. For reasons nobody quite understood, he had chosen to abandon that cushy post and take up the thankless job of running Gotham University.
The moment Schiller entered, Smith tapped his desk, gesturing for him to sit. He was the picture of a classic American administrator—energetic, leonine, puffed up with self-importance.
"I trust you've seen my directive," Smith said. "Yes, the alcohol ban is absolutely necessary."
"I can't believe this school ever allowed brewery trucks to roll right up to the gates. Outrageous! If this is the mess my predecessor left behind, then I'll clean it up—starting now!"
"You know," Smith continued, "in a case like this, we must be firm. With your background, Professor Schiller, surely handling a few students won't be harder than handling serial killers, right?"
Schiller caught the subtext instantly: I want to make a show of authority, and you'll be my enforcer.
He smiled lightly. "Of course, of course…" Then his tone cooled.
"But truthfully, dealing with anyone in this world is never harder than dealing with those lunatics from serial homicide cases."
Smith heard the warning beneath his words. He wasn't a fool—certainly sharper than the last principal. He forced a smile.
"I've heard about the incidents before my arrival, but that doesn't concern me. What this place needs is a new order, and a new manager to enforce it."
Schiller's lips curved faintly. "Your ambitions are admirable. Establishing order in Gotham—why, I should applaud the goal."
"Not Gotham—Gotham University," Smith snapped. "This will be my domain. I won't waste time with platitudes about 'responsibility to students.' The truth is simple: the last principal was a coward and a fool. That's why he's gone. But me? I'm different!"
As he spoke, he jabbed fingers, gestured wildly, pounding the desk with his fingertips in rhythm—like a caricature of a U.S. politician on the campaign trail.
Schiller checked his watch. "My class is about to begin. Still, since it's the new principal's assignment, I'll make sure the task is completed thoroughly."
With that, he left. Smith frowned at Schiller's retreating back. His instincts told him—this professor would not be easy to handle.
The very next day, a withdrawal notice landed on Bruce Wayne's desk.
It read:
"…Due to repeated incidents of drinking on campus, hosting gatherings with alcoholic beverages, and documented evidence that more than 50 students consumed alcohol you purchased, I regret to inform you, Mr. Wayne, that your enrollment is hereby terminated. You must vacate your dormitory within three days. —Professor Schiller Rodriguez."
The following morning, Smith sat in his office with his head in his hands, panic in his eyes.
"This… this is not what I meant by 'firm'!" he stammered at Schiller. "Yes, I wanted strong action, but not this strong. This is… too much!"
Inside, the new principal cursed furiously. What kind of lunatic is this man? How could he dare send Bruce Wayne—heir to the Wayne fortune—a notice of expulsion?! The Waynes pour billions into this school every year!
Without them, my position is worthless!
And Bruce wasn't exactly known for being gentle. Rumor painted him as reckless, indulgent, hard to deal with. Did Schiller really not fear provoking the richest man in the world?
But Schiller sat there with the same detached smile.
"I believe correction requires overcorrection. If we're bold enough to expel Bruce Wayne, then no student will dare ignore your alcohol ban. Isn't that right?"
Smith's jaw opened, then closed. He had no words. In fact, Schiller's reasoning was… uncomfortably solid.
Who was the school's worst offender, if not Bruce Wayne—the student most brazen about drinking in daylight, about causing drunken chaos on campus? And indeed, if he could be expelled, others would fall in line without a peep.
But still—what kind of private university president dares expel the chairman of their own board?!
The president didn't dare. But Schiller did. He'd be glad to see Bruce gone, sparing Gotham University from future Joker-class disasters.
Smith wiped sweat from his brow. "First… let's retrieve that letter of expulsion—"
"I never retract what I've written," Schiller cut him off. "But as principal, you can always call him yourself. Have him deliver the letter back to my office."
Then he mimicked Smith, tapping the desk.
"Principal, I'm a teacher. You don't expect me to bow and scrape to a misbehaving student, do you? Wooing the board is your job, not mine. My job is teaching. Wayne or not, no one runs wild in my classroom."
"Oh—and tell him, if I ever catch the scent of alcohol in my class again, I'll throw him out on the spot. No excuses."
Madness. Utter madness, Smith thought.
What is this man's obsession with antagonizing Bruce Wayne—the world's richest man?
"Your stubbornness shocks me," Smith muttered darkly at last. "Let's hope you can keep that hard spine of yours."
Schiller smiled faintly.
"I will. After all, I've faced deranged killers and monsters in countless major cases. Compared to them, Bruce Wayne is just a newborn foal. I only hope he learns to stand before he tries to run."
The principal stared at Schiller—his sickly pale complexion, those gray eyes behind the lenses, wreathed in something like endless mist.
After Schiller left, Smith pressed a button under his desk, replaying the recorder he'd hidden.
A spoiled rich boy won't endure such insults forever, he thought. The things Schiller said today—they might as well be etched on his tombstone.
If one expulsion notice wasn't enough to ignite Bruce's fury, then Smith would add more fuel. Surely, after hearing these recordings, Bruce Wayne's pride would boil over.
After all, no matter Schiller's talents, he could never match the power of capital. The Wayne family had a thousand ways to erase a professor from existence. Even if Bruce himself wasn't that ruthless, he would hardly tolerate repeated humiliation.
But when Bruce received the recording, his reaction was strange. He wasn't angry. Not at all.
In fact, even if it hadn't been Schiller, Bruce wouldn't have been furious. He was not as impulsive or reckless as he pretended.
Instead, as he listened, he felt an odd relief. At least Schiller hadn't buried him under another barrage of impossible, unanswerable questions—or hounded him with that biting sarcasm he used when chasing Bruce for overdue homework.
Bruce frowned at himself. This reaction is wrong. How could my expectations be so low? Shouldn't I only be satisfied if he praised me?
But then he sighed. So what? What does it matter?
He tossed the recorder onto his desk, ruffled his hair. Yes, he had to admit it—part of him imagined maybe Schiller's shift in tone was a sign that Batman's recent work in Gotham had been effective.
Still, Batman had no time for self-pity. He quickly returned to the real problem.
This new principal's hostility toward Schiller wasn't random. He seemed to know more than he should—about Schiller's role in the trial of the previous principal.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. This wasn't about order at Gotham University—it was about turning the university into Smith's personal fiefdom. And Schiller, with his dangerous edge, was naturally the first target.
The next day, Schiller began class as usual. He didn't spare Bruce a glance, simply opened his book and started lecturing.
Watching through the classroom cameras, Smith frowned. Why hasn't Wayne retaliated? What's going on here?
After all, the Playboy persona Bruce wore had always invited trouble. He'd punched out plenty of classmates. Beating a professor might be improper, but for the richest man alive, there was no one he couldn't strike, no one he couldn't afford to strike.
And then Smith saw the impossible: Bruce turned in a stack of papers—thick enough to actually be three thousand words.
Bruce Wayne. Doing homework.
At Gotham University, what professor would even dare demand such a thing? Who would dare give him less than a perfect grade?
Smith hurried to the university's grading system. His eyes went wide—Schiller had given Bruce less than two points on assignments. Overall, he was failing miserably. The teacher's comment read:
"As a billionaire, he's certainly diligent about enjoying life. As a student, he's absolutely terrible."
Smith's hand trembled. This wasn't some hidden internal note—this was on the official system, visible to every student at semester's end.
Scrolling further, he found Bruce's own comment on Schiller's page:
"I promise I'll finish all assignments next semester. If I do, could you raise my assignment grade by two points? Or at least 1.8? If I score above 90 on the final, I sincerely hope my credits won't be completely docked. Even losing just one would be fine."
It was practically the academic equivalent of: "Teacher, please carry me, just a little."
Smith slammed the laptop shut, face dark. The indignity was unbearable. So many people dreamed of currying favor with Wayne Enterprises for profit—and here was Bruce himself, kowtowing to a professor.
Clearly, Schiller had him in check.
Smith clenched his fists. One way or another, Schiller had to go. If Smith wanted influence over Bruce Wayne, he needed to be irreplaceable. And Schiller was the biggest obstacle in his way.
Meanwhile, Bruce found himself growing increasingly annoyed with the new principal.
When he'd returned the expulsion notice, Schiller might as well have scrawled "Hurry up and leave" across his face.
Things had been running smoothly enough before Smith arrived—communication with Schiller, cooperation with Gordon, all useful connections for Batman's work.
Now this principal had stirred things up with his alcohol ban, giving Schiller an excuse to push Bruce toward expulsion. Of course Bruce was displeased."