The cool autumn rain of Gotham drifted down, blurring the yellow haze beneath each streetlamp. Headlights cut through the corner, their cold beams spilling into the alley's dark end.
Neon lights shimmered across a black car as its door opened. The driver stepped out with a black umbrella, moved to the rear, and held the door open.
At the mansion entrance, waiters in crisp white shirts and champagne-colored vests rushed forward. They rolled out a carpet, ready for the guest. Leather shoes pressed against it as Schiller steadied himself on the doorframe and stepped out.
The moment he straightened up, he saw the guest ahead of him toss a massive dripping umbrella into the arms of a frail page boy. The umbrella soaked him completely, drawing quiet snickers from the doormen.
Schiller chose to carry his own umbrella as he walked toward the entrance. A blond manager hurried out, beaming.
"Professor Rodriguez, yes? The Don has been expecting you."
Before he could answer, Evans descended the staircase and warmly embraced him.
"Thank you, Professor Schiller. My coming-of-age party hardly deserves such trouble from you."
"It's nothing. Happy birthday."
As they spoke, Schiller noticed out of the corner of his eye that same frail boy struggling to fold the enormous umbrella. He was about Evans's age, but thin, with a hooked nose and sharp, brooding eyes. His awkward fumbling looked almost comical. Oddly, his cufflinks were fastened neatly—more suited to a guest than a servant.
Evans frowned at Schiller, still carrying his own umbrella. The manager, reading the moment, smacked the page boy on the back of the head and had someone else take the umbrella.
Schiller handed over his already-folded umbrella by the handle. The boy glanced up at him with clouded eyes, then lowered his head and took it meekly.
The interruption didn't slow the celebration. To Schiller's mild surprise, Bruce Wayne also attended—understandable, since they were classmates and both belonged to Gotham's upper crust.
Schiller held a glass of wine, speaking with Evans about clubs. Soon, Evans was called away by his father, leaving Bruce to approach.
"Professor, aren't you going to eat something first?"
Schiller shook his head. "You said you wanted to head a society? That's unusual."
Bruce opened his mouth, but Schiller cut him off:
"Judging from the quality of your papers, you're not fit to lead a society—perhaps not even fit for psychology at all."
"Come on. You know why I'm doing this."
"That doesn't excuse you from flooding my desk with academic trash."
"Alright then. What amount of club funding might soften your academic integrity? Two hundred million dollars enough?"
Schiller cursed inwardly but said aloud:
"I'd advise a different cover. Running with degenerates every night—can you really keep that up?"
"I substitute ginger ale for liquor. The powders? Just spices for show."
Schiller's eyes drifted to Bruce's waistline. Bruce sighed. "Fine. That part might be a problem."
Just then, the ballroom lights flared as Falcone escorted Evans down the grand staircase. This was the centerpiece of the ceremony: a father introducing his son to society, signaling that he was ready for both social life and the family legacy.
Afterwards, Schiller and the other elders gave formal blessings. Evans crossed himself, a prayerful sign of thanking God before addressing the crowd. Schiller's gaze flicked sideways: beneath a heavy curtain's shadow lingered a small silhouette. When the crowd dispersed, the figure was gone.
The ball continued—dazzling lights, clinking glasses, conversations masked with courtesy. Much like his time at S.H.I.E.L.D., few dared approach Schiller; no one wished to linger before a man who might peer into their thoughts.
As the night waned, Schiller felt hungry and turned toward the buffet. A commotion rose near the side stairs—a woman in an ornate dress burst out screaming:
"Old Edward! He's collapsed in the washroom!"
The crowd scattered. Falcone's steady voice cut through:
"Quiet. Andy, check on it."
One of his men returned soon, whispering in his ear. Falcone's gaze swept the hall, silencing every breath.
"Old Edward is dead. Dead at my son's coming-of-age."
Hundreds stood frozen, fearing to even exhale. Who would dare defile the Don's house with such an insult?
Falcone tapped his cane.
"Where's young Edward? Bring him to me. His uncle dies here—he must answer for it. Call the police as well. Evans, see to the guests. Make sure they feel respected."
With a look at his aide, Andy, Falcone departed.
Bruce murmured beside Schiller: "You saw it too, didn't you?"
"Yes. But it's not my affair."
"Then young Edward's victory is certain. The docks will descend into chaos."
"You think he did it?"
"He gains the most, doesn't he?"
Schiller shook his head. "The Edward family loses most. The uncle is dead, and suspicion will fall on the nephew. And with such an outrage at the Don's son's celebration, Falcone has every excuse for revenge."
"You think Falcone staged it himself?"
"He's far shrewder than you think."
Bruce glanced back—the grand hall, lively minutes ago, now emptied, banquet scraps glowing under chandeliers, cold and desolate.
As Schiller prepared to leave, Andy handed back his umbrella.
"The Don sends his apologies, Professor. None of us imagined such an incident at your first invitation."
"Yes. None of us did."
Schiller noticed the umbrella was now dry. From the side door, men carried out a box—the coffin of Old Edward, bound for the sea before police could arrive.
Soon sirens flashed in the rain. True to Gotham's ways, the corpse was gone long before the law appeared. Gordon arrived at yet another spotless crime scene—no body, no blood. He moved calmly, directing his men to search the washroom, knowing the truth would come not from evidence but from Falcone's will.
Later, Evans ran out with an umbrella, spotting Schiller.
"Professor, you're still here? Do you need something?"
"No, only curiosity. You know I take an interest in these cases."
Evans forced a smile. "It's just a minor affair, not some serial killing. But if you wish, you could look inside."
Schiller shook his head and handed over his umbrella. "Give this to your father."
Perplexed, Evans accepted it. Falcone later took the black umbrella, saying softly:
"It seems he may indeed be your longest-lived tutor."
On the ride home, rain pattered against the windows. Schiller recalled the timid page boy and the guest who mocked him with a massive umbrella—Old Edward himself.
Back at his apartment, he heard movement on the balcony. Batman stood there. Without turning, Schiller listened as he said:
"I'm going to investigate Old Edward's death."
"Why? Gangsters killing each other falls under your purview now?"
"He was once the boss of Park Row."
Schiller stayed silent. Batman added, voice low:
"He knew who killed my parents."